Page 56 of Taste of Addiction

My phone buzzes with an incoming text message, and I glance down at it, half expecting it to be from Graham. He has texted or called me every thirty minutes since I left Portland. On the screen, I see the unknown number notification. I click to read the message.

Unknown: Stop interfering. Little girls like you never know when to stop.

My phone slips out of my hand and lands on my thighs before crashing to the ground. I scoop it back up and reread the words again.Interfering? By being here now or by trying to uncover the campus drug ring? I rush to the driver’s side of the car, hop in, and lock the doors. I clutch my phone to my chest as the engine purrs. It is eerie out here all alone in the dark. My headlights beam on the cross I nailed to the pole.

After James died, I sought out any way to cope with the loss. I would use sleeping and journaling and cutting as self-help methods. At the time, I didn’t know what I was doing. But looking back, I was just managing the grief my heart felt. When Momma passed, I had James to lean on. When James passed, I had no one. Maybe in a way I resent my dad for not stepping up. Maybe I resent him for coping with his grief in other ways. And how is that even fair of me to do that? Seems pretty hypocritical. But that’s what sums me up these days. Iama hypocrite.

My phone vibrates, and I pull it away from my chest to look at yet another text message from the same sender.

Unknown: Your left taillight is burned out.

The words rattle through my body, sending a chill up my spine. How? I turn in my seat and look behind me in the darkness. No one is here. The sun is completely set, and I am basically on a barely used back road.

I have received text messages before that were threatening, but later discovered that they were from Graham to scare me into quitting the agency job. What happens if they were not all from Graham? What happens if I have had someone else following me and terrorizing me the whole time?

Whoever keeps sending me these messages has an axe to grind. The persistence alone is indication.

I wrestle with my seatbelt to get it untangled and clicked into place. I glance into the rearview mirror and then ease back onto the road. Two rays of light hit my mirror within seconds, warning me that I am being followed. My heart jumps into my throat, and I panic as the adrenaline surges through me.

I race down the road, every pothole making my car jump and jerk along the way. The headlights get brighter as the driver behind me closes the distance. It is like I am reliving my past—except I am the one driving. I barrel around a turn and my right tires go off the road, spattering shale up into the bottom of the car.

I glance to the passenger seat and there he is, plain as day. I blink and shake my head to exorcise the image from my reality. James. My vision blurs and when it returns, the only thing I see is the guardrail.

The car spins and spirals out of control until it hits the opposite side of the road’s shoulder, barely missing the telephone pole. I look behind at the dusty cloud that is visible in the back lights of the car. No one is on the road but me. I rest my head back against the seat and take a deep breath. I am starting to wonder if I made up the chase in my head. I obviously saw James riding shotgun, and I know he is gone. I must be hallucinating. And every time I piece the fragments of memories together, the only thing clear is that I’m losing my mind.

I look at the dashboard light that indicates low tire pressure. Shit. It is only a mile to get back into town and find a gas station that has an air pump. I steer the car, driving well below the limit. My phone buzzes on the passenger seat, and I flip it over to see who is calling. A sense of relief overcomes me as I see the caller ID.

I slide the bar and answer out of breath, “Hi.”

“I’m sick with worry. Are you okay?”

I’m not even sure how to answer the question. Am I okay? I pull into the gas station, get out of the car, and grab the pump hose for the tire. “No, not really.”

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

I remove the valve stem cap and attach the hose, allowing the machine to start. “I went back to Baker City to take care of a few things,” I say over the noise from the machine.

“Are you in any trouble?”

I imagine he has tabs on me. He always does. And given that my new phone came from him—coupled with his history of placing trackers on people—he probably knew all along I was here. Part of me wants to get mad. Part of me wants to demand my independence. However, the other part of me is thankful I have someone who loves me enough to want to protect me.

Maybe I do need some protection—even from myself.

“Talk to me, Angie. I’m worried about you.”

“Are you sending me scary texts again?”

“What? No. Of course not. Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I think I have a stalker.”

“What? Since when?”

“I don’t know,” I say, putting the valve stem cap back on the tire and placing the hose back on the holder. I get back into the safety of my car and lock the door. “Remember when you were sending me texts to try to get me to quit Entice?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think during that time, I was getting texts that were not from you. And I just figured they were part of the whole plan you had so I never bothered to tell you about them.”

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