On the other hand, from everything I’ve gathered about Flynn, he’s the type to sleep and bail. I’m betting he’ll just pretend it never happened. And if hedidsee the blood… I’ll pretend something else happened. My period came early. Whatever.
My phone rings, slicing through the silence. I jump like it’s a bomb about to go off.
Stalker or Flynn?
I glance at the screen. Relief loosens my chest.
“Hey, Vi,” I answer quickly.
“Hey! How was the charity thing yesterday?” she asks, her voice casual.
I listen closely for any shift, any tell, anything in her tone that suggests she knows about Flynn. Knowswhat I did.
“It was good. The pictures came out great, and the food was amazing,” I say. My voice wavers just a little, but I don’t think she notices.
“That’s great! Are you coming over so we can go over the pics from the club? I want to have them ready for next week.”
She sounds normal. Friendly. Kind. No edge.
“Of course. I can be there after lunch.”
She confirms and hangs up.
I don’t think Flynn will be there. It’s Saturday. He usually doesn’t show up on weekends.
A knock at the door makes me jump again, sharp and sudden.
Jesus Christ. I need to calm down, or I’m going to give myself a heart attack.
I move toward the door and open it.
“Miss Autumn Glass?” the delivery man asks, eyes fixed on the package in his hands.
“Yes,” I answer, taking the small box and shutting the door behind me.
No return address. No sender.
Just a plain box.
My stomach tightens.
I open it slowly, and inside is a single Polaroid.
A photo of me, standing beside my car last night.
My hair is a mess, and my dress is rumpled at the bottom, where Flynn pushed it up in the hallway.
He was there, my stalker, and he saw it.
I turn the photo over, and scrawled on the back in shaky black ink is a single line:
“You fucked him.”
Beneath it, a red smear—I squint closer—is that… blood?
My fingers go cold and a jolt of nausea twists in my gut, and I drop the photo. My stomach lurches.
Sick bastard.
