Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
My phone pings and I look down to see a new text from the unknown number. All it reads is: That doesn’t answer my question.
I can’t stop trembling as I stare down at my phone.
Who else would text me? No one. No one else. The only other person who has my number is Marc because I had to give it to him.
I didn’t mean to frighten you.
Another message comes through and my heart beats faster. The front door is locked, I know it is, but still, I climb out of bed and check it. It’s hard to even swallow with my heart in my fucking throat.
Who is this? I text back and then add, I’m not frightened. It’s fine, I just hadn’t heard that Mr. Adler had died.
I almost write more. All lies though. Lies meant to deceive. Something to make it feel casual, normal even. Something that would prove I’m not terrified. But all that’s running through my mind is that the person on the other end is a killer. The killer the cops have been looking for and failing to find.
I repeat over and over that I’m not crazy, I’m not paranoid. I remind myself what Sebastian said, that I’m scared and looking for answers. Which I am. Four in a row. It’s a fucking hit list.
“Fuck,” I grip my hair and clench my teeth before calling Sebastian. My throat’s tight as I stand in the middle of the living room, vaguely aware that I’m on the brink of a panic attack.
I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.
I don’t know what to think. Other than someone has a copy of that list, or made the same list, but how?
Voicemail. It goes to voicemail. An hour ago, I felt untouchable here; now I feel like I’m in a cage, unable to go anywhere and so easily seen by anyone who could be watching.
Please call me. I text Sebastian as another text comes through.
I shouldn’t have texted you.
Who is this? I ask again, but no reply comes. Not then and not thirty minutes later when I’m huddled in a ball on the sofa, wondering if calling the cops is even an option. There’s no news at all that Jeff Adler was found dead. Not on the news online and not a hint of it on any social media.
Is he even dead? And if he is, and the person who texted me knew, but no one else…
The number is still silent an hour later when I leave a voicemail on Sebastian’s phone. I wish it wasn’t real. I wish I could blink and the messages would be gone. I would rather know I truly am crazy than to be living this nightmare. I don’t mention any of it in the voicemail to Sebastian, I just beg him to please come back or return my call. The second I hang up, I lose it.
It’s a slow spiral of a breakdown, and maybe that’s what the person wanted.
I text the unknown number again and beg them to tell me who they are. And I get nothing. For hours, I have nothing but my own fear and a random text that was designed to inflict it.
Someone wanted to hurt me.
There’s only one person I think of over and over again who could be behind this and it proves I’m insane.
It can’t be my mother, but when I dig through my purse and find the list, a list no one else knows about, I can’t think of anything other than her and the nightmares.
My mother is dead. It’s not her, I tell myself over and over, resting my cheek against the flannel fabric on my knees and rocking back and forth. It takes everything in me to calm myself down, telling myself that I’m safe here with Sebastian. Whoever it was is an asshole. Someone who overheard me at the butcher shop maybe. Someone playing a cruel trick on me.
Whoever it is can go fuck themselves.
The anger and hopeful explanation are all that keeps me together. Just barely. I’m holding on by a thread and watching the clock tick by, wondering where Sebastian is and why he hasn’t messaged me back.
For hours.
SEBASTIAN
“Where were you?” Chlo asks before the front door is even closed. Her voice is filled with accusations that make my body freeze.
Her eyes are bloodshot as she peeks up at me above her knees on the sofa. It’s not too late yet. Past dinnertime, but it’s not so late that she should be coming at me like this. Unless she knew something.
What the fuck happened? It’s all I can think. My movements are slow as I toss the keys on the table and kick off my boots, taking her in as she watches me. My heart’s hammering and I’m fucking confused. This isn’t my Chloe.