Chapter-10, part-2

CONTINUE

I

nod. “I’ll let you know about the bodyguard thing. Let’s just

see how this alarm system thing works out first.”

“Okay, in the meantime, I’m going to dispose of these hands. I’ll

be back in an hour, and then we’re getting hammered.”

My eyes widen. “Daya, you don’t have to do that. This is

morbid enough, and I don’t want you to have to—"

The severity of her expression stops me short, my words

trailing off.

“I see worse every day, Addie. Go inside, I’ll be back soon.”

Swallowing, I nod and turn towards my door, shooting one last

lingering look at my best friend’s retreating form, wondering what

the hell she’s involved in if she sees worse than chopped up body

parts every day.

“They’re all dead.” The words are a bomb going off in my ear,

like that judge in Law Abiding Citizen.

“What?”

“Arch's entire family was reported dead. His father, two

brothers, an uncle, and two cousins. I don’t know the details

because the crime was fucking smooth as hell. No witnesses. No

evidence. Nothing.”

“Oh my God. Do you think it was the stalker?”

She sighs, and even through the phone, I know she’s twirling

her nose ring. “That’s a pretty hefty crime, but not impossible.

There’s been word that when Arch was reported missing after you

called the police, Connor started throwing some serious

accusations around to their rivals. The police seem to think it was

them, but with lack of evidence, there’s no one to pin it on.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, a headache blooming in my temple.

“So the stalker did kill Arch, then.”

“Probably,” she hedges. “If Arch made it back home before the

family was wiped, he would’ve said who mutilated him and Connor

wouldn’t have gone off on their rivals. So, I think it’s plausible that

Connor’s accusations are what got the rest of them killed.”

There’s so many emotions swirling in my head, and I can’t

make heads or tails of what I’m feeling. I’m fucking horrified that

my shadow murdered somebody.

But he was an evil man.

That shouldn’t matter, should it? And to be perfectly honest, I

think his true intentions for killing Arch were because he touched

me, not because of his crimes.

“Honestly, Daya, I’m a little relieved. Arch's family won’t come

for me now, and I feel so selfish saying that.”

“Then we’re both selfish bitches because I’m happy as hell.” I

snort at her enthusiasm. “Look, the Talaverra's were bad people.

Arch wasn’t the only one with a bad history. Connor had rape

allegations against him, and their father must’ve taught them how

to rape and beat a woman because his rap sheet… even worse.”

I nod my head, forgetting she can’t see it.

“I certainly won’t mourn their deaths,” I mutter.

After that, we hang up, both needing to get some work done,

but my mind keeps wandering.

Truly, I’m not sad to hear about the fate of the Talaverra's, but

there is still that niggling worry in the back of my head that my

shadow is the one who delivered it to them.

It’s been a week since Arch went missing and still no sign of my

shadow. Not to say he still isn’t sneaking around, but he hasn’t

made his presence known.

Daya’s friend set up my new alarm system and cameras, and

I’m ashamed of how obsessive I’ve been with checking them

since.

The naïve part of me is hoping now that I have a security

system, he’ll stay away. But while I make a lot of stupid decisions

—and I mean a lot—I’m not stupid enough to believe he isn’t

going to show up here soon.

I

stretch, groaning as my muscles crack, the barstool in my

kitchen doing little to support my back while I write. I’ve been

working on a new fantasy novel about a girl escaping slavery, and

the deadline I set for myself is quickly approaching.

Right as I begin typing again, a creak from above snags my

attention. The sound immediately has my heart kickstarting into

overdrive. I pause, listening for any more noises. Several beats

pass with no disturbance. The only sounds are the furnace and

the low pattering of rain against the window.

Just when I begin to think I’m losing my mind, I hear another

creak from directly above me.

Holding my breath, I slowly get up from the stool, the metal

legs screeching against the tile. I wince, the eruption loud and

unpleasant.

Well, goddammit, good thing I didn’t become a spy. I would so

die on the job.

Quickly, I walk over to the silverware drawer, slide it open and

grab the butcher knife. Holding this weapon is starting to become

a daily routine, and I’m becoming bored with it.

I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I clamber towards the

stairs, whip around the railing, and quietly make my way up the

steps. Briefly, I consider the movie title of the horror movie they’d

make after my life.

Making my way down the hall, I peek into open rooms, holding

the knife out in front of me. The hallway is long and wide, with five

of the bedrooms up here.

Just as I step out of one of the empty bedrooms, I hear a small

thump. It sounded like it came from my room.

With bated breath, I creep down the hallway, holding all my

weight on my toes.

No fucking idea how ballerinas do it.

My bedroom door is shut. Adrenaline steadily releases into my

bloodstream, like injecting heroin in a vein.

It wasn’t shut before.

I stand outside my door, staring at it as if it’s going to grow a

face and warn me of what’s inside. That’d totally be beneficial right

now.

Because not knowing what I will find on the other side is the

worst part. That’s what makes my heart pound viciously in my

chest and tightens my lungs.

Will I open the door and see the shadow from my nightmares?

Going through my things?

My eyes widen, realization hitting that the sick fuck could be

going through my underwear drawer. The thought sends a

tsunami of anger washing over me, and before I can consider the

ramifications, I barrel through the door.

No one is inside.

I

charge through the room, checking every corner before

storming out onto the balcony. No one.

Chest heaving, I whip around and scope out the room, trying to

figure out where an intruder could hide. My eyes pause on the

closet.

I aim for it, sliding the door open so forcefully, it nearly comes

off the track. My arm lashes through the clothing, searching for

someone that isn't here.

But I know I heard something.

My breath catches when I turn, and my eyes sweep across my

bed, forcing me to backtrack. Right under my bed is Gigi’s diary,

lying on the floor and flipped open.

That must’ve been what the thump was, but how the fuck did it

fall? My blood freezes when I look on my nightstand and see the

diary I’ve been reading still there.

I

had put Gigi’s other two diaries in my nightstand for

safekeeping until I got to them. So how did one of them end up on

the floor?

With another suspicious sweep of the room, I walk over to the

book and pick it up, leaving it open. Skimming my eyes across the

page, I pause when I take in the words.

Judging by the dates, it’s the last book she wrote in before she

died. The three books span across two years, Gigi having died on

May 20th, 1946.

The book was open on an entry two days before Gigi’s murder,

May 18th. She’s expressing fear, but she doesn’t say of who.

Clearly, she’s terrified of something. My heart thumps harder as I

ingest her rushed words.

She talks about someone being after her. Scaring her. Who,

though? Forgetting about everything else around me, I sit on the

edge of the bed and flip to the beginning.

With each passing entry, her words become clipped and

fearful. Before I know it, I’m nearly ripping through the pages,

trying to find any inkling of who her murderer is.

But on the very last page, her last words are: he came for me.

No lipstick kiss on the page. Just those four daunting words. I turn

the page, looking to see if there’s more. Desperate for it, actually.

There are no more entries, but I do notice something strange.

A jagged piece of paper sticks out from the spine. I trace my

fingers over it. A page has been ripped out of the diary.

Did she write down something important and decide it wasn’t

worth the risk of anyone knowing? All three of these books are

risqué, full of cheating and sex. Above all, full of love for a man

that stalked her.

I look up, staring ahead but seeing nothing.

When Mom left, she left with the hopes that I’d listen to her

advice and move out of Parsons Manor. But when she walked out

of that door, the sickening smell of her Chanel perfume lingering in

my nostrils, I decided I didn’t want to move.

Did Nana have a weird attachment to the manor? Possibly. But

if this house meant so much to her, it doesn’t feel right to give it

away. Even if that means I have an unhealthy attachment, too.

And now, that decision is only solidifying. There’s no way this

book could’ve ended up on the floor. Yet it did. And I don’t know if

it was Nana’s doing, or Gigi’s, but someone wanted me to read

these entries.

Do they want me to find the person who killed Gigi? God, I

can’t imagine how difficult it would’ve been to solve a murder in

the 40s with such underwhelming technology. Is her murderer

even still alive?

Maybe it doesn’t matter if he is or not. Maybe Gigi wants justice

for her murder, and for the man that ended her life too soon to be

exposed—dead or alive.

I

exhale a shaky breath, my fingers tracing the four daunting

words.

He came for me.

“Can you please explain to me why you’re making me hack into

the PD’s database to look at crime photos of your murdered

grandmother?” Daya asks from beside me, her fingers hovering

over her mouse.

I’m tempted to reach over and push her finger down for her so

she’ll finally click the damn button. Once she does, it’ll pull up

Gigi’s records.

I

sigh. “I told you already. She was murdered. And I think I

know who did it, I just… well, I don’t know anything about him but

his first name, and the fact that he stalked her.”

Daya eyes me, but eventually relents. She clicks the mouse—

finally—and pulls up Gigi’s crime scene photos.

They’re pretty disturbing. Gigi had been found in her bed, with

her throat slit and a cigarette burn on her wrist. They never found

the killer due to insufficient evidence.

A lot of blame pointed towards the officers that responded to

the call, citing that they trampled all over the crime scene.

Evidence was lost or contaminated by the police force, and fingers

were pointed, but ultimately, no one was held accountable for it.

Daya clicks through the photos, each one more disturbing than

the last. Close up pictures of the wound on her neck. The burn on

her wrist. Gigi’s face, frozen in fear as her dead eyes stare back at

the camera. And her signature lipstick smeared across her cheek.

I

swallow, the sight a stark contrast to the picture that

concealed her safe. Her wide, smiling face so full of life and fire.

And then her dead, cold body frozen in fear.

Whoever had killed her had scared her pretty bad. A niggling

feeling tugs at the back of my head. Based on Gigi’s entries, her

stalker didn’t scare her. In fact, it sounds like he did the exact

opposite.

I shake the thought from my head. He was obsessed with her,

and there were several entries nearing her death that indicated

they weren't getting along due to his jealousy over her marriage.

His obsession must’ve been of the deadly variety.

Daya then clicks over to the police reports. Not just the ones

released to the public, but documents from the investigation that

were confidential.

Technically, the investigation is still open. It’s just gone cold.

We took our time reading through the documents, but in the

end, the only thing we learned was the time of death, and the fact

that Gigi fought and fought hard.

My great-grandfather, John, was immediately ruled out due to

having several eyewitness reports seeing him at the grocery store

during the time of the murder.

I bite my lip, the thought eliciting guilt, yet I can’t help but think

it.

What if he was still an accomplice?

I

shake the thought from my head. No. There’s no way. My

great-grandfather loved Gigi, despite the fact that their marriage

was falling apart at the seams.

It had to be her stalker.

It’s the obvious explanation. The stalker gained Gigi’s trust—

somehow—made her feel comfortable enough that she relaxed

around him. And then he killed her.

“There has to be significance to that ripped-out page,” I

murmur, growing frustrated from the lack of evidence. I could

never be a detective and do this shit every day.

“Maybe the killer did it,” Daya guesses, scrolling mindlessly

through the pictures.

I twist my lips, considering it before I shake my head. “No, that

wouldn’t make sense. Why would they rip only one page out and

not just dispose of all the journals? They’re all incriminating.

Whether it was the stalker or someone else, Gigi speaks of being

hunted. And if it wasn’t the stalker, then they could’ve easily

pinned the blame on Ronaldo and been done with it. Whoever it

was, they can’t have known about these. Gigi had to have ripped

the page out before hiding the books.”

Daya nods her head. “You’re right. Whatever is on that missing

page is important, but we can’t rely on that.”

“We need to figure out who Ronaldo is,” I conclude.

Daya nods her head, appearing a little exhausted from the

thought. Can’t say I’m not either.

“And we have nothing to go off of. There’s no mention of his

last name. Barely any physical description.”

“He had a scar on his hand,” I offer , recalling mentions of

those things in Gigi's diary. “And wore a gold ring.”

“Did she mention his social standing? Job? Anything that could

lead us to who he might be?”

I twist my lips, “I’ll have to look again. I remember she said he

was involved in something dangerous, but I haven't gotten the

chance to read through everything yet.”

She nods and heaves out a weighted sigh. “Until then, I think

we’re going to be stuck until we find Ronaldo or that missing

page.”

I

sigh, my shoulders drooping. “That could literally be

anywhere, or it not even exist anymore.”

Daya looks at me then, sympathy in her eyes. “We'll keep

trying different avenues. I’m just as invested as you at this point.”

I

shoot her a grateful smile before looking back at the crime

scene photos.

This was undoubtedly a crime of passion, and if I know

anything, stalkers tend to be deeply passionate about their

obsessions.

I bolt upright, a gasp lingering on the tip of my tongue. Sweat

coats my skin, and my hair is plastered to my cheeks, neck, and

down my back.

I

can’t remember what I was dreaming about. But something

woke me.

Heart pounding, my sleep-riddled eyes drift over the dark room.

Just enough light from the moon filters in through the balcony

doors. The furniture casts shadows across the room, creating

figures that aren’t really there. I don’t mind the phantoms dancing

across my floor, but whatever woke me has a presence. A soul.

The floorboards creak from my right, outside my bedroom door.

My head snaps in the direction, and I suck in a sharp breath. The

hair rises on the back of my neck, like a scared dog backed in a

corner.

I hold the air in my lungs, careful not to make a sound should I

hear the noise again. Stillness settles around the house. Too still.

My fingers clench the duvet on my lap as my heart rate

increases.

Someone is outside my room.

But how?

How the fuck did he make it past the alarm system?

Another creak followed by heavy footsteps. A methodical walk,

slow and purposeful. Intentional.

I

slowly slip out of bed and tiptoe backwards until my back

presses against the cool stone wall, creating distance between the

intruder outside my door and me.

Despite my best efforts, I release a shaky breath. My chest

heaves with small, fast pants as the footsteps come closer.

I’m frozen. My back is pressed so deeply into the stone that I’m

becoming a part of it, preventing me from moving. From hiding.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

Desperately, my eyes search across the expanse of the room.

They land on a lone screwdriver sitting on the chest at the end of

the bed. I had carelessly tossed it aside after assembling my

vanity chair, and now it sits there like a beacon of hope. Possibly

the only thing that could keep me alive tonight.

Move, Addie. Goddammit, MOVE!

My limbs unlock, and I rush to the screwdriver, gripping the tool

in my slick hands. My eyes are glued to the door handle, waiting

for the knob to turn. Quietly, I slink over to the door and mold

myself to the wall.

I’ll wait for him to come in and then attack. Hopefully I can get

the screwdriver lodged in his neck before he knows what’s

happening.

So with bated breath, I wait. The knob doesn’t turn, but I can

feel deep in my bones that someone is out there. Are they waiting

for me? They’re out of their mind if they think I’ll open that door. I

suppose they must be, though, if they’re breaking into my house

and lingering outside my room.

The longest minute of my life passes. It feels like it’s been

hours before I hear another creak. And then I hear the footsteps

retreat. Further and further they fade, until eventually I no longer

hear them at all.

My ears prick, and just like I suspected, I hear my front door

shut. A soft click that feels like thunder in a silent house. Instantly,

I rip open the door and run across the hall into the bedroom with

windows that face the driveway.

Hunkering down, I peek through the curtains and wait for the

person to emerge from the front porch.

It feels like an eternity passes, but I imagine it’s only been

seconds before I see movement. An audible cry leaves my lips

when a large man saunters off the steps and walks out onto my

driveway. He’s wearing all black, with a deep hood settled over his

head.

He’s tall—very tall, but not bulky. Even beneath his clothing, I

can tell his body is fucking lethal. Lean, but packed with muscle.

His hoodie clings to his body, showing off his broad shoulders,

thick arms, and trimmed waist.

God, he could crush me if he wanted to. His hand looks big

enough to cover the entirety of my face. Or wrap around my neck.

Would he do it to cause pain or pleasure? Does my shadow

want to hurt me or love me?

He stills, his back facing me. He can feel me watching him, just

like I felt him outside my door.

I find myself curling deeper into the shadows, out of sight. My

heart is still racing, though now for an entirely different reason.

Something about him has me wanting to press my face into the

window. I want to see him. I want to see the man that’s been

creeping inside my house, leaving me flowers, and mutilating any

unsuspecting soul that dared to touch me.

Was his hand on the knob, ready to come in? What stopped

him?

As if hearing my thoughts, he cocks his head slightly. Intently, I

watch him slowly turn his head to the side. And ever so slightly, he

raises his chin, the moonlight revealing his wide mouth and a

sharp jaw.

I huddle deeper into the wall, feeling his eyes on me. There’s

no way he can see me. Yet somehow, I feel his gaze piercing me

anyway. Like little, sharp knives grazing my skin before digging

inside me.

And then he smiles, his mouth stretching into a wicked smirk.

My breath hitches, and my lungs fill with fire.

Oh, this is funny to you, asshole?

Before I can process what to do—what I’m feeling—he turns

and walks away, disappearing into the tree line. Slow and

purposeful, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

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