“A knife?” My question comes out deceptively soft for all the emotions I’m feeling. “What kind of knife?”
“One from the kitchen. If you tell me you got up last night and used it, I will be so fucking happy, Harlyn, but?—”
“I didn’t,” I interrupt.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He rubs his hands down his legs again.
“When I was in the bathroom, I was wondering how long he was there. Why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance?” My voice is flat, even more devoid of emotion than it was seconds ago.
“Fuck, Harlyn, don’t say that,” Boone admonishes.
“Why not? I need to know, right? Like, did he just miss his chance, or was the plan to mess with me all along? Make me and everyone else think I’m crazy until he decides it’s enough?”
“I don’t think he missed his chance,” Boone admits tightly. “If he was in the house…”
I finish the sentence before he can. “He could have killed me.” A disquieting sense of relief that I’m alive washes over me,but the feeling is short-lived, because I know I might not be so lucky next time.
“How do you think he found me?” I voice the thought aloud before it’s even fully formed.
Boone’s warm hand covers mine before he answers, “If he’s been stalking you, which is clearly the case, then it wouldn’t have been hard.”
“I haven’t posted anything on social media, and I have my location turned off in all my apps that could have given me away,” I argue.
“What about flight information, your search history, and email?” Boone turns to face me, and I’m compelled to do the same.
I shrug lamely in response, because it’s obvious I haven’t been as careful as I should have been.
“He could also have other means.” Boone’s lips are turned down, as if this is the last thing he wants to tell me. “He could be tracking you, listening to you, and even recording since we know he’s had access to your house.”
That sick feeling in my gut returns, and I grab my stomach before slipping my hand out from under his to cover my mouth. I think I’m really going to throw up this time.
“Breathe, Harlyn,” he instructs while placing his hand under my hair on the back of my neck. His grip is firm enough to let me know he’s there, yet gentle enough that I don’t feel trapped.
“Do you…”
I can’t bring myself to finish.
“Do I think he’s tracking you? Yes. That’s why I didn’t want to talk in the house. If he wasn’t listening before, he could be now.”
“Then why move the file and leave the knife? If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have even known he was there.”
“I think he wanted you to know he was there, even if it was just to scare you.”
“And to make me think I was nuts. This is the same kind of shit he would do to Hayzel—empty a new bottle of shampoo, move her clothes around… leave the stove on!” I toss my hands in the air, only now realizing this isn’t the first time he’s been in the condo. I didn’t leave the burner on. At least I don’t think I did. Now, I really do feel crazy, because he’s making me question everything.
“I need to call Livy.” I tug my phone out of my pocket with shaking hands, and I tap on her contact info. Boone doesn’t question my insistence, not even when it becomes evident that she isn’t going to answer her phone. Normally I would hang up without leaving a message, since she rarely checks them anyway, but I feel compelled to now.
“Olivia, I know you’re pissed, but I need to talk to you. This is really important. Answer your phone, or at least text me back so I know you’re reading my messages.”
My hand, still clinging to the phone, falls into my lap. I didn’t want to do this through a message, but I have to tell her she isn’t safe at the house. It takes me several attempts to type out the message, and when I finally hit send, I’m still not happy with it, but I hope it conveys how serious I am.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, hoping the telltale bubble will appear to indicate she’s reading and going to respond, but nothing happens.
“When was the last time you heard from her?” Boone kneads his fingers along my neck.
“Three days ago—no, four,” I amend.
“Is she usually this stubborn?”
