I’ve probably replayed that moment in my head at leasta hundred times. Which is pathetic. And dangerous. And exactly the kind of thinking that’s going to get me killed.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand with an incoming text from Echo.
What are you doing?
I glance at the clock. 9:43 PM.
About to go to bed. Why?
Liar. You haven’t even changed into your pajamas yet.
My stomach drops and I scan my room, expecting to find him standing in a corner somewhere with that infuriating smirk.
He does this all the time. Casually mentions things he shouldn’t know about. Like what I’m wearing. Or that I took a different route to work. Or that I skipped lunch.
I still don’t know how he does it. I’ve checked the apartment for cameras and my car for trackers dozens of times, and still nothing.
Lately I’ve been telling myself that he has some kind of stalker sixth sense, just so I can sleep better at night.
It’s absolutely fucked up. But here we are.
Stalker
Admirer.
I hate that it makes me smile.
I’m lyingin my bed, freshly showered, scrolling on my phone when an article comes across my newsfeed.
Top Ten Teenage Killers.
Against my better judgement, I click on it.
It doesn’t take me long to find the profile on Christian. He’s ranked number 8 on the list. The fact that they’re even ranking monsters like him is disgusting.
I try to skim through it, but my eyes keep catching on all the horrific details, and I can’t stop picturing my parents in my head.
How scary it must’ve been for them. How painful. How awful it must’ve been for my dad to have to watch my mom die, and to know he wouldn’t be able to protect me.
I keep reading through blurry eyes, andGod,I hate how they’re sensationalizing that night. How they’re focusing their lens on Christian’s violence and his twisted psyche, as if he’s something to be in awe of.
It was a fucking tragedy. The most tragic night of my life, but aside from their names, they’re barely acknowledging my parents at all. There’s no mention of how loved they were or how impactful their loss was. No mention of who they were as individuals or the loving friends and family they left behind. They’re only focusing on their death and how violent it was. As if their death serves as nothing more than a form of entertainment.
The sound of metal sliding against metal sounds from somewhere behind me. My head snaps up and I freeze.
The sliding glass door. Someone’s opening the slidingglass door. How is that even possible? We’re on the fourth floor.
I scramble to my feet just in time to see Echo stepping into my room.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Checking on you.” He says, stepping closer. His eyes sweep over me, cataloguing everything. His jaw tightens. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I say, shaking my head dismissively.
“You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not—” I snap, pressing my fingers to my face automatically. They come back wet.
