“Have you heard anything?” I interrogate, my phone growing slick from the persistent anxiety since Arch went missing from my doorstep.
“No one has been able to locate him,” Daya answers through the phone. She’s been looking into Arch’s disappearance herself since I told her what happened last night, never one to rely on the police to solve anything.
But Daya doesn’t have much to go off of. She hacked into Arch’s known enemy’s systems—their cameras, phones, laptops, and the GPS on their cars. Just like we suspected, they had no connection to Arch’s disappearance—at least not that we could find.
It was my shadow who took him. And without having any idea who he is, there’s really no way to find Arch.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I practically got this man killed,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes.
“Babe, I hate to say this, but I don’t think that’s the worst thing that could’ve happened. I think this guy would’ve really hurt you. The things he did to his ex-wife… they’re unspeakable. He wasn’t a good man. None of those guys were…” she trails off, and I don’t need her words to know she’s thinking about Luke.
She said they had an incredible night together, but she ghosted him the second she found out what kind of guy Arch is—was.
She said anyone who is friends with a man like Arch isn’t a nice man themselves.
Can’t really disagree with that, either.
I take a deep breath. “I know, you’re right. I guess I just don’t like that he was hurt—maybe killed—because of me. I would’ve much preferred one of his many enemies caught up with him.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been the best-case scenario,” she allows.
“The best-case scenario would’ve been a wild night of hot sex with a hot guy where I orgasm multiple times and then send him off on his merry way,” I interrupt.
She pauses a beat before saying, “Yeah, you’re right. But that’s not what would’ve happened. Not with this guy’s history. He’s violent.”
“Well, apparently, so is my stalker.”
“I know, which is why I’m hooking you up with a security system. You’re not going to be another statistic, not more than you already are. If you die, I have to follow, and I’m quite attached to my body. God gave me a good one this lifetime.”
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, especially because she’s not even religious.
“Okay, just bill me for it,” I agree. I like the idea of having cameras in my house. It makes me feel better about someone sneaking around when I can’t see them.
“I’ll be over later to set them up.”
Getting cameras will be the first thing to happen in a month that gives me any semblance of safety. No matter how fragile it is.
I’m just finishing up another chapter when I hear the USPS truck pull up. The mailman has always been a pretty nice guy. He doesn’t stick around long and spends most of his time glancing around nervously.
The last time I asked him about it, he said something evil happened here.
And since a man went missing off my doorstep last night, I’d say several evil things have happened here.
I open the door just as he’s dropping off several cases of books. I have to sign these and get them shipped out to my readers.
Eight large boxes later, the mailman is panting, sweat running down his light brown face.
“Thank you, Pedro. Sorry for all the boxes,” I say, waving awkwardly.
He waves a hand in acknowledgment before getting back in his truck and shooting off.
I sigh, staring at the boxes with a look of dread. These are going to be a bitch to haul in. I step out, but my foot knocks into the corner of something heavy.
Looking down, I notice a small, lidded cardboard box. There’s no shipping label on it, which means Pedro didn’t drop this one off.
My heart plummets, a burst of anxiety hitting me right in the gut.
I don’t know why, but my eyes dart towards the woods as if I’m actually going to see someone standing there. I don’t. Of course, I don’t.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pick up the box. And then nearly drop it when I see a smear of blood where the box was sitting.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. God? Please don’t allow this to happen to me on this fine Sunday morning. Please let me not find what I think I’m going to find,” I pray out loud, my voice cracking as a drop of blood lands on my toe.
Hands shaking, I set the box back down and just panic. There’s a drop of blood on my toe. I knew there was blood on my hands already, but now my toes? I can’t take this.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I tip the lid off with my foot.
Hands.
Severed hands are in the box, just like I feared.
“Oh, fuck me. Fuck this shit.”
I twirl and run back in the house, scrambling to find my phone to call Daya.
The line rings for all of two seconds before she answers.
“I’ll be there in a few hou—”
“Daya.”
“What happened?” she asks sharply.
“A hand. And another hand. Two of them. In a box. On my porch.”
She curses, but my panic mutes the sound.
“Don’t do anything yet. Wait till I get there,” Daya orders. “Go take a couple of shots and wait for me.”
I nod, despite that she can’t see me. But it doesn’t stop me from nodding again and then hanging up without a word.
I do exactly as she says. Taking two shots of vodka to calm my nerves. And then take deep breaths, slowly, in and out until my racing heart calms.
The fucker actually did it. He sent me Arch’s hands. A part of me knew he wouldn’t lie, but somehow, I didn’t believe it anyway.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping my head low between my shoulders, balancing my weight on the edge of the counter.
Twenty minutes later, Daya shows up, her car ripping through the driveway, based on the squealing tires.
Her car door slams shut. By the time I get to the door, she’s approaching my gift still sitting on the porch, her gaze riveted on the grotesque sight.
“This guy is fucking deranged,” Daya spits, picking up the box to inspect the hands closer. “Definitely Arch’s too. He’s got that stupid ass star tattoo on his thumb.”
I blink, curious how she even knows that, but still too much in shock to open my mouth and ask.
“There’s a note in here,” she mumbles, plucking out a piece of paper covered in blood. Carefully, she opens it. It takes her two seconds to read it before she’s sighing and handing it over.
Hesitantly, I reach out and grab the note by the corner that doesn’t have blood on it.
While I will enjoy punishing you for every time you call the police, let’s hold off this time. Wouldn’t want to have to hurt them next, little mouse.
Is this guy shitting me? He’s going to punish me? Don’t you think sending me fucking severed hands is punishment enough, asshole?
“He’s seriously going to threaten to kill a cop?” I hiss. Daya swallows, her eyes darting to the hands.
“I think you need to listen this time,” she says quietly. I look up at her, having come to the same conclusion. This guy is dangerous. Very dangerous.
As much as I want the police to handle this, there are two problems. I don’t have any faith whatsoever that they’d be able to catch the guy. And secondly, I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.
I don’t know if I will be able to bear it.
“I don’t know what to do, Daya,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Daya sets the box down and rushes to me, enveloping me in a tight hug.
“I have a friend coming over to help install the security cameras and alarm system. Listen, normally, I would say call the cops anyway. But I don’t know, Addie. You know how I feel about cops as it is, but I truly don’t believe they will be able to help you. I have some connections, and maybe we can hire a personal bodyguard or something.”
I’m shaking my head before she can finish her last sentence. “So he can die, too?”
She gives me a droll look. “This isn’t just going to be some guy off the streets, Addie. Whatever you’re up against, they can’t be more badass than a trained killer, right?”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I don’t know about any of that yet. Having a bodyguard follow me everywhere just makes me feel like a damsel in distress.”
I can tell by the look on her face that she thinks I’m being stupid. I mean, I do have a hand-chopping, possible murderer stalking me. But then what? I have some random guy following me around until my shadow is caught, and who knows if that’ll ever happen.
I grind my teeth, overwhelmed with frustration. I don’t want to live my life with an extra attachment—an extra limb. And in both scenarios, I have one. One is there to protect me, while the other is there to… I don’t know. Hurt me? Love me?
Either way, I don’t want either of them.
“Do you think Arch is dead?” I ask, failing to keep the tremble out of my voice.
She twists her lips. “I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility. But it’s also possible he chopped off his hands and let him go as a warning. We won’t know until Arch either shows up… or doesn’t.”
I nod. “I’ll let you know about the bodyguard thing. Let’s just see how this alarm system thing works out first.”
“Okay, in the meantime, I’m going to dispose of these hands. I’ll be back in an hour, and then we’re getting hammered.”
My eyes widen. “Daya, you don’t have to do that. This is morbid enough, and I don’t want you to have to—’
The severity of her expression stops me short, my words trailing off.
“I see worse every day, Addie. Go inside, I’ll be back soon.”
Swallowing, I nod and turn towards my door, shooting one last lingering look at my best friend’s retreating form, wondering what the hell she’s involved in if she sees worse than chopped up body parts every day.
“They’re all dead.” The words are a bomb going off in my ear, like that judge in Law Abiding Citizen.
“What?”
“Arch’s entire family was reported dead. His father, two brothers, an uncle, and two cousins. I don’t know the details because the crime was fucking smooth as hell. No witnesses. No evidence. Nothing.”
“Oh my God. Do you think it was the stalker?”
She sighs, and even through the phone, I know she’s twirling her nose ring. “That’s a pretty hefty crime, but not impossible. There’s been word that when Arch was reported missing after you called the police, Connor started throwing some serious accusations around to their rivals. The police seem to think it was them, but with lack of evidence, there’s no one to pin it on.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, a headache blooming in my temple. “So the stalker did kill Arch, then.”
“Probably,” she hedges. “If Arch made it back home before the family was wiped, he would’ve said who mutilated him and Connor wouldn’t have gone off on their rivals. So, I think it’s plausible that Connor’s accusations are what got the rest of them killed.”
There’s so many emotions swirling in my head, and I can’t make heads or tails of what I’m feeling. I’m fucking horrified that my shadow murdered somebody.
But he was an evil man.
That shouldn’t matter, should it? And to be perfectly honest, I think his true intentions for killing Arch were because he touched me, not because of his crimes.
“Honestly, Daya, I’m a little relieved. Arch’s family won’t come for me now, and I feel so selfish saying that.”
“Then we’re both selfish bitches because I’m happy as hell.” I snort at her enthusiasm. “Look, the Talaverra’s were bad people. Arch wasn’t the only one with a bad history. Connor had rape allegations against him, and their father must’ve taught them how to rape and beat a woman because his rap sheet… even worse.”
I nod my head, forgetting she can’t see it.
“I certainly won’t mourn their deaths,” I mutter.
After that, we hang up, both needing to get some work done, but my mind keeps wandering.
Truly, I’m not sad to hear about the fate of the Talaverra’s, but there is still that niggling worry in the back of my head that my shadow is the one who delivered it to them.
It’s been a week since Arch went missing and still no sign of my shadow. Not to say he still isn’t sneaking around, but he hasn’t made his presence known.
Daya’s friend set up my new alarm system and cameras, and I’m ashamed of how obsessive I’ve been with checking them since.
The naïve part of me is hoping now that I have a security system, he’ll stay away. But while I make a lot of stupid decisions—and I mean a lot—I’m not stupid enough to believe he isn’t going to show up here soon.
I stretch, groaning as my muscles crack, the barstool in my kitchen doing little to support my back while I write. I’ve been working on a new fantasy novel about a girl escaping slavery, and the deadline I set for myself is quickly approaching.
Right as I begin typing again, a creak from above snags my attention. The sound immediately has my heart kickstarting into overdrive. I pause, listening for any more noises. Several beats pass with no disturbance. The only sounds are the furnace and the low pattering of rain against the window.
Just when I begin to think I’m losing my mind, I hear another creak from directly above me.
Holding my breath, I slowly get up from the stool, the metal legs screeching against the tile. I wince, the eruption loud and unpleasant.
Well, goddammit, good thing I didn’t become a spy. I would so die on the job.
Quickly, I walk over to the silverware drawer, slide it open and grab the butcher knife. Holding this weapon is starting to become a daily routine, and I’m becoming bored with it.
I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I clamber towards the stairs, whip around the railing, and quietly make my way up the steps. Briefly, I consider the movie title of the horror movie they’d make after my life.
Making my way down the hall, I peek into open rooms, holding the knife out in front of me. The hallway is long and wide, with five of the bedrooms up here.
Just as I step out of one of the empty bedrooms, I hear a small thump. It sounded like it came from my room.
With bated breath, I creep down the hallway, holding all my weight on my toes.
No fucking idea how ballerinas do it.
My bedroom door is shut. Adrenaline steadily releases into my bloodstream, like injecting heroin in a vein.
It wasn’t shut before.
I stand outside my door, staring at it as if it’s going to grow a face and warn me of what’s inside. That’d totally be beneficial right now.
Because not knowing what I will find on the other side is the worst part. That’s what makes my heart pound viciously in my chest and tightens my lungs.
Will I open the door and see the shadow from my nightmares? Going through my things?
My eyes widen, realization hitting that the sick fuck could be going through my underwear drawer. The thought sends a tsunami of anger washing over me, and before I can consider the ramifications, I barrel through the door.
No one is inside.
I charge through the room, checking every corner before storming out onto the balcony. No one.
Chest heaving, I whip around and scope out the room, trying to figure out where an intruder could hide. My eyes pause on the closet.
I aim for it, sliding the door open so forcefully, it nearly comes off the track. My arm lashes through the clothing, searching for someone that isn’t here.
But I know I heard something.
My breath catches when I turn, and my eyes sweep across my bed, forcing me to backtrack. Right under my bed is Gigi’s diary, lying on the floor and flipped open.
That must’ve been what the thump was, but how the fuck did it fall? My blood freezes when I look on my nightstand and see the diary I’ve been reading still there.
I had put Gigi’s other two diaries in my nightstand for safekeeping until I got to them. So how did one of them end up on the floor?
With another suspicious sweep of the room, I walk over to the book and pick it up, leaving it open. Skimming my eyes across the page, I pause when I take in the words.
Judging by the dates, it’s the last book she wrote in before she died. The three books span across two years, Gigi having died on May 20th, 1946.
The book was open on an entry two days before Gigi’s murder, May 18th. She’s expressing fear, but she doesn’t say of who. Clearly, she’s terrified of something. My heart thumps harder as I ingest her rushed words.
She talks about someone being after her. Scaring her. Who, though? Forgetting about everything else around me, I sit on the edge of the bed and flip to the beginning.
With each passing entry, her words become clipped and fearful. Before I know it, I’m nearly ripping through the pages, trying to find any inkling of who her murderer is.
But on the very last page, her last words are: he came for me. No lipstick kiss on the page. Just those four daunting words. I turn the page, looking to see if there’s more. Desperate for it, actually.
There are no more entries, but I do notice something strange.
A jagged piece of paper sticks out from the spine. I trace my fingers over it. A page has been ripped out of the diary.
Did she write down something important and decide it wasn’t worth the risk of anyone knowing? All three of these books are risqué, full of cheating and sex. Above all, full of love for a man that stalked her.
I look up, staring ahead but seeing nothing.
When Mom left, she left with the hopes that I’d listen to her advice and move out of Parsons Manor. But when she walked out of that door, the sickening smell of her Chanel perfume lingering in my nostrils, I decided I didn’t want to move.
Did Nana have a weird attachment to the manor? Possibly. But if this house meant so much to her, it doesn’t feel right to give it away. Even if that means I have an unhealthy attachment, too.
And now, that decision is only solidifying. There’s no way this book could’ve ended up on the floor. Yet it did. And I don’t know if it was Nana’s doing, or Gigi’s, but someone wanted me to read these entries.
Do they want me to find the person who killed Gigi? God, I can’t imagine how difficult it would’ve been to solve a murder in the 40s with such underwhelming technology. Is her murderer even still alive?
Maybe it doesn’t matter if he is or not. Maybe Gigi wants justice for her murder, and for the man that ended her life too soon to be exposed—dead or alive.
I exhale a shaky breath, my fingers tracing the four daunting words.
He came for me.
“Can you please explain to me why you’re making me hack into the PD’s database to look at crime photos of your murdered grandmother?” Daya asks from beside me, her fingers hovering over her mouse.
I’m tempted to reach over and push her finger down for her so she’ll finally click the damn button. Once she does, it’ll pull up Gigi’s records.
I sigh. “I told you already. She was murdered. And I think I know who did it, I just… well, I don’t know anything about him but his first name, and the fact that he stalked her.”
Daya eyes me, but eventually relents. She clicks the mouse—finally—and pulls up Gigi’s crime scene photos.
They’re pretty disturbing. Gigi had been found in her bed, with her throat slit and a cigarette burn on her wrist. They never found the killer due to insufficient evidence.
A lot of blame pointed towards the officers that responded to the call, citing that they trampled all over the crime scene. Evidence was lost or contaminated by the police force, and fingers were pointed, but ultimately, no one was held accountable for it.
Daya clicks through the photos, each one more disturbing than the last. Close up pictures of the wound on her neck. The burn on her wrist. Gigi’s face, frozen in fear as her dead eyes stare back at the camera. And her signature lipstick smeared across her cheek.
I swallow, the sight a stark contrast to the picture that concealed her safe. Her wide, smiling face so full of life and fire. And then her dead, cold body frozen in fear.
Whoever had killed her had scared her pretty bad. A niggling feeling tugs at the back of my head. Based on Gigi’s entries, her stalker didn’t scare her. In fact, it sounds like he did the exact opposite.
I shake the thought from my head. He was obsessed with her, and there were several entries nearing her death that indicated they weren’t getting along due to his jealousy over her marriage.
His obsession must’ve been of the deadly variety.
Daya then clicks over to the police reports. Not just the ones released to the public, but documents from the investigation that were confidential.
Technically, the investigation is still open. It’s just gone cold.
We took our time reading through the documents, but in the end, the only thing we learned was the time of death, and the fact that Gigi fought and fought hard.
My great-grandfather, John, was immediately ruled out due to having several eyewitness reports seeing him at the grocery store during the time of the murder.
I bite my lip, the thought eliciting guilt, yet I can’t help but think it.
What if he was still an accomplice?
I shake the thought from my head. No. There’s no way. My great-grandfather loved Gigi, despite the fact that their marriage was falling apart at the seams.
It had to be her stalker.
It’s the obvious explanation. The stalker gained Gigi’s trust—somehow—made her feel comfortable enough that she relaxed around him. And then he killed her.
“There has to be significance to that ripped-out page,” I murmur, growing frustrated from the lack of evidence. I could never be a detective and do this shit every day.
“Maybe the killer did it,” Daya guesses, scrolling mindlessly through the pictures.
I twist my lips, considering it before I shake my head. “No, that wouldn’t make sense. Why would they rip only one page out and not just dispose of all the journals? They’re all incriminating. Whether it was the stalker or someone else, Gigi speaks of being hunted. And if it wasn’t the stalker, then they could’ve easily pinned the blame on Ronaldo and been done with it. Whoever it was, they can’t have known about these. Gigi had to have ripped the page out before hiding the books.”
Daya nods her head. “You’re right. Whatever is on that missing page is important, but we can’t rely on that.”
“We need to figure out who Ronaldo is,” I conclude.
Daya nods her head, appearing a little exhausted from the thought. Can’t say I’m not either.
“And we have nothing to go off of. There’s no mention of his last name. Barely any physical description.”
“He had a scar on his hand,” I offer, recalling mentions of those things in Gigi’s diary. “And wore a gold ring.”
“Did she mention his social standing? Job? Anything that could lead us to who he might be?”
I twist my lips, “I’ll have to look again. I remember she said he was involved in something dangerous, but I haven’t gotten the chance to read through everything yet.”
She nods and heaves out a weighted sigh. “Until then, I think we’re going to be stuck until we find Ronaldo or that missing page.”
I sigh, my shoulders drooping. “That could literally be anywhere, or it not even exist anymore.”
Daya looks at me then, sympathy in her eyes. “We’ll keep trying different avenues. I’m just as invested as you at this point.”
I shoot her a grateful smile before looking back at the crime scene photos.
This was undoubtedly a crime of passion, and if I know anything, stalkers tend to be deeply passionate about their obsessions.
I bolt upright, a gasp lingering on the tip of my tongue. Sweat coats my skin, and my hair is plastered to my cheeks, neck, and down my back.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. But something woke me.
Heart pounding, my sleep-riddled eyes drift over the dark room. Just enough light from the moon filters in through the balcony doors. The furniture casts shadows across the room, creating figures that aren’t really there. I don’t mind the phantoms dancing across my floor, but whatever woke me has a presence. A soul.
The floorboards creak from my right, outside my bedroom door. My head snaps in the direction, and I suck in a sharp breath. The hair rises on the back of my neck, like a scared dog backed in a corner.
I hold the air in my lungs, careful not to make a sound should I hear the noise again. Stillness settles around the house. Too still. My fingers clench the duvet on my lap as my heart rate increases.
Someone is outside my room.
But how?
How the fuck did he make it past the alarm system?
Another creak followed by heavy footsteps. A methodical walk, slow and purposeful. Intentional.
I slowly slip out of bed and tiptoe backwards until my back presses against the cool stone wall, creating distance between the intruder outside my door and me.
Despite my best efforts, I release a shaky breath. My chest heaves with small, fast pants as the footsteps come closer.
I’m frozen. My back is pressed so deeply into the stone that I’m becoming a part of it, preventing me from moving. From hiding.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
Desperately, my eyes search across the expanse of the room. They land on a lone screwdriver sitting on the chest at the end of the bed. I had carelessly tossed it aside after assembling my vanity chair, and now it sits there like a beacon of hope. Possibly the only thing that could keep me alive tonight.
Move, Addie. Goddammit, MOVE!
My limbs unlock, and I rush to the screwdriver, gripping the tool in my slick hands. My eyes are glued to the door handle, waiting for the knob to turn. Quietly, I slink over to the door and mold myself to the wall.
I’ll wait for him to come in and then attack. Hopefully I can get the screwdriver lodged in his neck before he knows what’s happening.
So with bated breath, I wait. The knob doesn’t turn, but I can feel deep in my bones that someone is out there. Are they waiting for me? They’re out of their mind if they think I’ll open that door. I suppose they must be, though, if they’re breaking into my house and lingering outside my room.
The longest minute of my life passes. It feels like it’s been hours before I hear another creak. And then I hear the footsteps retreat. Further and further they fade, until eventually I no longer hear them at all.
My ears prick, and just like I suspected, I hear my front door shut. A soft click that feels like thunder in a silent house. Instantly, I rip open the door and run across the hall into the bedroom with windows that face the driveway.
Hunkering down, I peek through the curtains and wait for the person to emerge from the front porch.
It feels like an eternity passes, but I imagine it’s only been seconds before I see movement. An audible cry leaves my lips when a large man saunters off the steps and walks out onto my driveway. He’s wearing all black, with a deep hood settled over his head.
He’s tall—very tall, but not bulky. Even beneath his clothing, I can tell his body is fucking lethal. Lean, but packed with muscle. His hoodie clings to his body, showing off his broad shoulders, thick arms, and trimmed waist.
God, he could crush me if he wanted to. His hand looks big enough to cover the entirety of my face. Or wrap around my neck.
Would he do it to cause pain or pleasure? Does my shadow want to hurt me or love me?
He stills, his back facing me. He can feel me watching him, just like I felt him outside my door.
I find myself curling deeper into the shadows, out of sight. My heart is still racing, though now for an entirely different reason.
Something about him has me wanting to press my face into the window. I want to see him. I want to see the man that’s been creeping inside my house, leaving me flowers, and mutilating any unsuspecting soul that dared to touch me.
Was his hand on the knob, ready to come in? What stopped him?
As if hearing my thoughts, he cocks his head slightly. Intently, I watch him slowly turn his head to the side. And ever so slightly, he raises his chin, the moonlight revealing his wide mouth and a sharp jaw.
I huddle deeper into the wall, feeling his eyes on me. There’s no way he can see me. Yet somehow, I feel his gaze piercing me anyway. Like little, sharp knives grazing my skin before digging inside me.
And then he smiles, his mouth stretching into a wicked smirk. My breath hitches, and my lungs fill with fire.
Oh, this is funny to you, asshole?
Before I can process what to do—what I’m feeling—he turns and walks away, disappearing into the tree line. Slow and purposeful, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
