Page 67 of Israel

The whole place was trashed. All her clothes had been pulled out of the suitcases and strewn across the room, some of them shredded. Her makeup was spilled and scattered, and all the bedclothes had been pulled off the bed. Furniture had been overturned and a glass-topped table shattered.

Israel was kneeling in the middle of the floor, a piece of lilac paper in his hand. A bouquet of lilacs had been crushed underfoot, ground into the carpet.

And on top of them was her childhood guitar, the neck broken, as if someone had taken it between their hands and snapped it.

Written on the side of it, in some kind of paint, was the word “Whore.”

Ashley heard herself make a small keening noise in her throat. Her precious guitar, the one Gregorio had made for her. The one he’d taught her to play on.

The last legacy she had from him, and the stalker had ruined it.

She sank to her knees next to Israel, pulling the guitar onto her lap. She ran her fingers over the ruined neck, disbelieving.

Something broke inside her. It was too much. First Larik, and now this. Whatever she had, there was a man who wanted to destroy it.

“Why would he do this?” she asked. “I don’t understand. I thought—I thought he thought he loved me.”

Israel’s face was stricken. “I’m so sorry, Ash,” he said. “This is my fault.”

She shook her head. “You’re supposed to protect me,” she said. “And that’s what you did. You went after me, to make sure I stayed safe. You had no idea he would come in here and do this.”

Israel shook his head. “It’s still my fault.”

She stared at him, a cold feeling starting in the pit of her stomach. She dropped her eyes to the note in his hand. “What did he say?”

Israel shook his head. “You don’t want to read this filth—”

“I’m not a child,” she snapped. “Protecting me is one thing. Treating me like I’m five years old and can’t handle real life is something else.”

Israel flinched.

She put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I need to see it. Please.”

He held her gaze for a moment, and then a red flush suffused his face. He silently handed the paper over.

It was written in black ink, not purple like the others. And the stalker had been pressing so hard his pen had ripped through the paper in three places.

I SAW IT ALL. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LET THAT ANIMAL DO YOU ON THE HOOD OF A CAR LIKE A TEENAGE WHORE. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE MINE, AND NOW YOU RUINED EVERYTHING.

YOU’LL BE SORRY.