Page 9 of The Eleventh Hour

He’s not wrong. I’ll fucking help him if it comes to that. I think of the girl with silver eyes, and I can’t see her murdering Terry. But all signs lead to her. Everything leads back to Jackie Blackwell. Evidence doesn’t lie.

One way or another, we are getting answers.

I pull into the hotel car park. “Let's get some beer and pizza and brainstorm a plan. Make sure everything is perfect.”

Rafael climbs out of the car and stomps towards our room. I watch for a moment. Maybe it was wrong to pursue this, but Rafael was breaking. It seemed like the right idea at the time, but some days, I wish I’d never suggested it.

I throw my head back on the headrest and let the pain rise up. Terry held the family together. I’m a poor substitute. If we don’t find answers soon, Rafael is going to shatter, and I’ll never put him back together. He doesn’t even resemble the sweet guy I grew up with. That always laughing book nerd has turned into a cold, calculating man almost as ruthless as I. How long can he survive this shit?

Me…I’ll survive…that’s what I do. But the beating heart inside me is dying. Soon, I’ll just be another walking corpse.

Jax

Istand against the door, listening to his footsteps fade away. Of course, the gorgeous man of all my fantasies breezes into my life with a shovel to unbury the skeletons of my past. The box apartment I live in has three doors, one to a bedroom, one to a bathroom and toilet, and the last is the front door. Everything else is within the cream-coloured walls that carry a sickening smell of mold. The horrible beige carpets are stained from the multiple tenants. It’s a shit hole, but for as long as I pay rent, it’s mine.

Of fucking course, this is happening today. Because Karma is out to see me ruined. I bang my head against the door. Did I have enough money to run yet? Yeah, I could do it, it’d be hard, but…I don’t want to leave, not yet.

I start forward and slip. I catch myself on the wall and hold there for a moment while my heart tries to recover from the jump start I just gave it. White catches my attention, and I bend and scoop up the envelope that should not be here.

I rip it open and put the letter on the counter, pacing quickly in the kitchen and pulling my hair before I stop in front of it and read the words.

“Princess, you looked beautiful today. The way the sunlight fell on your tears was the most exquisite art.” I pick up the paper and scrunch it and roar at it. “YOU ASSHOLE!”

The fact that none of my neighbours worry or complain about the curse words or sudden scream this late at night is just because we’re all so used to it.

I slump against the counter, smooth it out, open a drawer without looking, and dump it inside with all the other notes he’s left for me. I flop down on the counter and groan. The cold feels so nice. Maybe if I just lean here long enough, it will all just go away.

I peel myself off the counter and stomp into my bedroom. My window is still closed, but I check the string and make sure no one has been in here. Unbroken. I crawl under my single bed and it’s shitty mattress to pull my phone out of the hole I’ve cut in the wall.

I lay on my back and turn the phone on. All part of the same routine. Go about my life, get home to my empty apartment. Pretend the world didn’t beat me down a bit more and ignore my favourite stalker.

The phone comes on, and I see ten texts. I open them, sit up, and stare. My stomach feels like someone has dropped an icy rock inside, and my hand shakes enough that I need both hands to keep the phone steady.

Pictures of me. He was close. So close.

I shriek into my palm, careful not to let any other sound escape, and scroll through until I reach a text message.

Beautiful princess, beautiful. Sleep well tonight. Thinking of you always.

I close my eyes and try not to lose my shit completely. I lied to that guy, Dane. Of course, I lied. I have only lived here for six months. I have moved roughly every six months for the last five years. Ever since I got out of the psych ward, I shift address. My stalker first started contacting me while I was locked up, writing letters that didn’t seem that threatening, but maybe the medication helped in his favour. I don’t know how he got my phone number. Few people have it. Even Sparrow doesn’t know I have this phone hidden.

I’ve changed phones and numbers four times. The messages come within days of me changing. Every single time. So, I try not to use phones. Hell, I want nothing to do with them most of the time. Having a phone is just another way he has access to me.

I go to my closet, open it, and pry the back balsa wood panel off it and pull out the backpack. It’s got a wad of cash, clothes, my essentials. Everything I need to survive if I have to run. With a growl, I open the pocket and pull out a little book and flick through the pages. I stop at a page with the heading Stalker. 216 letters. They are all marked in groups of five. I add another line and turn the page and write ‘9 photo messages and 1 text’. Page by page, I look. 72 Dahlias. 1 Bleeding Heart blossom. 157 Emails. 900 missed calls. 10 teddies. 5 Valentine’s gifts. 5 Birthday presents. 5 Christmas hampers. A piece of jewelry every year on the day Louis proposed to me. Those jewelry pieces hurt me the most.

How does he fucking know this information? It’s not Louis, I’m sure of it. But it’s someone close. But who? This stalker is sick! And he knows too much about me and my life before. I can’t figure it out, and I feel like I’m going crazy.

I record in detail the times and dates of each message and when I found the envelope, including the message. With a frustrated grunt, I pack the bag up and put it back in its hiding spot.

He is smart, this stalker of mine. Every attempt to slip past him has failed. He’s obsessed with me, dangerously so. The stalker speaks to me like I’m an intimate partner, a lover. He knows my phone number, my address, my job. He knows how I think and act. All my weaknesses and strengths, he knows my fears. I’m not sure what else he knows, but there are some things he simply must not find out.

I just wish I knew who he was. It keeps me up at night, wondering who this faceless entity is that follows me around so devotedly. Is it the man who sells watches on the street corner? The woman who works at the timber yard. The cab driver. My neighbour. I don’t know.

Whenever I get a note, letter, or phone call, it leaves me with this sick sense of being violated.

I just want someone to help me. Believe me. I know that won’t happen, though, so I haven’t told anyone about him. Ha! If I just tried to ask for police help, I can only imagine the laughs I would get. I rub my arm over my nose and get up.

I stomp to my cupboard, pull out a bottle of water and a box of cereal, and go sit on the couch and eat. It gets steadily darker, and I ignore everything as I shovel the sugary morsels into my mouth.

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