Chapter 8 #2
I look around. Try to find the source. Try to understand what triggered this.
There.
Across the street. A man leans against a lamppost. Smoking a cigarette. Casual. Indifferent. Not even looking at me.
He’s the only other person on the street.
Just standing there. Smoking. Dark jacket. Jeans. Could be anyone. Could be nothing. My legs tense to bolt. My keys find their way between my knuckles without conscious thought.
But my body doesn’t care what he looks like. My body is saying RUN.
I feel insane. He’s the only person on the street and I’m about to bolt like he’s holding a knife.
You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself. He’s just smoking. Leave him alone.
“Get it together, Dylan.” I shake my head. Force my feet to move. Turn the corner toward home.
One more block. Just one more—
I freeze.
There, in the middle of the sidewalk, growing through a crack in the concrete…
A dandelion.
Not a bud. Not yellow petals waiting to bloom. Not even the white fluff ready to scatter wishes into the wind.
Just the stem. The leaves. Green and impossible in February.
Dandelions don’t grow in February.
I know this. Anyone who’s ever seen a dandelion knows this. They bloom in spring. Go to seed in summer. Die in winter. That’s how plants work. That’s how life works.
But here it is.
Growing in the exact spot I need to walk. Unavoidable. Unmistakable.
A déjà vu feeling washes over me. Strange and familiar all at once. Like I’ve been here before. Like I’ve seen this before. Like this moment has already happened and I’m just remembering it instead of living it.
Like someone’s trying to tell me something.
I can’t name it. Can’t place it. It just exists. This knowing without understanding.
I squat down. Reach for it. My fingers close around the stem—rough, real, growing through impossible concrete—and I rip it from its roots.
The moment I touch it, the world shifts.
That feeling at my spine intensifies. The serpent squeezes tighter. The ringing in my ears gets louder, more insistent.
A warning.
This is a warning.
Dahlia.
The ring burns hot against my chest. Her ring. Her anchor. And now her warning, growing through impossible concrete in the exact spot I need to walk.
She’s been trying to protect me. Not just tell me what happened to her—protect me from the man who killed her. The man who’s hunting me the same way he hunted her.
And this time, finally, I’m listening.
I clutch the dandelion to my chest. Stand. Spin in a circle.
No one.
Just me and a dead weed and a feeling I can’t name but can’t ignore.
Our apartment building is ahead. Right there. Two hundred feet. Safety. Alex. Home.
My throat closes up completely. My body reacting to something I can’t see but can feel. Heavy. Like that moment before a migraine hits when you know the next few hours are going to be hell but you can’t stop it.
I pick up the pace. Heading for the apartment without running. Because running means you’re prey. Running means you’re scared. Running means whoever’s behind you knows they’re winning.
Behind me, I hear footsteps.
Just like that, my body threatens to lose its absolute shit.
I swallow several times. Try to keep my breathing even. Try to maintain the confident walk Mom taught me.
But my whole body feels like it is on fucking fire.
The footsteps match my pace. Speed up when I speed up. Don’t fall behind.
Someone is following me.
Not imagination. Not paranoia. Actually following me.
This is it. Intuition.
I had it. But I ignored it. And now I can’t ignore it.
Lesson learned. Get me inside.
I thread my keys between my knuckles. That thing women do. That thing we shouldn’t have to do but we all learn anyway. Little metal spikes jutting out from my fist.
Just in case.
I’m nearly at the door. Relief is so fucking close. I can see our building. The glass door with the security lock. The lobby with its sad plant and worse lighting.
Safety.
I swear if I can just get inside I’ll never ignore my intuition again. Ever.
And Alex and I are taking kickboxing classes as soon as possible.
“Dylan.”
A man calls my name.
And my body knows before I turn. Knows before I see him. Knows before my brain can catch up and try to rationalize.
The serpent at my spine goes still. Not relaxed—still. The way prey animals freeze when a predator locks on. That animal recognition of the thing that wants to kill you.
Marcus.
My body screams his name before he says another word.
I scream. Actually scream. And jolt toward the door like my life depends on it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Marcus slides into view just as I’m gearing up for a haymaker. He’s holding up his hands with a sly smile that is not at all disarming. “It’s just me.”
Just.
My new intuition rejects the word violently. Nothing just about him. Nothing harmless about the serial killer at my door. Nothing casual about a man who knows where I live without being told.
Just me, like he’s my boyfriend stopping by. Just me, like I should be relieved. Just me, like his presence is normal and welcome and safe.
My body knows better.
He’s holding fucking flowers.
Daisies. Pink and white. Pretty. Wrapped in cellophane with a bow.
But it’s not the flowers that set my new intuition off.
It’s the fact that he’s at my apartment building. That he knows where I live. That he’s been here long enough to know which door is mine. Maybe long enough to watch me leave for dinner. Maybe long enough to follow Alex’s drive home and calculate exactly when I’d be walking home alone.
And my intuition does not like him. At all.
Everything in my body screams danger. The serpent at my spine thrashes. My throat completely closes. That ringing in my ears gets so loud I can barely hear him talking.
“Marcus.” Even I can hear the fear in my voice. The way it shakes. The way I can’t hide it anymore.
My new intuition won’t let me.
Lucky for me, the glass door swings open and smacks Marcus directly in the side of the face.
“Oops,” Alex says innocently, standing in the doorway. “I did not see you there.”
Lie. It’s a glass door. She absolutely saw him.
Marcus rubs his cheek. Still smiling. Like getting hit in the face is charming. “No worries. I was just—”
“Leaving.” Alex’s voice drops all the sweetness. Dead serious. “You were just leaving.”
“I was bringing Dylan flowers—”
“And now you’ve brought them.” Her hand is still on the door. Ready to slam it again if needed. “So you can go.”
Marcus looks at me. Ignoring Alex entirely. Like she’s not even worth acknowledging. Like she’s furniture.
“Dylan, I just wanted to—”
“She said you can go.” Alex steps between us. Physically blocking his view of me. Five-foot-three of blonde fury standing between me and a serial killer. “Now.”
Neither of them moves. Marcus’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Alex’s hand is white-knuckled on the door handle.
“Oh, these are for you.” Marcus extends the flowers toward me. Pushy. Insistent. Not taking no for an answer even though I haven’t said yes to anything.
I take them. Begrudgingly. Because what else can I do? Refuse and make a scene? Tell him to leave me alone when my boss has already made it clear my career depends on being nice to him?
My heart pounds wildly in my chest.
“Ah, thanks?” Why does it sound like a fucking question? I hate that for me.
Alex yanks me inside. Physically grabs my arm and pulls me through the door. Slams it shut. The deadbolt slides home with a click that sounds like safety.