Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
HER
“ I t’s more of an incredibly tragic love story than a zombie film,” I say, sipping the rest of my drink. “Honestly, I think the critics unfairly maligned it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Blake snorts, wrapping his arm around me as we exit the theater and cross the parking lot. “Zombies eating brains and falling in love? It’s a ridiculous premise.”
“It might have been silly, but the ending was a gut punch. I mean, despite the horror elements, Return of the Living Dead 3 is about two people who love each other deeply, who could not be together because of circumstances beyond their control.” I trail off as we arrive at his car. “Would you go that far to be with someone you love?”
He pauses for a moment, considering my words. “Love makes people do crazy things sometimes,” he says, unlocking the driver-side door. He slides into the seat and waits for me to take my place in the passenger side before continuing. “If I truly loved someone, then I would definitely go to extreme lengths for them.”
I can feel the intensity of his gaze as I shut the door. He leans toward me and my heart races, my breath catching in my throat as he presses his lips against mine. I grasp his shoulder, keeping him close until he finally pulls away. He says nothing more as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.
Watching the streetlights blur by, I can’t help but wonder if Blake would go to such lengths for me.
My mind wanders back to the day Damon fucked me in the woods, in the backyard of my family’s old house. My throat goes dry, my stomach coiling in on itself. He hasn’t made himself known to me for a while. I’m not sure if I should be relieved—or worried. Tomorrow is my birthday, after all. And if he’s as obsessed with me as I think he is, he’s probably up to something.
Glancing over at Blake, I can see his jaw tensing. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. But he’s mentioned how work has been stressing him out lately. Briefly, his blue eyes meet mine, and he gives me a soft smile before focusing back on the road.
Since my father’s execution, Blake has been incredibly supportive—providing a shoulder to cry on and randomly showing up with coffee and donuts on my days off. He went the extra mile to make sure I was okay. For the first time in a long time, I feel … safe .
But as we pull into the parking lot of Grand Pointe Apartments, I can’t help but worry. Will Damon show up? I take a deep breath to calm myself as Blake parks in his spot and shuts off the engine.
“Hey,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. His brow knits with concern, and I can tell he senses something’s wrong with me.
I don’t want to ruin our evening, so I plaster on a smile. “Hey to you.”
“Is something bothering you?” he asks, leaning forward to place a sweet kiss on my forehead. “You’ve been quiet for a bit.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just thinking about everything that’s happened—my father. Jen …”
His brow creases in silent understanding as he nods, and I appreciate him for not pressing me. After getting out of the car, he circles around to my side and opens the door to help me out. We walk to the building in silence, the only sound being our shoes against the concrete.
Blake is unusually quiet as we make our way up the stairs. I try to calm the worry in my chest, but all I can think about is Damon and whether or not he’ll show up. I keep expecting to see him every time we turn a corner, but he never appears. When we finally reach Blake’s apartment, I let out a sigh of relief.
Blake inserts his key into the lock and turns it only partway before he throws a grin at me over his shoulder. “Close your eyes,” he instructs. “And don’t open them ‘til I tell you to.”
I look at him for a moment, tilting my head in confusion before returning his grin and obliging. I hear him opening the door, then he takes my hand and leads me into the apartment. As the door shuts, I hear footsteps and rustling before he returns to my side, tugging me along.
“Open them,” he says once we stop.
I take in the scene: a happy birthday banner hangs from the ceiling, surrounded by helium balloons in a variety of colors. On the kitchen table sits a cake with lit candles shaped like a two and a three. I glance back at Blake in surprise, my heart filling with warmth.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his arm snaking around my waist. “I know it’s a bit early, but …”
I nod wordlessly before finally finding my voice again. “It’s perfect,” I say, stunned by his thoughtfulness. He even remembered my favorite cake: red velvet with cream cheese frosting. The last time someone made it for me was my father when I was a kid. Before that horrible night when he caught me covered in blood, knife in hand …
Blake draws me closer, his breath tickling my ear. “Happy birthday, Mia,” he murmurs.
Shoving away the memory, I lean into his touch, desperate to forget. “Thank you.”
“Blow out the candles and make a wish,” he says, smiling.
“Not gonna sing to me?” I ask playfully.
“Not much of a singer, really.”
We both burst into laughter.
I close my eyes and wish for a brighter future. One with Blake by my side, where death no longer haunts me from the shadows. For one night, at least, I can forget about my past and embrace what’s right in front of me. Then I blow out the candles.
Blake cuts into the cake, plating me a slice, and then does the same for himself. “Does the birthday girl know what she wants for her celebratory dinner tomorrow?” he asks, his tone cheeky. “I have work, but I can swing by the store and pick up ingredients.”
“Anything you make me will be amazing,” I say as we go over to the couch and sit. “How about your famous lasagna?”
His eyes shine with something akin to adoration. “You got it, birthday girl.”
We switch on the TV and enjoy each other’s company while tucking into our respective slices. The frosting melts on my tongue, and I can’t help but let out a sigh of approval at its delectable taste. Blake is not only an amazing cook, but he’s also a talented baker. Is there anything he can’t do?
The night is a blur of laughter, an overindulgence of cake, and a few too many shots of vodka. Too soon, the clock strikes midnight, and it’s time for us to part ways. But I’m reluctant to leave. I settle against Blake’s chest as an old black-and-white sitcom plays in the background, his scent engulfing me. I feel content.
Almost as if he can read my mind, he pulls me closer, practically into his lap. “Stay with me tonight,” he mutters into my hair.
Without hesitation, I accept his invitation and straddle him. Whether it’s the alcohol lowering my inhibitions or not, this is exactly where I want to be. I’m ready for whatever he has in store—because tonight, there’s no one else I want more.
His hands move up my body, exploring every curve with care, igniting a fire within me as I grind against him. He groans and slides his palms underneath my shirt, groping my breasts as I whimper. I feel his prominent erection and lean in for a hungry kiss. Our tongues tangle together, my fingers twining in his dark hair.
We move together seamlessly, barely breaking away from the passionate kiss as his hands wander down to my skirt. He slips a palm between my thighs, causing me to moan as he rubs my clit, sending shivers of pleasure through me. With each circle, I feel myself getting closer to the edge—and when he inserts a finger inside of me, I let out an involuntary whine.
He flips me onto my back, hikes up my skirt, and pushes the gusset of my panties aside. I have no time to protest as he unsheathes his cock, stroking it a few times before guiding himself inside me with ease. I throw my head back in ecstasy as he starts thrusting, hitting all the right places that send me to dizzying heights.
“Oh my God,” I moan, my body electric. “You feel so good, Blake!”
He builds up to a steady pace as he fucks me into the cushion, his grip bruising my hips. I wish he’d be this rough more often. Just like … Damon’s face, or lack thereof, appears in my mind. Squeezing my eyes shut, I frantically rub my clit, groaning as my orgasm crashes into me.
Blake continues his assault, taking me as he pleases, with a feral hunger I’ve never experienced with him. Finally, he lets out a shuddering groan, his hips stuttering as he paints my walls white. Our bodies remain intertwined, and I open my eyes, my skin still humming with ecstasy. He looks at me with an intensity that stirs something deep, an intimacy that transcends anything physical.
And just like that, he’s back to normal, his face flushed as he adjusts his glasses and zips himself up. “Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
Rapidly, I shake my head. “No, no. That was amazing. You’re amazing.”
He grins, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he says, rolling off me. “I suppose we should get to bed, huh?”
“Yeah, probably,” I mumble, exhaustion suddenly slamming into me all at once.
He helps me up, his fingers lingering on my arm for a beat too long. I slip on my panties as he shuts off the TV and flicks off the lights. I follow him to his bedroom—a place I realize now that I’ve never actually stayed in before. The room is neat and decorated simply with white curtains and a single nightstand. The dresser is a tasteful piece that looks like it came from an antique shop.
He pulls away the black blankets and gestures for me to hop in. I settle into the inviting warmth of the mattress, a sigh escaping my lips as I sink deeper into its comforting depths. He follows suit, climbing in beside me .
“Goodnight,” he whispers. “Have sweet dreams, my love.”
My heart pitter-patters at his words, and I can’t help but smile, snuggling into him. “Goodnight. Love you, Blake.” The words are out before I can stop them—but I don’t care. I drift off to sleep, secure in his embrace, feeling at peace for the first time in forever.
I jolt awake and sit up to find that Blake isn’t in bed. It’s four in the morning, according to the nearby alarm clock, and I notice his glasses are still on the nightstand. Maybe he’s in the bathroom , I think, staring at the space beside me. I wait, and then wait some more. But he never returns.
I get out of bed and leave the room to wander around the apartment. After searching, anxiety seeps in, as he’s nowhere to be found. Did he go outside? Did something happen to him? My mind spins with the possibilities.
When I make my way to the kitchen, I notice our coats still draped over the chairs. I rub the nape of my neck in distress. He wouldn’t have gone outside without a jacket—especially on a chilly autumn night. So where the hell is he?
I’m about to go back to the bedroom when I spot a piece of paper on the counter, hidden between the salt and pepper shakers. Snatching it, I unfold it to find the logo for We-Store Self Storage. I furrow my brow and squint in the dim moonlight coming in through the window as I read the receipt. It turns out he rented a storage unit.
But not in his own name.
I clutch the paper and bite my lip. The customer’s name is Mickey Knox, possibly referencing Natural Born Killers . Blake is using a fake name—but why? Panic sets in as I bring my free hand up to my mouth to chew on a nail. Does he have something to hide? I rock on my heels in place. Should I try to find the storage unit or risk confronting Blake directly?
I have to make a decision. But before I can, headlights sweep across the window and soon a car door slams shut. Blake is back, so I need to make myself scarce before he starts asking questions. As I return the receipt to its place, I notice a keyring bearing the storage company logo. Making note of it, I rush back to the bedroom and slip under the covers.
My heart pounds wildly as the door is unlocked and closed, followed by the sound of Blake moving through the apartment. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep as he enters the bedroom and gets into bed. Keeping my breathing steady to mimic sleep, I brainstorm ideas of how to retrieve both the key and the receipt without getting caught.
Deep down, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I feel he’s hiding something. No one uses a fake name without trying to keep something buried. I know this from personal experience. With luck, the storage unit will hopefully provide some answers .
In the darkness, I lay for what seems like hours, planning my next move. Occasionally, I drift off, the alcohol in my system pulling me under. After what feels like hours, I blink open my bleary eyes and hear the water running in the bathroom; Blake must be taking a shower.
With little time to spare, I jump out of bed and quietly make my way to the kitchen. I grab the receipt and notice the keyring still on the table. As I remove the key to the storage unit, I know this is a potentially dangerous game I’m playing. But I need to uncover the truth.
I dress and shove the receipt and key into my pocket before putting on my coat. Just as I’m in the middle of toeing on my shoes, the water shuts off. I swallow, my nerves on edge as I hear movement in the bathroom. I freeze, then quickly try to regain my composure. C’mon, Gwen—get it together, I think, scolding myself.
As I hear Blake emerge from the bathroom, I call out, “Hey, I just remembered I forgot to call off work today. So I guess we’ll have to meet up again later, after all.” Not the best excuse, but it will have to do.
He pops his head out from the hall and offers a warm smile. “That’s unfortunate, but I understand,” he says. “You know where to find me once you’re ready for dinner. I need to finish up an article today, anyway.”
Trying my best to appear nonchalant, I force a smile, despite feeling guilt gnaw at me. “Can’t wait. See you later,” I say, blowing him a kiss before throwing open the door and hastily shutting it behind me.
Exhaustion bears down on me as I descend the stairs, hurrying to the parking lot. Thankfully, I still have my keys with me. I jump into my car, relieved that I can finally breathe. Though I have no idea what awaits me at that storage facility. I grab my map from the glovebox and note the address on the receipt.
Guilt strikes again, this time much more heavily. But I can’t go back now. Things may never be the same between me and Blake, regardless of what happens next. I drive off, knowing what I find could very well determine my future with him—or without him.
As I get closer to the storage facility, my thoughts race faster and faster. Even my stereo blasting isn’t enough to drown out the fears and doubts that plague my mind. What if this is all a mistake?
My heart thumps as I pull into the parking lot of my destination. The main office proudly displays the We-Store Self Storage sign on its roofline. The place looks unremarkable, is out of the way, and easily missed—which doesn’t make me feel better about all of this. As I park and exit my car, a wave of anxiety threatens to overwhelm me.
The deserted atmosphere adds to my unease as I wander through the aisles, fingering the key in my pocket while searching the outside units. Finally, I locate number 465 tucked away at the rear of the property. Taking a deep breath to brace myself, I quickly glance around before inserting the key into the lock.
The lock clicks, and I lift the metal door. I peer inside, not knowing what to expect, my eyes adjusting as the morning sun pours into the unit. Before me is a blue tarp covering what looks like a vehicle. I yank it off, revealing a plain gray hatchback without a license plate. I attempt to open a door, but it’s locked. Strange .
In the unit’s corner, there’s a fuel canister—which I discover is mostly empty. And beside that is a trash bag filled with a dozen license plates from different states. “What the fuck?” I ask out loud, my gaze soon drawn to the cardboard boxes stacked in neat rows against the wall nearby.
With trembling hands, I flip open the top closest box. Inside are a few burner phones, a rubbed-banded wad of cash, and a thick manila envelope. I reach for the envelope, carefully opening it to find a paper-clipped stack of documents and stapled receipts. Some detail money transactions from a cash-back place outside of Fallbank, others are signed and dated forms for rental cars—all with different aliases.
“Holy shit.” My stomach lurches. Everything I’m finding points to Blake—or whatever the fuck his name is—attempting to hide his identity. Though for what reason? I know I’m a hypocrite for getting upset; I’m doing the same thing to him, after all. But something about all this just doesn’t feel right.
I shut the box and set it aside, then open the next one. But when my eyes land on its top contents, my mouth falls open. Inside are photos of me , going back years. I stumble backward, my back hitting the side of the hatchback, barely able to process what’s in front of me.
Rage and confusion fill me as I rifle through the box. There are so many pictures of me—when I was little, yearbooks, of my family before everything went to shit. Newspaper clippings from the many papers reporting my father’s misdeeds to the masses and magazine articles theorizing the odds of me snapping and becoming just like him.
One clipping features a snapshot of me taken by a pushy journalist, with a slanderous title featuring my real name. ‘Gwendoline Cirillo’ is underlined half a dozen times in red ink, with hearts sketched all over the page. At the top of the article, someone had written mine, mine, mine repeatedly.
I imagine the stereotypical obsessive psychopath, with pictures upon pictures of me taped up on walls, covering every inch. I retch as it sinks in—that someone has been following me for all these years, collecting intimate details of my life and cataloging everything about me to an obsessive degree.
I push the box aside and move on to the next one. Inside, I find a stack of letters, all written in my father’s unmistakable handwriting. The letters boast about his crimes and how proud he was of ridding the world of whom he deemed trash. They are also addressed to someone named Damon.
Damon …
A chilling realization dawns on me.
Blake—no, Damon —had been watching me all along. He had always been my mystery stalker, the murderer who has been terrorizing cities with his twisted brand of justice. And he was more deeply connected to my life than I ever could have imagined.
I quickly shove everything back into the box, feeling violated. I’m filled with a deep sense of dread, like someone is always watching me no matter where I go, and my body shakes with anger. How could someone do this? And how could they get away with it for so long?
My instinct is to run, to get as far away from Damon as possible.
After putting everything back in order and tossing the tarp back onto the hatchback, I leave the storage unit. A feeling of unease washes over me, as if Damon is watching and knows exactly what I’ve done. I don’t know what his end goal is, or why he’s been tracking me for so long. As I get in my car and drive off, I can only hope that I will never find out.
Because I intend to leave Pennsylvania and drop off the map. Forever.
But as I unlock the door to my apartment, searing pain explodes from my side.
“Red really is your color, Little Finch.”