Page 59 of Obeying

KRISTEN

The whole way home, I kept checking my mirrors. Every car behind me on the bus, every person who got off at my stop, I watched them. I walked the four blocks to my house with my keys between my fingers, pepper spray in the other hand, and my heart in my throat, checking over my shoulder twice before I unlocked the front door.

Inside, I locked everything. Front door. Back door. Windows. I ate dinner standing at the kitchen counter because sitting at the table meant my back was to the window. Halfway through, I got up and checked outside. The street was empty. I closed the curtains anyway. All of them. Then I turned off the overhead light and used the lamp instead because I didn't want anyone outside to see me moving around in here.

And now I'm on this couch, trying to read to calm down. I've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. I hate this. I hate that he's making me paranoid again. I hate that I can't eat a meal in my own house without scanning for shadows. I thought I was past this.

I jump a little when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number. I glance at the time. 11:47 PM.

I don't want to open it, but I do.

Unknown

Hello, Kris.

I almost drop my phone reading the message, my whole body going cold.

Unknown

I hope you're having a good evening. I hope you're thinking about the offer I gave you. It still stands. Just come back to me, and I'll drop the complaint. All of it. We can put this behind us.

I'm gripping the phone so tight I might break it. My hands are shaking. I watch three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. He's typing again. I should block the number. I should put the phone down. But I'm frozen, my breath held tight in my lungs.

Unknown

By the way, your doctor friend paid me a visit today. Showed up at my office. Very dramatic. Made some threats. Told me he knows you better than I do. Better than you know yourself. Threatened me with his connections too. Told me you belong to him now.

I don't release my breath even as the dots appear again.

Unknown

Sounds familiar, Kris? I guess you really do have a type, huh?

I read it twice. My hands are shaking, and the living room is too quiet. The lamp beside the couch is the only light on, and the shadows in the corners feel bigger than they should. I put the phone down on the couch and stare at it like something foreign.

No. No, that can't be. That's not true. Logan wouldn't do that. He never acts spontaneously or on emotion. He plans, he strategizes. Everything that comes out of Miguel Cruz's mouth is designed to do exactly this. Make me doubt. Make me spiral. Make me look at the person standing next to me and see him instead.

I know that. I know him. The last person on earth I'd believe is Miguel Cruz. He plants things. Small, poisonous things. And then he waits for them to grow.

I delete the message and block his number. I put my phone facedown on the table. I get up and make tea because I need to do something with my hands. As I stand at the counter waiting for the water to boil, I tell myself it's nothing. It's just manipulation. A play. Classic Miguel.

The kettle boils. I pour the water. I don't drink the tea.

I walk to my room instead and fall on my bed, my bones feeling like lead. But I can't sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and keep rereading the text in my head. The words are gone from my phone, but they're still in my brain, and I can't get them out.

Told me you belong to him now.

You really do have a type.

The thing that keeps me awake is the tiny voice underneath asking, “What if it’s true?” What if I traded one man who made decisions for me for another? What if I'm so used to being controlled that I can't even recognize it when it's happening again?

I know Logan isn't Miguel. I know that. But how much can you really know a person?

The next morning, I'm at the hospital before six. His car is already in the lot. I walk through the entrance, up the stairs, and down the hallway to his office. The door is closed. I don't knock.