My stomach drops.
“The next day, the doctor turned up dead,” she continues. “And Mercer ended up in the Asylum.”
“Christ,” I whisper.
The car slows to a stop. I look out the window and realize we are already on my street.
“Please,” she says quietly. “Report only to me. If Rourke contacts you again, call me.”
I turn toward her. “What does this have to do with me?”
“We found a piece of paper on Mercer when we arrested him,” she says. “It was a handwritten note,‘I forgive you,’and your father’s address.”
My heart stutters, then slams harder, faster. It feels too big for my chest, like it might force its way up my throat.
“When we went through his belongings, we found pictures of you,” she continues. “Taken over a ten-year period.”
The words blur together.
“He was stalking you.”
The air thins. My lungs refuse to fill properly. Heat crawls up my neck, beads of sweat breaking along my hairline.
“I,” I gasp. “I can’t. Breathe.”
My hand scrabbles for the door handle, fingers being clumsy as they slide. The car feels smaller now. The windows are too close. Her lips move, but I can’t hear her. There is only a dull buzzing, layered beneath the pounding of my heartbeat.
I press my palm flat against my chest.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Count to ten.
The numbers slip through me, useless.
I am having a panic attack.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my focus anywhere but him.
Daisy shifts in my lap, whining softly, her body restless. She feels it before I do.
When I open my eyes, Detective Collins is leaning toward me, her hands on my face, slapping my cheeks lightly.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I stare at her. “I just found out a serial killer has been watching me for years,” I snap. “Would you be okay?”
She shakes her head.
“Fuck no,” I shout. “I am not okay.”
“At first, we thought you were his girlfriend,” she says carefully. “But then we realized you were just…”
She stops.
“What?” My voice cracks. “Say it.”
