Chapter 8
Eight
Ispent the night cowering in my bedroom with a steak knife.
I tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. When I finally drifted off, terrifying nightmares plagued me.
In them, I find myself in a desolate and lifeless place, where I’m relentlessly pursued by the masked killer. I run—darting through woods, tripping over fallen gnarled branches—always looking over my shoulder. But he always, inevitably, catches up. I fight, but he’s stronger than me, his reflexes faster. My cries for help go unheard as he pushes my face down into the dirt, cementing me in place. He stabs me—once, twice, three times—before walking away, leaving me to die in a pool of my own blood.
Suddenly, I awaken in a heap, entangled in my blankets, the knife still gripped tightly in my hand. The memory of the previous night comes rushing back, causing me to break down in tears. Humiliation burns through me; no matter how much I scrubbed my skin in the shower, nothing could cleanse the shame and guilt of getting off to that man’s touch.
I don’t even know how that bastard got inside the house to begin with. I locked all the doors and windows. Did he pick the locks? Steal a key? I comb through my thoughts but come up with nothing. I hiccup, no longer feeling safe in my home.
Maybe I’m not safe anywhere anymore.
Fatigue seeps into every cell as I try to haul myself out of bed. My mouth is dry as a bone. Reluctantly, I leave the steak knife behind and make my way to the second-floor bathroom to get some water. I realize I need to find something more practical for self-defense. Maybe Austin has a switchblade I can borrow? Probably should pick up some mace, too.
I wipe away my tears and compose myself as best as I can before heading downstairs. I have work today, but I don’t have the will to go—not after last night. George won’t like it and might even fire me for calling off on such short notice. But I don’t think I’m strong enough to not break right now.
Mom is in the kitchen, pouring herself coffee. Scalding hot liquid splashes into a ceramic mug and the smell of menthol fills the air. I guess she started smoking again. As I walk past and into the living room, she pokes her head out.
I must look worse than I thought.
“You okay, Grace?” she asks.
As I pick up the phone, a sense of dread washes over me. The voice of the killer—because who else could it be?—repeats like a broken record in my head. My body trembles and I almost drop the handset. “Yeah, I’m fine,” my voice quavers, the lie heavy on my tongue.
“You’re not dressed,” she points out. “Don’t you have work?”
Gripping the handset with white knuckles, my stomach churns with a queasy blend of acid and uneasiness. “I don’t feel good,” I answer. “I’m gonna see if I can take today off.”
Behind me, the TV is on at a low volume. A news bulletin draws my attention, and I stare at the screen, my mouth gaping. Mom enters the room, sipping her coffee, and turns up the volume to watch the report.
“This morning, a body was found at a home on Rhett Lane. The victim has been identified as George Tyler, the fifty-three-year-old owner of Angelo’s jewelry outlet at the local mall.” My eyes bulge out of my skull as he continues. “A brutal slaying of another Ashburn resident occurred yesterday. With the similarities to other killings in the state, authorities are investigating whether this is the work of a serial killer. If you have any information, please?—”
I shriek, causing Mom to blink in shock and spin around, her coffee sloshing against the inside of the mug. I fall to the floor and pull my legs against my chest, rocking back and forth.
“Are there any extra keys? Spare ones?” My voice is unnervingly calm, like the rocking is the only thing holding me together.
She seems unsure how to respond. Mom’s never been good at this—unlike Dad. She shifts her stance as she mulls the question in her head, desperate to ignore my outburst in favor of what she hopes is a rational conversation. “Not that I recall …” She trails off before snapping her fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s right. There’s a spare key buried in the old potted plant on the porch. I almost forgot about it.”
“He must have made a copy of it then,” I murmur, my mind drifting away like a bad dissociative episode.
With rare concern etched in her tired features, she takes a step closer. “What are you talking about? Who must have made a copy?” I bat her hand away as she reaches for me. “Grace, you look ill. Maybe you should?—”
“We need a security system,” I say, rising abruptly. “And we need to change the locks as soon as possible.”
“What are you trying to say?” She reaches out to place a palm on my forehead, but I flinch away. “I understand it’s upsetting to hear about your boss on the news, but you need to calm down and tell me what you’re talking about.”
I feel myself shatter and begin to cry. “The other night,” I croak out between sniffles, “I was followed while walking home from work. A-and I was … I got hurt. And my boss, he’s been—was—harassing me, and …” I sob uncontrollably as bits and pieces of the truth spill forth.
Her brows knit together, her lips pursing.
And for the first time since I was a child, she hugs me.
“I’m sorry, Grace.” She strokes my hair, and I don’t fight her. “We’ll figure things out. We can contact Doctor Walsh and set up an appointment.”
Numbly, I nod as she leads me to the couch. I fade in and out as she goes to the kitchen and returns with a mug of green tea. I stare at the television, not registering what I’m seeing. Eventually, I fall asleep, hoping that when I wake up, this will all be a bad dream.
A week goes by,and I manage to drag myself out of bed long enough to wash up and catch a ride to my appointment.
The bus rocks back and forth as it travels down familiar roads. People talk and laugh, their voices blending as they pass the time until their destinations. I put on my earbuds and skip to Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden. It seems appropriate, given the gloomy weather, with the rain falling steadily from the sky. We drive over a soaked street, splashing water on the sidewalk. I feel trapped in this stupid metal box, in this miserable existence.
I stare out the window as the world passes by. I rack my brain for answers, but I can’t shake the feeling that George’s murder is somehow connected to me. Like it was my fault that psycho went after him. It’s too much of a coincidence. I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering if I should bring up my suspicions to my therapist, afraid he might think I’m crazy.
That day, I called Luke and blubbered like a maniac, dumping my trauma on him as if he was paid to listen. He didn’t interrupt me and let me spill my guts. He apologized for being so forward at the theater and promised to take it slow from here on out until I got better. However, I insisted I was still interested in more.
Because of course I am. With him, I’m not invisible. I’m important, like someone sees me, not through me. Is it selfish of me to cling to the first stable, attractive guy who pays attention to me? Probably. Is the connection I feel mutual? I hope.
He offered to come to my house, bring me food, and even keep me company until I fell asleep. I accepted, knowing that his presence allowed me to rest more soundly. I trust he will protect me and keep me safe from the monster that lurks in the shadows.
As the bus lurches to a stop, I shut off the music and shove my Discman into my bag. I slip into the aisle, pop the hood of my coat, and step off the bus. The ground beneath me bubbles in a messy brown bath, caking my shoes in mud as my feet hit the earth. I frown, hoping it’ll wash off before I reach Doctor Walsh’s office.
Raindrops patter my hood as I cross the street and traverse the sidewalk. I’m thankful that I had the foresight to wear a raincoat. Upon reaching Doctor Walsh’s office, I hesitate for a moment, staring at the door before taking a deep breath and going inside.
The receptionist is typing furiously, her fingers flying across the keyboard like a speed demon, her eyes glued to the monitor. She doesn’t seem to have noticed me, so I awkwardly remove my hood and stand in the waiting room. After finishing her task, she grabs the Styrofoam cup perched on her desk and takes a sip. “Grace Lawrence?” she says, her gaze finally sliding toward me.
I nod, and she gestures toward the door situated across the room. I enter the office where my middle-aged therapist sits, energizing himself with his coffee of choice. Like an old song and dance, I sit in the oversized leather recliner and muster a small smile.
I started seeing Doctor Walsh soon after my family moved to Vermont. Mom had found me too difficult to handle because of my ‘mood issues.’ Of course I was. I was abruptly uprooted from my life in California to move across the country because my mother couldn’t bear to live in the same house where her husband passed away. Everything happened too fast, leaving me grappling with an unprocessed loss.
With the help of Doctor Walsh, I could untangle the thoughts in my brain and realize that the dark thoughts were not my fault. Through a combination of antidepressants and a low dose of anti-anxiety medication, I eventually found stability. However, given the current circumstances, he may prescribe something stronger.
I can only reveal so much about what’s truly going on. But I tell him about the harassment at work, being followed home, and my boss’s murder. Then I change the subject to Luke, and how he’s been a bright spot in my otherwise lonely life. Doctor Walsh nods along, taking notes, and as predicted, he increases my doses and sends me on my way.
After picking up my prescriptions at the pharmacy, I’m about to cross the parking lot when Luke pulls up in his car in front of me.
He rolls down his window and asks with a flirtatious wink, “Need a ride?”
Despite the exhaustion weighing me down, I break out into a wide grin. “Definitely.”
The driveback to my house unexpectedly calms me. When we reach the porch, I can’t help but yawn. Luke chuckles as I unlock the door and invite him inside. I hang up my coat on the hook and kick off my shoes to dry on the mat, and he does the same, deftly balancing the tray of food he prepared specially for me.
“Sorry I couldn’t give you a ride to your appointment,” he apologizes. “I was running late today because the interview went on a bit too long. But I made sure to whip you up something good.”
I playfully rub my stomach. “Oh, I could definitely use something good right about now.”
His eyes smolder at the implication as he leans closer, planting a kiss on my lips. “I need to warm this up first,” he says, patting my back and urging me upstairs. “Wait for me, okay?”
“Always,” I say almost breathlessly.
I climb the stairs in a heated daze and enter my room, crawling into bed and snuggling under the blanket. I swear I only close my eyes for a moment before I feel a dip in the mattress beside me. Luke slides under the covers and folds his arm over me protectively.
“Food’s ready,” he murmurs, pushing a strand of hair away from my face.
I pout, content to stay like this forever. But I manage to eat the meal before surrendering to sleep in his arms.
“Sweet dreams,” he says, tucking me in.
Sweet dreams, Bunny.
My eyes shoot open, but Luke is already long gone.
“Just my imagination,” I whisper, falling back asleep.