Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
James believed everything I told him. The sincerity of his concern was evident on his face as I recounted what’s happened over the last several days.
When I fell into bed last night, I wrapped myself in his pledge to protect me.
I felt at ease, calm, and maybe even a little excited.
He had given me a rain check for coffee and I plan to take him up on it.
I woke this morning with a lightness, a sense that everything will be alright.
It propelled me forward, launching me into my work where I found myself once again lost in a story.
Inside the fantastical world of the book, I became someone else.
My hands shook as I held a blade to the throat of my enemy, only to find that they were my ally all along.
My legs trembled as we sprinted through a city of brightly colored shops and sparkling, silver bridges, racing against the clock to save my lover from a horrible fate.
My eyes glazed with tears when we discovered it was too late.
A dull vibration startles me. Pushing my glasses up onto my head, I pull my tired eyes away from the pages.
I press my palms against them, rubbing away the haziness that comes from too many hours of reading.
My phone lies blinking and buzzing on the desk.
I roll my eyes at what’s surely a text from Emily, describing her most recent date in more detail than I need.
My gaze shifts to the window, where the sun is making a lazy descent toward the horizon, washing the trees in an orange glow.
Another buzz has me snatching my phone from the desk and mumbling, “Alright. Alright, you impatient woman.”
When I unlock it, it’s not Emily’s name I see, but an unknown number.
Hello, little bird. I left a gift for you by your kitchen door. Why don’t you go check?
Panic rushes into me. My lungs seize, like the first breath on a cold, winter day. The room swirls around me, suddenly brighter and smaller than it was before. No, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. I force out a shuddering sigh and type out a reply.
Who is this?
Nausea curls in my stomach as I watch the three bubbles on my screen, blinking, blinking, blinking. Why did I text back? Somewhere in my head I didn’t expect a reply. But my phone buzzes again.
You know who this is.
My breaths come hard and fast as I drop back into my chair. Navigating away from the text, I pull up James’ number and crash my finger into the call button. His voicemail picks up immediately. I try three more times. His phone is off.
Crap, crap, crap. This is not good. I need to consider my options here. My stalker left a gift at my door, which means it's outside…where he's probably waiting for me. I can't go outside. I'm safer in here…aren't I? I haven't replaced the locks, so maybe not. He got in here before.
A choked sob catches in my throat. Even as my eyes fill with tears, I don't let them fall. Not now. I can't fall apart now. Not when I need to figure out what to do.
I yelp at the sudden vibration of my phone. Another text comes through.
I won't touch you tonight. It's safe for you to come out.
I suck in a deep breath until my lungs ache from the pressure. My feet shift anxiously inside of my slippers, a cool coating of sweat forming between my toes.
As I pull myself away from my desk, a mumbled mantra falls from my quivering lips, “This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.”
Back hunched just below the level of the windows, I creep into the kitchen.
The swish, swish of my slippers against the hardwood floor follows behind me.
I peek around the corner into the kitchen, where early evening shadows slither from edges and crevices.
Their silhouettes warning me away, begging me not to venture here.
No, it's no different than it was before. This room is the same. It's all the same. It's just panic.
Slowly, I rake my fingers through my hair, pressing my nails into my scalp to soothe the tension building in my head. My gaze shifts to the door. It's nearly dark now.
A tiny, scared voice yells inside my rattled brain, You can't go out there in the dark. Now is your only chance to grab whatever it is. He can get to you in the dark and you won't see him coming.
My legs twitch with sudden determination.
Like a runner bracing for a sprint, I press my head forward, arms slightly raised at my back.
I dash toward the door, yanking the deadbolt open and ripping the door open.
My breath leaves me in a gasp when I find a black box only inches in front of the entrance.
My hands wrap around it before I slam the door again. My quivering thighs give out under me. The door scrapes against my back as I slide down to the floor.
Despite the fraying of my nerves and unsteadiness of my hands, I gently place the box on the floor beside me.
My gift sits in a black, cardboard box about the size of a toaster.
A matching, fitted lid placed on top. Four strips of silky, red ribbon wrap neatly around it, meeting in a large bow at the top.
Staring at the elegantly wrapped package, the room seems to close in around me. The walls push in on me, closer and closer. My vision tunnels, focusing solely on that damn box.
When the phone I'd forgotten was in my pocket buzzes, a shriek barrels out of my mouth. My fingers stumble against the touchscreen as I pull up the text message.
Open the box, little bird. It won't hurt you.
I pull up my recent call list and dial James again, only to still reach his voicemail. It looks like I'm going to have to do this on my own. Resigning myself to that fact, my jittery digits reach for the box. I lift the lid gingerly and look inside.
The cardboard lid slips from my fingers, falling to the floor with a dull thud.
My throat tightens at the metallic tang of rust that rushes into my nostrils.
My eyes go wide at the sight of the horrific souvenir.
A man's severed hand. Raw, mangled, and gruesome.
On his finger, a gold ring is embossed with the initials JB.
James' hand.
A feeling of helplessness crashes over me like a wave in a frigid ocean.
It breaks, colliding with me and sending cold nausea into the pit of my stomach.
The frozen knot in my gut surges upward.
I lean away and vomit on the floor. My stomach heaves until there's nothing left to expel but painful, dry gags and sputtering breaths.
Snatching my phone from the floor, I do what any totally out of their mind person would do—I text my stalker.
What did you do?!
Blinking back the tears that blur my vision, I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, those taunting dots winking at me as he types.
I told you what the consequences would be if you called the police again. You chose to disobey me. And as promised, someone died.
Realization hits me like a slap to the face.
Cold, bitter reality. I brought James into this.
I brought him into this, and now he's dead.
The words on the screen blur. The room begins to shake and tilt.
It takes a moment for me to realize why.
With my arm wrapped around my knees, I rock back and forth.
The hard floor pressing painfully against my hips as my weight shifts forward and back.
A thought nags in the back of my mind. It scrapes and scratches against my skull. I shake my head, as if I could dislodge it. Why his hand? Why did he cut off his hand?
There's only one way for me to find out. With fumbling fingers, I ask the only person who has the answer.
Why his hand?
His reply is quick, making me wonder if he's staring at his phone, awaiting my responses, too.
That hand touched you. No one touches what's mine.
My mind fogs, my thoughts becoming muddied with confusion and conflict. My fingers rush to type a reply, but it comes out wrong. I type and delete, type and delete, until my question forms.
What does that mean? What's yours?
His reply comes though so quickly that he must have needed no time to think about it.
You, little bird. You're mine.
I read it again and again until my eyes glaze and my focus wavers. The words linger in my head, replaying on loop. You're mine. The confusion in my mind dissolves, melting into a puddle of hot anger.
My grip on my phone hardens until the plastic groans, threatening to crumble in my fist. Just as I ready my arm to huck it across the room, it vibrates against my skin.
Leave the box. I'll clean up the mess. I wouldn't want my sweet little bird to get her pretty hands dirty.
My fury at his declaration of perceived ownership eclipses any sense of caution left in me.
As I stand, my legs no longer quiver in fear.
My muscles are taught and aching with rage.
I rip the door open and kick the box outside.
The wood groans and cracks when I slam the door shut again.
He’ll clean up the mess? What kind of psycho leaves a severed hand and then expects that I’d let him come inside and clean up for me?
The sob that's been stuck in the back of my throat dislodges. I break under the pressure of my anger, fear, and sorrow. My tears fall as weeping, whimpering sounds escape my mouth. The waterfall continues, blurring my eyes and staining my cheeks.
My body works on autopilot, as if something else takes control of my limbs while my own mind hides somewhere deep inside of me.
The entity moving my body scrubs the droplets of blood that seeped through the thin, cardboard box and wipes my vomit from the floor.
I rid my kitchen of the evidence of this night.
Of James’ death. Of the contents of my stomach. Of my tears. Of my pain.