Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Not knowing what the hell to do next, I head upstairs to the fiction section and wander the aisles. There aren’t many people on this floor, and there’s something eerie about heading through the aisles—it’d be easy for someone to hide up here, maybe watch someone through the openings over the books. A stalker could spend weeks in here, waiting for someone and finding a place to settle and keep an eye on Mike or Leif.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I wind up by two shelves’ worth of JD Robb’s books. I settle with this feeling in me, knowing I’m standing in the same spot where Mike must’ve stood.
A warmth comes over me as I embrace that familiar sense, but nearly as quickly, it flees, leaving me hollow. I’m glad I opened up to the moment while it lasted because it’s not the sort of thing I can recreate.
I meander through the aisles, in no hurry, making my way to the King section.
I round the corner to the next aisle, and as I start down it, I catch a glimpse of someone on the other side of the library. Beyond the aisle on the opposite side, they’re sitting at a table-chair setup by a window, but I can only see their back. As I move closer, they come into view, and I freeze.
I recognize that profile.
The hair.
The jawline.
The five-o’clock shadow.
My hands shake as goose bumps prick across my flesh.
Isaac Tolle.
I step back, slowly, cautiously, and head back around the bookcase.
He doesn’t turn, so he must not notice me. Thank God. If he did, he’d call Detective Roth and tell her I was stalking him again.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can barely think straight.
I followed him for about two weeks, but never in that time had he come by this library. It’s near the college, so of course it’s not a huge surprise that he would be here.
This doesn’t mean what I think it means…does it?
A rush of panic sweeps through me, part of me fearing that maybe I was onto something. Another part of me fears that, even if I wasn’t, now I’m going to start working down the path that led me to fucking nowhere.
My hands are cold, but I’m sweating. And breathing heavily.
Flashes come back to me: watching him through the window of his house; following him around the grocery store; hacking into his email account.
It races through my mind—not only the realities, but how I felt in my heightened emotional state, this otherworldly feeling that seized control of me, had me taking photos of him and collecting a fucking scrapbook’s worth of information about this guy.
And then finally, fabricating evidence against him to get Detective Roth to check him out—an epic fail.
I don’t even know how I get out to the parking lot and to my car. I need to get away from here. Get away from him before he spots me and calls Roth.
I slip into the driver’s seat of my car and take deep breaths, collecting myself. Part of me wants to believe there’s no way I saw whom I just saw.
He could be here, though. He’s a teacher who works nearby. It means nothing.
But another part of me knows better, fears what it might actually mean.
And fearing that I already know what this is going to mean for me.
13
LEIF
Zane’s been quiet the past few days.
Unusually quiet, and it started after I FaceTimed him so he could see me playing with my sex toy. Was that too much? I know I’m not playing it cool, but fuck playing it cool.
Zane gave me a taste, and now I’m greedy for more.
But I have other concerns at the moment. I struggle with what to tell Mom and Dad about the subreddit and Zane’s theories. On the one hand, I want them to take the necessary precautions for our family’s safety. On the other hand, if I tell them too much, they could get in touch with Roth, and she’d make them really concerned about the guy next door.
I want to talk to Zane about it, but now he’s suddenly less available than before. When I reach out on Monday and Tuesday, I get back quick responses about how he’s catching up on work.
On Wednesday, he gives me a similar BS excuse: Still gotta get some things in. Bills to pay, ya know?
He’s giving weird vibes.
Is he uncomfortable after what we shared, or is it something else? Something more concerning?
I make carbonara for dinner, and as much as I want my parents to enjoy the meal, I really made it for him. When we finish eating, I pack some into a container and head on over to his place, mashing my thumb on the doorbell; I’m not meaning to, but I’m sure the ring conveys my frustration.
It takes Zane a minute before he opens the door. “Yeah?”