AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I scroll to my order history, where there’s a receipt for $549.54 from the Phoenix Wine & Spirits for two bottles of Château de la Croix XO cognac, candy, chips, beef jerky, and a bottle of lube.
“That slimy scammer,” I snarl.
A message pops up on my phone from an unknown number:
Is this your type? Losers?
My jaw drops. I check the device, making sure it’s my actual phone and not the burner I use to message Xero. That one is upstairs in a drawer without its SIM. Xero never knew this number. Even if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t have written it down for a prison guard to pick up after his execution.
I stare at the screen, wondering if Gavin is texting me from around the corner out of some sick drive for revenge.
Another message appears:
That man is lucky to have escaped with his life.
I type out:
Who is this?
He replies:
You know.
I shake my head.
I don’t.
Seconds pass, keeping me glued to the screen, desperate for his reply:
Would it help if I told you something only you and I would know?
I don’t respond, too freaked out that my anonymous creep has tracked down my real phone number.
Early in our relationship, I called you from the blind spot and you told me your darkest fantasy. Remember?
I nod. That was the morning of the thunderstorm when lightning struck the old sycamore tree at the end of the road. It was raining so hard that I needed to stick a finger in my ear so I could hear Xero’s deep, smooth voice. But of course, I don’t reply.
The next message says:
You wanted me to escape death row for one night, climb into your bedroom while you were sleeping, and fill your holes.
He adds:
In the morning, when you got up for a shower, they would be dripping with my cum.
Throat tightening, I run through the possibilities. One, a guard standing close by Xero overheard this conversation. Two, these text messages are another compound hallucination, brought on by the trauma of watching Xero’s execution.
Because option three is impossible.
There’s no way he could survive two rounds of the electric chair and getting set on fire. Even if he could, he sure as hell wouldn’t be texting me obscenities from the prison infirmary.
He messages again to ask:
Was your love for me bullshit?
“No,” I whisper, my throat thickening with anguish.
Were those letters you sent with your fantasies a lie?
