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My dad was interested now, because he was leaning over the table a bit, trying to see what it was. When I only stared at the box quizzically, he said, “Don’t keep us in suspense. Keep going.”
The box’s top wasn’t attached to the bottom in any way. No tape, no little tabs, nothing. I was able to lift it off easily, and when I saw the contents, my breath caught. My hands froze, still holding the lid in midair. My eyes were glued to the present.
It was like a switch had been hit inside me, and no one noticed. No one else felt the dread creeping up inside them, no one else knew just what they were looking at—but I did, and that’s why I suddenly felt so sick.
A gilded golden frame housed a picture of the treehouse. It wasn’t a photograph of something you could get blown up and printed out online. No, this particular picture was hand-drawn. You could see the layers of pencil that had perfectly etched the base of the tree and the treehouse above. From the angle, it looked to have been drawn by someone standing at the bottom of the tree, looking up.
Though much more expertly-crafted, it was the same style as the sketch that had been left in my bedroom the night I’d gone for a drive and hit Brett with my car.
“What is it?” Dad asked.
Since I was frozen, Mom leaned over me and studied it. “Oh, my gosh! It’s beautiful.” She didn’t ask for permission; she simply reached her hand inside the box and dug it out, lifting it up out of the tissue paper beneath it. She spun the beautiful golden frame around to my dad, so he could see it.
“It’s the treehouse!” Dad exclaimed, clearly in awe.
“It’s beautiful,” my mom said, spinning it back to her so she could study it more. “Did you do this, Claire?”
“Oh, I wish,” Claire quickly said. “Tyler dabbles in art when he’s got the time. I told Tyler he’s got to draw me something next.” To me, she added, “The Amazon gift card under the tissue paper is from me.”
As my parents fawned over Tyler’s incredibly lifelike sketch, I locked eyes with him. Across the picnic table, he wore a smile. He looked like he always did, the same Tyler Connar that had been dating my sister for years.
“I thought it might be a little lame,” Tyler spoke, still smiling at me, “but from what I heard about your childhood from your sister, that treehouse is a special place. I wanted to give you something so you’d always remember it, even when you’re no longer here, living at this house.” When I said nothing, he asked, What? Don’t you like it?”
From the surface, it seemed like a good explanation, and it was one my parents accepted—along with Claire. I was the only one that hadn’t said anything yet, and I knew the longer I didn’t say a word, the weirder it would be.
So I mustered up my courage and said, “I love it.” My voice came out quieter than it should, but I couldn’t change the fact that I knew the truth.
Uncle Dave wasn’t my stalker.
Tyler was.
“Thank you,” I said, splitting my time glancing between my sister and Tyler. There was no way my sister could know. The way she was acting, like everything was fine, because everythingwasfine in her world, made me realize she was just as trapped in the dark as me.
But I’d be damned if I sat there and continued to act like everything was fine when it wasn’t. I had to call Brett. I had to think. Murphy’s freaking Law that when I came face to face with my stalker, Brett wasn’t around.
I said as I slowly got up, “I, uh, have to go to the bathroom, excuse me.” With that, I hurried away, leaving my parents to fawn over the hand-drawn gift.
And leaving them with my stalker, a man who was not so mysterious anymore.
It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not make a quick dash to the house, to simply walk with a normal pace towards the back door. The muscles in my body itched to break out into a run, to put as much space between Tyler and me as possible, but I couldn’t make it obvious. I had to try to act normal.
Excusing myself to go to the bathroom was not exactly normal, but hey, everyone had to pee once in a while, right?
I got inside the house, and once I was safely in, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Tyler was still seated at the picnic table in the yard. He was—his back was to me, and he was still seated beside Claire as if nothing at all was wrong. As if everything was normal.
Like he didn’t just give himself away.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to be him. It had to be. The drawings were too similar in style. Tyler Connar was my stalker. I’d stupidly never even thought it could be him, because he always seemed so happy with Claire. Plus, I’d known him for years. He was part of the family. He came to every holiday, every get together. He’d become the brother I never had. He was funny, everyone liked him, and he’d always been so nice.
Oh, God.
I took off in a hurry now that I was inside the house. I fumbled to grab my phone out of my pocket as I took the stairs, heading up by clumsily taking two at a time. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door before flipping on the light and dialing Brett’s number.
And then, the paranoid part of me worried that someone could overhear the conversation even though no one had followed me inside, so I ended the call and texted him instead:Where are you? How much longer until you get here?
I bit my thumb, waiting a few seconds before typing out another message,It’s Tyler.Hopefully Brett would realize just what I meant by that. My mind spun. I still couldn’t quite believe it myself.
He called me then. I turned on the sink faucet and wandered over to the tub, as far away from the door as I could go, before answering it, “Brett.” My voice came out low, and it trembled just a bit. I’d gotten used to the new normal, to believing my stalker was dead.
