She’s already disappearing down the stairs, and I shut the door, leaning on the hard surface and assuring myself that I didn’t lie to Jess. I simply left out a few details, including the part where Jack was already on the dating app. He doesn’t even know I know. I’m not telling Jess. That’s his business, not hers, unless he chooses to make it so. The buzzer rings again, and I glance toward the kitchen, wondering if Jess left something behind. When I find nothing, I open the door to find her nowhere in sight.
My gaze is pulled downward, to the ground.
There’s a huge white box with a red ribbon on it sitting right in front of me. My lips purse. What did Jess do now? And why so fancya presentation? She normally just hands me the gift I’ll object to while she will later refuse to allow me to decline. I’m not sure what to make of this, but I scoop up the box and bring it inside, then set it on the kitchen counter.
The card reads “Mia” in an unfamiliar script that is definitely not Jess’s handwriting. Butterflies flutter in my belly, one part excitement, the other more of that unease I’ve been experiencing since meeting Adam. I slide the little white card from the small envelope and read:
Mia—
Your address is public record. I couldn’t resist looking it up and surprising you.
Just one of the gifts I have for you tonight.
That unease I’m feeling expands, lifts its wings as wide as an eagle’s spread, but curiosity wins the battle. I work the ribbon off the box and then open the lid. Inside is a silky red dress. There’s another card lying on top of the garment that reads:I told you. I like you in red.
My heart thunders in my chest, and I draw a breath, eyeing the box again. The dress is sexy, the promise of something far more than conversation in the air between me and this man. But the seemingly romantic, intimate gesture is dashed away by my concern. There’s no address on the box. Did Adam deliver this himself? Was he just at my front door? And how does he know where I live anyway? Is my address really public record?
I grab my phone and google myself. Sure enough, there is a way to find my address. That’s news to me—and not good news. How is that safe?
My next move is to dial Jess. “Hey,” she greets. “Miss me already?”
“Did you see someone at my door?”
“What? No. Why?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m having trouble with my delivery service. I’ll call you later.”
We disconnect, and my gaze lands on the dress.
Why am I ridiculously bothered at the idea of him knowing where I live?
Chapter Fifty-One
Present ...
I cannot believe this is happening.
I managed to escape the building stairwell and even found my way behind the bushes framing the parking lot to the building. Then I blew it all by falling and yelping with the pain in my belly. The whimper of pain, truly the smallest of sounds, placed me in what I fear is almost an ideal position for whoever followed me out of the building.
I suck in a breath and curl my lips around my teeth, my legs trembling as I balance on my heels, my fingers curled around the letter opener with a death grip, aware, oh so aware, that it is my life it may well protect. Seconds tick by, laden with my fear that what comes next is more blood. More death.
But there is no sound, no crunch of boots on gravel, no movement, nothing to tell me whether the person who followed me from the building is moving toward or away from me. Silence lingers and breaks apart with a low, angry rumble of thunder, a bear in a cave, warning of its mighty rage, ready to explode upon the world below. A random icy-cold droplet splatters on my nose, almost as if it’s calling me to action, telling me it’s my time to run before the deluge is upon me.
I want to listen to this warning—I do—but if I run again, I risk the noise giving away my location.
If I stay where I am, though, I also risk being found, being attacked.
Despite how recent events might argue differently, I am not exactly the girl who wants to shove a knife in someone’s body, nor am I a fighter. My love of jogging does not translate to me being athletic. I do not lift weights. I do not know karate. I didn’t even participate in gymnastics as a kid.
This means staying and fighting is a bad idea.
The sky opens up, rain showering down from the heavens above, and when it does, so do I.
I start crawling right, down the line of the trees, biting my lip, silencing my whimpers of pain with another curl of my lips around my teeth, the iron taste of blood on my tongue.Get up,I think in my head,run, but my body is anchored in pain. Still, I manage to keep moving. Forward I crawl,forward, forward, and then a blast of awareness so strong rushes over me that I don’t even dare look back. I just act. I push upward, rising to my feet, and run, run as hard and fast as I can. Fear drives me, consumes me, is a part of me as if it were my skin, my blood, my muscle. My hair is wet, draped over my scalp and face, my clothes a soaking-wet mop of weight on my body. But the road is near—it has to be near; please let it be just ahead—but I can’t see it. I can see nothing but darkness.
And then it happens, that thing we all laugh about when we watch horror movies.
The girl always has to fall, and then she can’t get up.
