CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Patrick
It had beena great few days—action-packed and exhausting, but Patrick wouldn’t change them for the world. After Friday night at the bar, he and Simon had spent the weekend together. They’d taken another hike into the mountains, this time without event. They’d eaten in with the guys and Lisa on Saturday night, then grabbed a movie on Sunday. This morning Simon had accompanied him on a run before Patrick had headed off to start his working week at the school.
Patrick smiled as he took the stairs two at a time, thanks to a sudden burst of energy at the thought of Simon coming home to him. Simon wouldn’t finish his shift till later, but Patrick had plans to make the most of his time alone and make Simon’s homecoming special.
He pushed open the door of their bedroom and froze.
Fuck!
Great streaks of burnt red oozed down the walls, the lines contrasting against the beige walls of the bedroom. The stark rivulets and splatters looked like blood and the sight stopped Patrick in his tracks.Holy shit!It’s not blood, is it?He stood in the doorway to his room, his pulse thundering in his ears as nausea swelled. He swallowed heavily and took a step forward.
The first thing that hit him was the stink of chemicals. Instead of the coppery smell he’d been dreading, a toxic odor assaulted his nose.So it’s paint after all.He breathed a sigh of relief, although any relief was short-lived; someone had been inside his and Simon’s bedroom and vandalized the walls with crude messages.
Patrick looked around the room. At first glance it appeared everything was in its place. Apart from the grotesque writing on the walls, the room was untouched. His steps faltered as he moved closer to the bed and his skin crawled when he saw the indents in the bedspread. The person—stalker—had been on the bed, probably standing on it to reach the wall directly behind the headboard. Those depressions on his and Simon’s bed hurt more than the words that had been scrawled repeatedly on the previously plain beige wall.
The writing was in jagged capital letters, each letter a different size and slightly crooked, the drips stretching each letter toward the floor, but it was still legible. Whoever had done it had most likely been in a hurry.
GET OUT
Get out of where? Go where?
It didn’t matter how messy and childlike the writing was, the words were still clear, even though the message wasn’t.
Fury surged through Patrick like fire in his veins and he grabbed the bedspread from the bed, balling the fabric and throwing it to the floor. The pillows followed suit, flung off the bed. He tore at the top sheet, tossing it aside before crawling onto the bed and clawing at the fitted sheet.Fucking thing!The elasticized corners held the sheet firmly in place and he struggled to remove it, but he didn’t stop until he’d yanked it free, tearing back a fingernail in the process. Lastly, he dragged off the protector to leave just the bare mattress. Tears started to flow as the blood thundered in his ears. Frustration and anger battled inside at the total sense of helplessness.
Goddamn! Goddammit to hell!
Patrick finally crawled off the bed that was now stripped of bedclothes and slid onto the floor, his back against the bare box spring. Now what?
His throat ached with the effort not to cry.
I won’t cry. I won’t give you the satisfaction.
He wiped at the moisture on his cheeks with the back of his hand and made an effort to get his breathing under control. In through the nose, out through the mouth; once, twice, three times. Finally, he felt he could take a proper breath, and the dark spots that had been looming around the edges of his vision faded.
Even though he didn’t feel so shaky, Patrick didn’t feel ready to stand, worried he’d be wobbly on his feet and still fighting the nausea. He gazed around his and Simon’s bedroom from his perch on the floor. The walls seemed to mock him with the crude writing and unclear message.Get out.The words echoed in his head.Get out.Patrick reached to the pile of bedding next to him, dragging a pillow to his chest and holding it tight. He bowed his head and buried his face into the fabric—anything to block out the sight of the horrid red paint.
Gradually he became aware of the scent of Simon. The pillow he’d picked up was from Simon’s side of the bed and it smelled of Simon’s shampoo, the familiar and comforting smell helping settle him further.
How did the intruder know this was Patrick’s room now? Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was focused on Simon.Oh, God.The sick, sinking feeling in Patrick’s gut returned.What if he’s targeting Simon now? But why?Patrick clutched the pillow tighter before staggering to his feet.A letter.Was there a letter? He hadn’t seen anything on the bed before he’d pulled it to pieces, but what if there was a note left somewhere else? On shaking legs, he crossed the room to the dresser. Nothing. Just the usual clutter—a small pile of bills Patrick had been meaning to deal with, a dish with some change in it, a bottle of cologne, a hairbrush, and Simon’s good watch. At least that confirmed that no valuables had been taken. Patrick picked up the watch and slipped it on, not sure why he was compelled to wear it, but it felt good to secure the clasp on the stainless-steel links.
“Patrick?”
He swung toward the doorway. “Fuck! Don’t do that again. What is it with people creeping up and scaring the shit out of me?”
Mike screwed up his face. “I’mscaring you? What the fuck happened to this place?” He stood on the threshold and scanned the room, drawing Patrick’s attention back to the walls.
“I’m not sure. A break-in, I guess.”
Bruce appeared over Mike’s shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”
Both men stepped into the room and looked around, the shock evident on their faces. Mike was the first to speak. “It’s the same guy, isn’t it?”
A shiver ran through Patrick and he shrugged. “I assume so. But there’s no letter.”
Mike stepped further into the room, his eyes wide. “I can’t believe someone would vandalize the place like this. Are you sure there's no letter?” He looked around and Patrick followed his gaze from the bed, to the dresser, to the chair in the corner, his gaze finally landing on the pile of bedclothes on the floor. "Shit. I can't believe he even tore apart the bed. What was he trying to do?"
