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“Or you fuck them.”
“What are you talking about?” I moved to the top of the stairs, trying to continue acting like I thought the caller was nothing but a crackpot. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop shaking. I moved slowly down the stairs as he laughed maniacally again, which only added another knot to my stomach.
“Don’t play coy, bitch. I know you’re sleeping with that psychopath.”
“And what are you exactly?” I went back to Josie’s comment that I hadn’t watched enough horror movies. Maybe not. “Too terrified to identify the real you? My guess is you’re nothing but a pervert with a tiny dick.” The words had flown from my mouth before I could stop them. I groaned inwardly when the caller’s breath hitched. I had a strong feeling I’d pay for that.
He laughed again as if nothing in the world bothered him. “Suggestion. Bitch. Turn on the television to channel nine in five minutes.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to see what your employer is truly made of. I’d check on the death of Dylan Roxford as well.”
Dylan Roxford. Why did the name sound familiar? “Why are you doing this? Why?”
“Because the Angel of Death will strike again. Be careful or you’ll become his next victim. Your horror novel could become real.”
The Angel of Death? How did the jerk know we were writing a book? My mind was swimming. It was obvious he was trying to scare me, to turn my mind against Easton. Suddenly, it dawned on me where I’d heard Dylan’s first name. From days before.
The news report I’d seen that morning before class. Shit. There was no way it was the same person. None. The city of Chicago was filled with millions of people, hundreds of deaths a day, more assaults. Or was it possible?
“Look, you son of a bitch,” I hissed. By the time the words left my mouth, he’d hung up. I tried to call back but a recording that the phone number had been disconnected greeted me. I was ready to toss it out of frustration, but I also had the desire to find out what the asshole had been alluding to.
I chewed on my bottom lip before glancing out one of the front door’s stained-glass sidelights. After taking a deep breath, I dared open it up, determined to see if the jerk was there. I stood on the front porch for a few seconds, searching the entire front yard while I continued shaking. While the storm was picking up in intensity, the skies even darker, I couldn’t see anyone lurking around.
Great. The jerk could be hiding anywhere in the surrounding woods with an assault rifle in his hand and I was outside being the perfect victim. A slight crack forced a strangled scream from my throat. I backed away quickly, almost stumbling in my effort to return to the foyer, slamming and locking the door. “Fuck.”
My heart was palpitating as I headed into the kitchen, searching for the smaller flatscreen’s remote. Once I found it, I hesitated before snatching it off the counter. Every inch of me was shaking and as I turned on the television, I held my breath.
Commercials were on, one rolling after another. Groaning, I headed for the open bottle of wine, determined to calm my nerves. By the time I grabbed a wineglass, the news had returned. There was nothing blasting at first, allowing me to pour the wine. But when I heard the name Zane Griffen, I stiffened, tilting my head. The guy from the diner? Everything was starting to play out like one of the horror books I’d read over the years.
I was in a fog until the news broadcast changed the photos from the crime scene inside a park to the victim himself.
I knew the reporter was talking, but I was too busy staring at the photograph of the horrible bully who’d been in the diner. The red bulletin on the bottom indicated he’d been killed in a local park, the crime considered a drug deal gone bad, indicating the incident had occurred at night. Lovely park by day, drug-selling capital by night. Swallowing hard, I took my wine closer, staring at the screen. I wouldn’t put the use of drugs past the guy. It could explain his asinine behavior from all those nights before.
Wait. My encounter had been days before. I’d been with Easton every night.
Right?
There was no way he could have snuck out.
I was about to lift my middle finger for my own personal action of defiance when the reporter added that given the state of rigor mortis, Zane had been dead for several days.
Oh, shit.
The unknown caller had drawn my attention to the report for a particular reason. Mystery man had been trying to convince me that Easton had killed both men? I found it hard to believe although a cold chill shifted down my spine. After another, I couldn’t stand it any longer, turning off the report and holding the remote against my forehead. What was I supposed to say to Easton?
A flash of lightning caught my attention and I groaned all over again.
This was like living in my own personal nightmare. I was a rational girl. Even without Easton telling me he and his family had enemies. Still, I was sick inside, worried the caller was trying to lead me on a scavenger hunt of some kind.
I took another sip of wine and the hard knock on the front door almost made me drop my glass. At first, I wasn’t going to open it but perhaps there was a delivery. Cringing, I hated the fact I was suddenly terrified of my own shadow. Why? Because some jerk had dared interrupt my working day with false accusations?
Fuck it. I would ask Easton later but at this point, I wasn’t going to be terrorized by anyone. I moved to the same sidelight, peering out. A man stood on the front porch, his back turned to the door. In his hands were books. Books? Sighing, I unlocked the door, slowly opening it.
The guy standing on the other side had a huge grin on his face but seconds later, his eyes registered surprise. “Whoa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”
“Professor Shelton?” I was confused, glancing over his shoulder at the vehicle he was driving. A big red truck.
