23
BASIA
I’m sitting on my bed, my phone clutched in my hand. I’ve been trying to call my dad, my mom, and I even tried our housekeeper. No one is answering.
According to Matty, it’s been over an hour since Caleb left to get Mom back, and she doesn’t know where or how he plans to do that. All I can do is wait, a ball of nerves, now sober like a judge.
I wish I hadn’t woken up. If I had just slept through the night, I’d wake up to my mom being safe and Caleb telling me my stalker’s been arrested. I believe in him so much, there’s no alternative. But still, I can’t help worrying.
Suddenly, I hear a tapping sound coming from the living room. It’s not Poe, because he’s here with me, but maybe it’s still something harmless—a bird, a branch, the wind.
Still, I call out: “Matty? Is everything okay?”
My heart’s pounding so hard I swear it’s shaking the mattress.
There’s no reply. And I don’t have a choice.
I creep out of my bedroom, barefoot and trembling. That’swhen I hear the thud. A heavy one. Muffled. Followed by a sound that freezes my blood—a woman screaming.
“Matty?” I whisper, moving faster. The hallway stretches too long, my body buzzing with adrenaline.
I round the corner into the living room just as something crashes into the wall.
Matty Wheeler is on the floor, and there’s blood everywhere. She’s crumpled near the entryway, one hand clutching her side, the other slick with red as she tries—and fails—to push herself up. Her eyes find mine, wide and terrified.
“Basia! Run?—”
A hand clamps around my arm, and I let out a horror-movie-worthy shriek.
The person holding me yanks me backward so hard my shoulder screams in protest. I twist, flailing, nails scraping uselessly against a jacket that smells like oil and cold air and an unwashed body.
“You’re louder than your mother,” he snarls in my ear.
My vision tunnels as I turn my head to look up at him. The stalker.
He’s thinner than I imagined. Hollowed out, eyes too bright, too focused, like he’s been living on rage and caffeine alone. His grip is iron, fingers digging into my bicep as he drags me toward the balcony.
“I hoped to take my time with you,” he continues, breath hot against my cheek. “But this’ll do.”
“Let go of me!” I scream, slamming my elbow back.
He grunts but doesn’t release me. Instead, he laughs—a broken, cracked sound that sends goosebumps racing down my arms.
“Do you know how hard it was,” he says, “waiting for him to leave?”
The balcony door is open, cold air rushing in. Is this how he got in?
“He’ll reach your mother just in time for the timer to run out.”
My blood freezes. Is he talking about a bomb?
“Your father shouldn’t have dismissed the investigations into the prophets,” he sneers, his fetid breath making me nauseous. “Now he’s going to learn suffering. And your bodyguard?”
He shoves me forward, and the railing slams into my ribs. Below us, the city yawns open—concrete and lights and distance. I scream again.
He presses in behind me, chest to my back, one arm wrapping around my throat.
“He got between us,” the stalker whispers. “But he’s going to lose now. Just like your father.”
