Of the 136 calls the heroine made to the police in Seattle and everywhere else this psycho sent her letters, they could never find a thing. No one lurking outside, no DNA on the letters, no clues. Which….” I chuckled humorlessly and wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, holstering my gun.“...which meant they decided the poor heroine was sending them to herself. Maybe a publicity stunt? But then, they began fining her for making false reports to the police. But the heroine would stubbornly pay them and kept calling for help, for someone to fucking listen to her until they told her they’d arrest her for the next call. Her concerned agent told her not to do it anymore. That she would just look like an attention-seeking nutjob….
“That’s a terrible book premise.” My cackle was a little hysterical but what the hell.
I could still see the contemptuous expressions of the officers who’d show up, to take a look at the latest letter and photos showing me running, or eating at a cafe, or sitting at home. How they’d put the envelope in an evidence bag and seal it, assuring me they’d “look into it.” I already felt crazy. I already was crazy, probably. I didn’t need anyone else telling me that.
The desecration of the jeep was new.
So, maybe tonight was the night.
I paced in front of the windows facing the front of the cabin. The back looked out onto a fairly steep drop-off, so I suspected any attack would be straight on. But the perimeter that Steve - the guy who actually might kill me tonight and wasn’t that an irony? - had put up remained dark, no movement.
“Of course,” I mused, running my hand over and over through my hair, “if Steve really is … the … oh, the v-word because I can’t say that out loud, maybe he can fly? But he can’t come in. I did the ritual.” Almost as if on cue, my nipple and the inside of my thigh where Steve had feasted from me in my dreams started throbbing. “S- s- so I just have to keep awake ‘till morning and I can walk the hell right out of here. Maybe Weird Kevin is still in residence and I can make it to his place. I can do that.”
I’d always questioned why my stalker had picked me. What I could have possibly done to spark his obsession and his hate? Dr. Frisch had finally convinced me that it didn’t matter. I’d likely never know. And it really didn’t matter. He either kill me, or I’d live. My hand went to the gun at my hip. For the first time, I was pretty sure I was capable of shooting to kill. I could.
After all my preparations, it really seemed unfair when the arm went around my chest and a needle into my neck before I even registered the presence of the person behind me.
Chapter 6: Time To Die
In which we all find out who Aura's stalker is. It is as much a surprise to her as it is to us.
“Wakey wakey, sow. Time to die.”
My eyes burned as they opened, and I blinked several times, trying to focus. I was lying on my bed, arms handcuffed to the headboard and legs tied to the bottom posts. The cuffs were tight and cutting into the skin on my wrists. I was still dressed, thank god.
“Who-?” I croaked, turning my head and trying to find the owner of my very rude wake-up call. “No. Not-”
The man crouching at the foot of the bed wore a huge smile, almost as big as the knife he was holding. The overhead light gleamed off his mostly bald scalp.
“Why? Why would you…” I was crying and it was humiliating but I couldn’t help it. He’d always been so nice to me. He’d answer questions quietly and kindly so no one in line would hear. My confusion about my meds and the side effects and questions I couldn’t ask my psychiatrist, who was only there to ask if I was sleeping or if I had any suicidal thoughts, then briskly wrote out my new batch of prescriptions and sent me on my way. But Mr. Hargreaves would smile, and listen to my questions patiently.
“Always whining and crying, poor you!” Mr. Hargreaves snarled. My pharmacist was looking at me with complete disgust. “You fucking, self-absorbed bitch.”
He mocked me in a high voice, “My life is so hard, Mr. Hargreaves, no one loves me. I’m so depressed!” He stood up abruptly, pacing irritably at the foot of the bed, back and forth, back and forth and I was dizzy anyway. “I knew from the first time I saw you what an entitled, stuck-up sow you were.”
I was flushed, hot, and still crying, feeling so unutterably stupid. I bought the pharmacy staff lunch every time I came for meds, and I donated money quietly so he could use the funds for seniors who couldn’t afford all their medications. “I trusted you,” I managed, “I thought-”
“Shut up!” Mr. Hargreaves suddenly screamed at me, straddling me on the bed and waving that gigantic knife dangerously close. “No more fucking whining! It’s all you do!”
Pressing my lips together, I fought against a deranged little giggle. So, not only was I going to be killed in a really horrible way - I was quite clear on that, based on my psycho pharmacist’s meticulously detailed plans in past letters - but I’d also blocked the only person who could save me from entering the house. Even for me, this was a screwup of epic proportions.
"I'll bet you didn't even use that money I gave you for the senior's prescriptions, did you!" What possessed me to blurt that out? I was definitely crazy.
And he had the gall to look offended. "How dare you say that? Of course, I did! Mrs. Myron's arthritis meds especially, Methotrexate is $12,000 a year! And Oscar Jiminez, we've been controlling his diabetes with Liraglutide, and that's $720 monthly so- wait. Shut up! Just shut the hell up!" He was pacing back and forth in front of me, pulling at what remained of his hair and gesticulating with his knife. "What kind of professional do you think I am!"
I was trying to think of everything I’d researched about being taken captive. I was supposed to tell them my name, and talk about my family and my life so they would have to see me as a person. So they’d be less likely to kill me. None of this was going to work with Mr. Hargreaves, who along with being a complete dick and a lunatic, also already knew about my lack of family or friends, what I did for a living and - god, he even knew about the time I had to get a morning-after pill and he was the one to gently suggest I get a birth-control shot so, “You won’t have to worry about it, dear.”
Hargreaves was still ranting as he headed for the door. "I'm going to get a drink of water and calm down. But..." his smile returned. "I'll give you something to think about." That huge knife I'd been eyeing slammed down into the back of my calf, cutting right through the skin and muscle and digging into the bed. I let out a scream that rattled the windows and Hargreaves nodded approvingly. "That's right. You just think about it. I’m going to go have a sandwich.”
Sobbing, I held my leg motionless, trying to think of what to do. The pain was blinding, but the wet of my blood soaking into the bed was even more gruesome. “Wh- what do I do?” I whispered, “Okay, ahhhh-!” My foot twitched involuntarily and I bit back another scream, “Okay, okay, okay, uh … the handcuffs.” I’d researched getting out of handcuffs for one of my books and even tried it myself. It worked, but the physical therapist who had to put my hand back together was not impressed.
I looked up at my right hand. I was left-handed, so it made sense to injure my non-dominant hand.
“The CMC joint is the point where the wrist c- can’t slip through the cuff,” I thought I was whispering, I hoped so. “The first CMC controls the first m- metacarpal in the wrist- ah, god!”
I forced my hand against the bed’s headboard and pushed as hard as I could, watching the grotesque splay of my thumb over the top of my hand. “The f- first metacarpal will roll backward, taking the first MPC out of place…”
I was sweating, but it was freezing in here. Pulling my distorted hand slowly from the cuff, I gritted my teeth and smacked it against the headboard again, putting it back in place. I knew there was some significant ligament damage from how fast the hand was swelling, but my numb fingers curled around the knife’s handle, and weeping soundlessly, I forced myself to pull it out exactly as it had gone in.
