Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
This diner was just like the last one I worked at. It had the same peeling linoleum, the same greasy smell that clung to not only the walls but also to my clothing and my hair. But I was thankful I had this work to keep my mind at least a little busy.
It was something to distract me from the uneasy feeling that lingered because I knew someone was coming into my home and leaving me savage things.
The last hour of my shift dragged on, but when I clocked out, tossed my grease-stained apron on the back counter, and left, all I wanted was a scalding-hot shower, a snack, my book, and then bed.
The night air was cool, and the dim streetlights cast long shadows across the empty road and grimy alleys. I headed home, keeping to the main sidewalks and passing a couple of regulars on this block, drunkards, and a few drug addicts tucked away in the shadows.
I’d only been walking for five minutes before I felt it. That familiar presence I'd sensed days ago when I’d been followed and then confronted the stranger.
I didn’t know who he was, but I was smart enough to connect the dots and understand whoever he was…he’d been the one to leave the fingers in my room. And it was after the body part showing up that I paid a locksmith to add a chain lock to my front door.
His presence was visceral and tangible. It was a shift in the air that sent a prickle down my spine. I wasn’t going to be surprised this time.
I came prepared.
I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing over the cool handle of the small pocketknife I brought with me. Although slight, the weight of it was a comforting reminder I wouldn’t be a victim.
I kept my pace steady and even, then turned into a narrow alley but walked deeper into the darkness so I was swallowed by the shadows. I pressed myself against the rough brick wall and waited. My heart was beating fast but not with fear.
No. This was something else.
This was anticipation.
I thought I’d hear footsteps coming closer, picking up speed to catch up with me. But I heard nothing.
I waited, holding my breath, and then I saw his shadow before hearing the soft sound of his boots connecting with the pavement.
He was big but stealthy, like the true predator he was.
And then I saw him—a dark figure moving just past the alley before he turned and headed into the shadows with me.
This time, I wasn’t the prey.
I held my breath the closer he came and forced myself to be calm while I kept my back pressed tight to the brick. If he didn’t sense me yet, I knew without a doubt he would in a matter of seconds. I had to act fast.
“I want you to stop fucking following me,” I said, my voice steady, the knife small enough that I kept its presence hidden in my hand.
There was no surprise from him just this stoic, apathetic expression that poured out of him like an ink stain creeping toward me. He just stared at me, and when he stepped forward, the very dim, sickly yellow light of the streetlights filtered over his face.
I recognized him instantly. I’d seen him at the diner—my old place of employment and the new one. He was there nightly, never speaking, just watching silently.
And then a slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. “You plan on opening me up with that pocketknife?”
My heart did beat faster then, but again, it wasn’t from fear.
“I’ll give you credit. You’ve got balls confronting me in the middle of a darkened, empty alleyway,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’m impressed.”
I gritted my teeth and held the knife up between us. “I want you to stop following me,” I repeated. “Stop fucking coming to where I work. I don’t know what you want, but I don’t fucking care.”
He took a step closer, unbothered by the threat in my voice. “Come on, Isla.”
I didn’t react to him using my name even though inside it felt as luxurious as melted butter on lobster.
“I don’t think you want that. Not really.” His eyes glinted with something wicked and amused. “Did you like the gift I left you?”
I clenched my jaw. I refused to have this weird, macabre conversation with him.
“I thought you’d appreciate my version of flowers. I wanted to give you the severed fingers of the man who touched you without permission,” he said nonchalantly, tilting his head slightly.
My stomach turned because I knew he’d been in my apartment, more than likely more than once. He’d taken the fingers of a human being who slapped my ass at the diner. Although I didn't give a shit that motherfucker was missing body parts—no doubt dead—it was creepy and disturbing that anyone would think that was an acceptable gift.