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“You too,” he says, turning to walk away. “I hope I see you around.” I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed that he’s leaving. But suddenly, he stops and whirls around. “Do you want to hang out sometime? There’s a nice coffee place downtown …”
My stomach flips, and I tug at my ponytail to distract myself from the giddiness. “Sure. I’d like that.”
He grins. “Great. I’ll call you. We can set up a time.”
He leaves for real this time, and I watch him go. I can’t believe this has happened. I just met the guy last week, and I’m eighty percent sure he’s asked me out on a date.Or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. But I can’t absolve myself entirely of guilt by not being the first to make a move.
I grin like a stupid idiot as I finish my shopping on autopilot and check out.
As I drive home, thoughts of Blake consume me. I dissect every word of our conversation, trying to figure out if he actually asked me out. And this whole ‘hang out’ thing? It’s gotta be his way of getting to know me, right? Like some kind of test to see if I’m some weirdo recluse. Or a serial killer.
I scrunch my face at my terrible joke as I throw my bags on the kitchen table. After I put the groceries away, I decide to make myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves. As I wait for the water to boil, I glance at the phone. Even though it’s late, part of me wishes he would call me. Or visit. It’s not like we live far apart. I mean, I could call him too. But the last thing I want to do is seem too eager, too desperate.
Not the impression I want to make, like I’m just some easy lay.
The pot boils, and I turn off the stove. I add the chamomile tea bag to my mug, pour the water, and let it steep. I allow myself a moment to rest—but find myself nodding off. The lack of food seems to have taken its toll, not to mention the paranoia from the park. I drink my tea, savoring the liquid, and imagine Blake. Unlike Briar, he seems to have his life together. I could use some stability.
And maybe I’ll finally be able to settle down, for real.
A ring sends my heart racing. Tea sloshes the side of the mug, dribbling down the side, and I’m grateful I dozed off long enough for it to cool a bit. I rise, padding across the apartment, and pick up the phone. “Hello?”
Silence.
Wrong number? A prank call?
I’m about to return the handset to its cradle when music blares from the speaker. I look down at the phone, momentarily confused—until I realize which song the caller is playing. My hand shakes as the first verse of(Don’t Fear) The Reaperplays on repeat like a skipping record. What thefuck?
I keep the phone away from me like it’s diseased. A chill creeps up my spine as the lyrics repeat over and over until it suddenly stops. I hold the handset to my ear. “Hello?” I say, my voice trembling.
No answer.
I listen for a few seconds, but the line is dead. Slamming the phone down, I stare at it for a long moment. I don’t know who’s calling me. But somehow, I know they didn’t play that song by accident. It’s too specific. Are they trying to tell me something? Is it a threat?
Or a warning?
I can’t rid myself of the feeling of dread that’s settled over me. Has someone figured out who I really am? Fear claws at me, threatening to pull me under and never let go. But I can’t let it win, can’t let whoever this is freak me out. Though I’m not sure what to do. Deep down, I’m scared, but I’m also angry.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. I need to focus on something, anything other than this. I spot the hair dye on the table, finding my distraction. Against the instructions, I wash and dry my hair in desperation to take my mind off everything. After that, I gather my supplies and set them on the bathroom counter.
Combining the dye and the developer gives me a sense of calm control. The mixture is a dark, vibrant red, and I begin applying to my hair. The cold dye warms up as I work it through every strand. After finishing, I discard the gloves, set a timer, and sit on the toilet.
While waiting for the dye to develop, I continue reading my book, which I picked up at a gas station in New York on a whim. According to the cover, it’s a best-selling thriller about a woman trying to solve the mystery of her best friend’s disappearance. It’s not written as exciting as it sounds, but it’s enough to pass the time.
My mind wanders from boredom—before the sound of my stepfather’s voice fills my head. My heart pounds and my hands tremble. The book tumbles to the floor. Shit, he’s angry again.
With quaking fingers, I reach down to grab the book. But my heart leaps into my throat as I see his face before me, twisted in anger. His vicious words cut through me like knives. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and the stench of neglect. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he’ll be gone when I open them.
Hot pain sears through me as his fist connects with my face, the taste of copper filling my mouth. Then he hits me again. Over and over. I want to escape, but I’m petrified. Everything is too loud, too real. My stomach lurches, churning acid; I’m going to be sick. I take a deep breath, knowing that I need to focus on the present and ground myself. My consistency with medication assures me I can overcome this.
I open an eye, and his visage has vanished. But in the corner of my vision, I notice a red puddle the size of a dinner plate on the floor in front of the sink. I stand up carefully and walk over to it, bending down to touch it. It’s warm and sticky, definitely not hair dye. A wave of nausea washes over me as I pull my hand back and realize it’s blood.
A dozen drops lead away from it, and a long smear extends into the hallway, staining the old carpet. Like someone had dragged something—or someone—across the floor. Against my better instincts, I follow the trail of blood back to my bedroom. I flick on the light and poke my head in, but I see no one.
I make my way back to the bathroom, but my breath catches in my throat, shock rendering me immobile. There’s blood everywhere—on the floor, the walls, even on the ceiling. The toilet is overflowing with blood, and there are bloody footprints in the shower. Even the mirror is covered with splatters.
Uncertain of what to do, I stand rooted in place, staring at the carnage. My head swims and I lean against the wall for support, but soon I sink to the floor with my head in my hands. Just earlier, everything seemed fine, I think. But now …
I hear my stepfather’s footsteps coming down the hall. My spine goes ramrod straight, and I quickly put on a poker face, trying to act like nothing is wrong. When he enters, he sees the mess, and his eyes narrow in anger.
