Page 18 of To Obsess

Yes, I was the last person seen with Gunnar before his gruesome murder. Yes, we had been on a date, even though it turns out that he was married. His wife was cleared, though, so a disgruntled spouse most likely won’t be coming to slaughter me in my bed anytime soon. I had no deep connection with him, meaning I shouldn’t be a target for whatever psycho did that to him. I hope.

Just in case, I purchased a new security system to be installed this morning. Right on time, I hear the gravel crunching as a black van comes to a stop in the driveway.

“Good morning,” I say from the porch, trying my best to force some cheeriness into my tone. I’ve never been a morning person, but I needed to get this done before I have to be at the bookstore this afternoon, so morning it is.

“Morning, ma’am,” an older man with a gruff voice grumbles. Maybe I’m not the only one who isn’t a fan of mornings after all. Without another word to me, he flings open the back doors of the van, along with the sliding door on the side, revealing a cacophony of tools and equipment.

With a toolbelt slung around his wide hips and a box depicting several different cameras held in his hands, he makes his way up the steps to join me on the porch.

“What areas are you most concerned about keeping an eye on?” he asks, though I already answered this question when I placed the order. I do my best not to huff my frustration at having to repeat myself.

“I want to be able to see the gate at the end of the driveway, as well as the front and rear entrance to the house. I’m not as worried about the interior, but I don’t guess it would hurt to have a few placed around in the living room and hallways, just to be extra safe,” I explain, stepping to the side to give him access to the house.

He steps inside, pausing for a split second to look around the entryway before making his way to the kitchen to place the box on the table. “I should be finished in a few hours.” No more words than necessary. I simply nod in acknowledgment, picking my book up from the table where I left it last night.

“I’ll be reading out in the backyard if you need me. Help yourself to drinks or whatever you need while you’re here,” I offer, making my way to the back door. Once outside, I settle into the lounge chair under my favorite shade tree and toss my blanket over my legs. In no time at all, I’m lost in a fictional world, forgetting about everything going on in my real life for a while.

When I finally look up from my book to check the time, I realize I’m about to be late for work. “Fucking hell,” I mumble to myself, pushing up out of the chair after bookmarking my page. I half-walk, half-jog back to the house and up the back steps. In the kitchen, everything is silent. Like deathly silent.

There’s a receipt laying on the table with a ‘paid in full’ stamp across the top of the paper. Scrunching my eyebrows, I place the paper on the fridge beneath a magnet, making a mental note to call about that tomorrow. They clearly made a mistake. I paid the deposit last week when I made the appointment, but I’d spoken with the receptionist about making payments over time instead of wiping out my meager savings to take care of it all at once.

I slip out of my pajamas and into a pair of black yoga pants, then run upstairs to find my favorite claw clip and slip on a pair of tennis shoes. In under ten minutes, I’m fully dressed and out the door, sliding behind the wheel of my car. I’ll have to figure out exactly how to use the security camera tonight when I get home from work, but thankfully, I spied the owner’s manual on the kitchen table beside the receipt.

I pull into the alley with two minutes to spare, shutting off the car, locking the doors, and stepping into the back room with fluid movements. Not that the Yates would care at all if I was late, but it’s one of my biggest pet peeves. Being late throws the entire day off for me, making me feel like everything is rushed and behind schedule.

Work goes by quickly enough as I help customers find what they’re looking for, reorganize misplaced books, and sort through the new inventory in the back. Running my hands across so many titles every day causes an uncomfortable feeling to stir in my chest. For years, I dreamed of being an author, seeing my books on the shelves of bookstores just like this one. I yearned to have strangers read my work and have their lives altered.

I gave up the dream years ago, choosing steady work and stability over the passionate projects I used to work on until the early morning hours. Now, I spend my free time reading other peoples’ works instead. A feeling akin to despair attempts to burrow into my chest, but I push the thoughts away, focusing on the box of new arrivals instead.

It doesn’t take long to forget about my dreams, bogged down by the monotony of real life, but my mind wanders back to the project I’ve worked on with Abby for the last year.

Neither of us have had the time to fully commit to making the podcast work, but the idea creeps back up when I least expect it, breathing life back into the nearly forgotten adventure. We agreed that we wanted to make a murder mystery podcast, maybe with a hint of spooky or unresolved, but it never went any farther than ordering the equipment.

It now sits in the floor of the guest room, collecting dust.

The click of the lock on the front door brings me back to the present moment. When I glance that way, I see Betty staring at me with more than a touch of concern lining her face. “Are you okay, dear?” she says in that grandmotherly way of hers. “You’ve been awfully distracted lately.”

I nod, setting down the book I was cataloging into the system. “I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile. “Just lost in thought is all.”

She gives me that sweet smile of hers that seems to say I don’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth, but whatever you say. With that, she walks toward the office, out of my line of sight. When I can no longer see her, I slip out the back door, making sure to lock it behind me.

With a glass of wine and my book, I spend the rest of the evening soaking in the tub upstairs. The toasted vanilla candle on the counter has the bathroom smelling nothing short of divine as the steam curls toward the ceiling. This was exactly what I needed after the last few weeks.

When the water eventually grows cold, I pull the plug, listening as it empties from the tub. I wrap one towel around my body and another around my hair before moisturizing from head to toe. I recently got into the routine thanks to Abby. She suggested it months ago after a hard day at work, and it’s become my go-to relaxation regime.

In no time at all, I’ve slipped between the sheets and the comforter, relishing the warmth as it seeps into my body and sleep pulls me under.

Chapter 18

Violet

“No, ma’am,” I state into the phone for what must be the fifteenth time in the last twenty minutes. “I can absolutely assure you, I only paid for the deposit last week. The woman I spoke with set me up on a payment plan to take care of the rest of the bill over the next six months.”

I scrub my left hand down my forehead, praying to whatever gods are out there that my eyes don’t literally pop out of their sockets from frustration as I listen to her repeat the same information for the fifth time now. “I’m just telling you there’s no way that’s right,” I say yet again. “Okay, fine. Yes, ma’am. Can you just reach out to me if you find an error, please?” I finally concede, giving up on getting this figured out today. When she assures me they will, I hang up and toss my phone down on the kitchen counter.

“What was that all about?” Abby says, shutting the front door behind her. I texted her last night after my shift, asking her to come over so we could talk about the podcast idea again.

“Remember how I told you I paid the deposit on the cameras? Yeah, well.” I hold up the receipt between us. When her eyes widen a fraction, I turn to place it back on the fridge behind the I heart Mexico magnet we got during our girls’ trip the summer after senior year.