Page 161 of Texting Dr. Stalker

“What theatre, Lily?!”

“Um…uh, we’d agreed to go to the new complex just out of town. We said the eight fifteen showing of—”

I hung up, shoved my phone into my jeans pocket, then jammed the helmet on my head.

Gunning the engine, I roared out of the garage so fast I could’ve run over nosy Patricia and not known. Leaning into the corners, I drove far too fast, leaving a wake of deafening noise.

I’d dealt with all kinds of pressure in my profession. I’d learned how to compartmentalise emotion versus action and sometimes did my best work if something unforeseen happened in surgery.

But this was different.

This washer.

And I felt completely fucking helpless.

I second-guessed everything.

I should’ve replied as X when she messaged me asking for help.

I should’ve told her who I was so she felt safe to confide in Zander.

I should’ve done so goddamn many things, and now she was breaking on her own, and I wasn’t there, and fuck, I felt so responsible.

Streetlamps blurred past.

The bike vibrated beneath me.

I focused on one thing and one thing only, and that was finding Sailor before it was too late.

* 39 *

Sailor

Car Parks Are Dangerous

I STUMBLED OUT OF THE CINEMA AND staggered against the wall.

The huge car park held an ocean of vehicles but no people. Everyone was still inside, transfixed by loud, flashy movies, leaving me all alone in the dark.

I barely remembered how I’d managed to make my way down the row or trip my way through the foyer. A few moviegoers had given me side-eyes. One girl had even reached for me, clearly concerned, but I’d broken into a run and exploded through the double doors to freedom.

My car was out there somewhere.

Clouds covered the stars, threatening rain.

I felt very, very alone.

My phone had rung three times with Lily’s number, but I’d ignored them. I couldn’t pretend I was okay. I didn’t want her feeling bad that this was too much for me, too soon. I couldn’t have her feeling responsible for ditching when I completely understood work had to come first. For any ordinary person, that would’ve been fine.

But I’m not normal.

I’m—

“Hey, pretty lady! You waiting for someone?”

I froze into a chunk of ice as I looked through my tears and focused on a fairly tall man with a mop of dirty-blond hair. His saggy jeans and graffiti-designed t-shirt hinted he was in his late teens, but the sketchy look in his eyes and slight twitch to his fingers suggested he had habits of the adult variety.

Panic added another very unhelpful dose of jitters and breathlessness. Fighting the urge to bend over and clutch my knees, I didn’t reply. My shoulder bumped along the wall as I half leaned on it for support and half ran toward the car park.

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