Page 217 of Faking the Goal

It's another photos of us at the arena tonight, taken before the game. My arm is wrapped around her while I lead her toward the locker room, her body tucked close against mine.

Taylor opens the message, and we read it together.

UNKNOWN

I told you to break up with him. Yet you stood there in his arms and let him make a fool of me.

A few more messages come through almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

How many times do I have to remind you that you are not free to give yourself away?

UNKNOWN

You are mine, little kitten. Every breath. Every part of you. Keep letting him touch you and I will teach both of you what happens when someone takes what is mine.

UNKNOWN

You think he can protect you from me? He can't.

Taylor makes a broken sound beside me, barely more than a breath, and the phone slips from her fingers. I catch it before it hits the floor, then pull her fully into my arms as her knees finally buckle. She clutches the front of my jacket with both hands, shaking so hard her teeth begin to chatter, and I hold her against my chest while every violent instinct inside me claws for release.

I want to tear through the city until I find him.

I want to put my hands around his throat and make him understand that Taylor is not an object he can claim, frighten, or punish. I want to hurt him for every terrified breath she takes against me, for every broken thing inside this apartment, and for the way he has managed to turn the one place she should have felt safe into another place she will now be afraid to enter.

But I force all of it down.

Taylor doesn't need my rage right now. She doesn't need me pacing, shouting, or losing control while she's already struggling to breathe. She needs something steady to hold on to, so I lock my jaw, keep my voice low, and rub my hand slowly along her back.

"I've got you," I murmur against her hair. "I am not leaving you alone."

CHAPTER 28

TAYLOR

The next half hour passes in a blur.

Two officers from the city police arrive within minutes, and after making sure I'm physically unharmed, they search every inch of my apartment—even though I already know they aren't going to find anyone. My studio is barely big enough for me to live in, let alone hide another person. There are no extra rooms. No closets deep enough for someone to disappear into. Still, they check anyway. Behind the shower curtain. Inside the tiny pantry. Even beneath my bed.

Nothing.

He's gone.

Kentaro does most of the talking because I can barely string two coherent thoughts together. He tells them about the stalking, the report we'd already filed with Campus Police, the messages, the flowers, the packages. He even hands over the memory card from the security camera he'd insisted on installing outside my apartment.

For one fleeting second, I think maybe... maybe it caught something.

Maybe we'll finally have his face.

Anything.

But the footage from around the time of the break-in is nothing but static.

Nothing useful.

One of the officers tells us they'll document everything from tonight, photograph the damage, and send it all over to Campus Police so the officer handling my stalking case has the full picture. They'll compare what happened here with the previous reports and see if anything gives them a new lead.