Page 1 of To Obsess

Chapter 1

KILLIAN

“I’m sure this is it,” I say from the backseat, watching as the houses creep by. My finger is sweaty and slides on the button as I roll down the window, squinting as raindrops pepper my face. “Get a little closer, Dad.” The mailbox is almost in reach when the car comes to a stop. Freeing the belt buckle, I lean out the window and tug on the latch. It pops open easily enough.

Nerves roiling in my gut as I swipe my hand across my jeans to dry my fingers and glance at my dad, noting the apprehension tightening his forced smile. I lift the letter, give it one last look, then slip it into the box and close the lid. Water drips down the inside of my door but I give him a cheesy thumbs-up and buckle my seatbelt, then roll the window back up as he pulls away from the curb.

A horn blows behind me, jolting me out of the memory. I throw up a hand in apology before driving through the intersection. The rest of the drive to work is nothing out of the ordinary. The monotony of my life isn’t lost on me, even though today is special.

March 20th.

Tomorrow is her birthday.

I stay in this little town, doing this job I’m not particularly fond of, living in an apartment I don’t care for, and avoiding any kind of meaningful relationship, all because of her. It’s always been because of her.

As I turn the key in the deadbolt and twist the handle, I push a sigh through my nose, willing the stress of the day to melt away. I toe my shoes off and close the door, twisting the deadbolt without thought. You can never be too careful.

The fading evening light filters through the windows along the far wall, casting an eerie glow across the living room. This has always been my favorite time of day. Everybody is turning in for the night, closing their doors and leaving the outside world to its own devices until the sun comes up again and they feel safe enough to venture back out.

They’re right, of course. Obviously bad things can happen in the day, but the vast majority of crimes are committed under the cover of night. The darkness gives the illusion of anonymity to offenders, often making them more brazen than they would ever be when the sun is shining.

After checking my window locks and glancing back at the front door to make sure I actually did lock that deadbolt, I head for the master bathroom. There’s nothing quite as relaxing as a hot shower after a ridiculously long day of pushing pencils at a lackluster desk job.

I was hired at Smith and Sons about four years ago. It’s a small-town law office, dealing mostly with divorce, custody issues, and end-of-life arrangements. It’s rare that something exciting happens, but that’s the way I like it. Who doesn’t love a stable routine?

As the shampoo suds swirl around the drain, I squeeze the sea salt and cedar scented body wash onto my silicone body scrubber. My mind begins to relax as I slip into the habits I’ve instilled over the last several years. In the ten minutes it takes to finish my shower, my anxiety has eased and my stress has dissolved.

I dry off before wrapping the towel around my hips, tucking in the end to secure it. When I pull the door open, I’m met with a wall of damn near arctic air from the bedroom. As the steam billows out, goosebumps spread across my body, urging me on to find a pair of pajama pants and a loose T-shirt.

In the kitchen, I open the cabinet beside the fridge. My favorite glass is front and center. I pour myself a bit of whiskey, reveling in the burn as I swallow.

A groan escapes me as I collapse into the armchair and pull my latest read from the coffee table. I’ve been on a weird romance kick lately, nearly abandoning the typical horror novels I reach for. I noticed a handful of years ago that this seems to happen in early March, like clockwork right before her birthday.

I read through a couple of chapters before placing my bookmark between the pages and gently placing it back on the coffee table for tomorrow. As much as I’d love to lose myself in the pages, I can’t afford to waste time tonight.

In my office, I pull out a plain piece of printer paper. It captures my full attention, dragging me back into a time when things were simpler – back when things made sense in the world.

“Are you sure that was the right box, buddy?” he asks as he steers the car back onto the main road.

I nod, completely positive I got it right. “I’m sure, Dad. That’s her house.” I had come home from school frantic, giving him as many details as I could before running upstairs to grab a sheet of paper from his printer.

After thirty minutes of meticulous work, I raced downstairs, shoving my feet into my shoes by the door. “Dad! We have to go!” I yelled, racing for the garage. I heard him chuckle behind me as I slammed the car door, buckled in, and tapped my fingers against my thigh to abate the nerves that had been building for the last four hours.

“It’s her birthday, and she has to have this card today!” I explained again as he slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key over with ease. As the garage door opened, I felt like my heart might explode in my chest.

I remember that day like it was last week. I remember the blue and yellow shoes that lit up when I stomped, the red and black shirt, and the black shorts I wore that day. The shoes were new, and I was so excited to show her when we made it to homeroom. She loved them.

With a sigh and a hint of a smile, I set my mind to the task at hand. I pull out a ruler, a box of crayons, and a black pen, exactly like every other year. The cards are always the same.

For the last nineteen years, I’ve made her a handmade card for her birthday. They’re never signed, but I think that adds to the fun for both of us now. It seemed to bother her at first, but I never wanted her to know it was me. After the first five or so, she didn’t seem to mind the secret I held.

The outside has a simple rectangle drawn with the black pen, then colored in with a light brown crayon. In all capital letters, it reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. The inside is rather plain as well. Blame my lack of creativity as a nine-year-old for that part. It simply says I hope you have the best birthday. You deserve it. That message changes slightly each year, but it’s never anything extravagant or over the top. I just want her to know I’m still thinking about her.

Hell, I’m always thinking about her.

Once I’m finished and satisfied, I put the supplies back in their places and close the drawers.

I leave it on the entry table under my keys. On the off chance something goes awry and I’m running late in the morning, I want to be sure to remember. With one last check of the deadbolt, I flip off the lights and make my way back to the bedroom. The black silk sheets welcome me as I let my mind slip back into the past, replaying each year in vivid detail.