Chapter Twenty-Two #3
“You needed to know?” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “And what exactly did you think you were going to find?” He takes another step forward, closing the distance between us, his presence looming over me like a shadow. “Did you think knowing the truth would change anything?”
I shake my head, my breath quick and shallow.
“What are you going to do about it? Tell your husband?”
My mind is screaming at me to run, to do something—anything—but my body won’t cooperate. I’m frozen in place, trapped in this moment, with no way out. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let him see just how scared I am.
“Are you . . .” I swallow hard, the fear making it difficult to speak out loud. My voice trembles as I force out the question that’s been clawing at the back of my throat since the moment I saw him standing there. “Are you going to hurt me?”
He shakes his head immediately, his expression one of almost offended disbelief.
“What? No.” He answers me as though the question itself is ridiculous, as if I’ve completely misunderstood the situation.
How could he possibly think my reaction right now is ridiculous?
How can he not see how terrifying this is for me?
I’m standing in the middle of a nightmare, and the man I thought I knew is a complete stranger. I have no idea who he is. None.
His name, his job, his life—it’s all been a lie. And now, there’s nowhere to go, and I’m painfully aware of how close he is.
I slide my hand into my back pocket, praying that I can unlock my phone without him noticing.
My fingers fumble, slick with sweat, as I try to remember which side button to push to call an emergency number.
I can’t let him see what I’m doing. I feel like I’m balancing on a cliff.
One wrong move, and everything could fall apart.
I take another step back, slipping from the doorway and into my bedroom, trying to create more space between us, but it feels futile.
“Why did you lie to me?” My voice cracks on the last word, a mixture of fear and anger laced into it.
I need answers, but more than that, I need him to stay back. To give me time.
He takes a step forward instead, closing the distance between us once again. His expression is unnervingly calm as he says, “It’s what you wanted, Petra.”
The audacity of his words hits me like a slap.
I can’t help but fume at that response, my fear momentarily drowned out by a flash of rage.
“It’s what I wanted?” I repeat, incredulous.
“I didn’t even know you existed before you showed up here pretending to be a detective!
” My voice rises with each word, frustration bubbling over.
“I know nothing happened out on the road that night. You lied about everything, and you told Mari you were here to help me write. How would you even know to say that?” The accusations and questions spill out in a rush, each one more desperate than the last.
He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at me, like he’s weighing how much to tell me. The gesture is chilling, his calm composure making everything feel even more surreal. “Do you not remember your words two nights before I showed up here?” he asks, his voice eerily soft.
My words? What is he talking about? My mind scrambles to make sense of his question, but nothing clicks.
The confusion must be plain on my face, because he takes another step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine, and says, “Your live video.” His tone is deliberate, like he’s explaining something simple to a child.
“You said you wished you could experience the things you write about. You said your character was a cop. I brought that to you.”
The words are heavy and disorienting. This makes no sense.
I try to process what he’s saying, but the pieces don’t fit together.
If he showed up here pretending to be a cop because of the live video .
. . that means he knew who I was before he ever walked through my door.
He was watching the video as it was live? Two days before I even met him?
Which means . . . he’s been following me? He’s in my private group?
My stomach churns with the sickening realization that this wasn’t some random encounter. He’s been planning this. Watching me for God knows how long. How long has he been following me online? The thought makes my skin crawl.
My hand is still in my back pocket, my fingers desperately trying to figure out how to reach 9-1-1 on my phone without looking at it.
I keep talking, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping he won’t focus too much on the arm behind my back.
“How long have you been watching me?” I need to keep him talking, need to buy myself time.
“Since the beginning.” His tone is casual, like he’s discussing the weather, but the words send a chill down my spine. “I already told you I’ve seen every one of your live videos. I just left out the fact that I watched them as they happened.”
I cover my gasp with my hand, the horror of what he just said sinking in. He’s been watching me for years, and I thought he just found me. I bring my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but the fear is overwhelming.
“Do you even have a wife?” I ask, my voice small, as if I’m afraid of the answer.
He shakes his head, smirking slightly. “Marriage isn’t really my thing.”
The simplicity of his answer makes me feel so naive, as if I should have been able to tell he wasn’t being honest. The lie about being married, the infertility, that was just another layer to his deception, another way to manipulate me.
He’s been building this elaborate facade, and I fell for every bit of it.
I see it the second it happens. His gaze drops to my arm, the arm I’ve been trying so hard to hide behind my back. The moment of realization washes over his face, and my stomach drops. He knows.
Without thinking, I spin around and rush toward the bathroom.
I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps quickening as he realizes what I’m trying to do.
My hands fumble for the bathroom door. My entire body is shaking, but I have to get the door locked.
I have to make the call before he gets to me.
I don’t make it.
Just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the doorknob, Saint’s grip clamps down hard on my arm.
The force of it nearly pulls me off my feet, and before I can react, he yanks me back, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp.
My heart feels like it’s about to explode as I watch in horror while he rips my cell phone from my hand.
Time slows, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I helplessly watch him glance down at the screen.
His face tightens with anger when he sees the emergency number already pulled up, though not yet connected.
I was so close.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Petra!” His voice is sharp, laced with fury, as he tosses the phone behind him with a careless flick of his wrist. The sound of it hitting the wall makes me flinch.
The next thing I know, he’s pushing my shoulders hard enough that I stumble and fall back onto the bed.
I scramble, crawling frantically toward the headboard, trying to put as much space between us as possible.
My mind is screaming at me to keep moving, to find a way out, but I’m cornered.
Saint stands at the foot of the bed, his hands flexing at his sides, his jaw clenched. The look in his eyes is unrecognizable, a mix of betrayal and fury. “What would you even tell them when they showed up here?” His voice is mocking, dripping with disdain. “That I role-played too well?”
“You’ve been impersonating a cop!” I shout, my voice shaking with anger and fear. Every word is like venom on my tongue. I can feel the rage boiling inside me, mixing with the terror, making my body tremble uncontrollably.
Saint throws his hands up in exasperation, letting out a bitter laugh.
“You wanted me to!” His voice rises, frustration boiling over as he glares at me.
“Your online Q&As are like an open invitation into your life! You’ve told your readers for years what lake you come to.
You let the whole world know when you’re here alone.
You even answered my question when I asked if you would be willing to do something like this.
You said, ‘I would do anything to be a better writer.’”
The realization hits me like a punch to the throat. Oh, my God. My pulse stutters in my chest, and I stare at him, wide eyed. He’s the one who asked that question? He thinks I was asking for this?
My stomach twists in revulsion as the reality of his delusion sinks in.
“That wasn’t an invitation to show up here and lie to me,” I snap, my voice cracking under the pressure of holding back tears.
I want to scream, but my voice feels small, trapped under the crushing realization of just how far he’s taken this fantasy.
Saint’s eyes flash with something darker. His tone becomes flat, almost indifferent, as he says, “We’ve both been lying, Petra. You aren’t innocent in this.”
I shake my head, my body rigid with anger. “You attacked me in the middle of the night!” I spit the words at him, my fists clenching the blanket beneath me, knuckles white with tension.
“You asked me to!” he shouts back, his voice booming through the cabin, echoing off the walls like an accusation.
I shake my head adamantly, my whole body trembling with rage.
He’s not turning this around on me. I didn’t ask for this.
Just because I said in a live video that I wanted experience does not mean that was an invitation for him to actually locate me and act out some twisted fantasy he concocted in his head.
“You pretended to be someone you’re not,” I say through clenched teeth, my voice barely contained.