Page 19 of Stalker's Toy

She gives me her address and I head toward her part of town.

We drive in silence for a while, and each breath makes it feel more real, makes her feel more mine.

The connection simmers, and I know she feels it too.

The street lights flicker, lighting the tight set of her lips, the way she glances out the window but always back to me.

When we pull up to Mia's flat, I watch the knowledge sink in.

I know exactly where she lives, and now I can watch her whenever I’d like.

"Thursday," I say, my voice leaving no room for doubt. "I'll pick you up."

She looks at me, and there's a flicker of understanding as she nods.

And so the little lamb is led to the slaughter.

CHAPTER THREE

Mia

The scream shreds my eardrums before I’m fully conscious.

My eyes snap open to a ceiling rippling with orange light, shadows clawing at peeling paint.

Smoke slithers down my throat—thick, greedy—transforming my gasp into a wheeze.

My charcoal-stained sheets tangle around my legs as I thrash upright, silver skull pendant swinging wild against my collarbone.

“Mia! God—Mia!”

Mom’s voice carves through drywall and memory alike.

I’m fifteen again, knees scraping hardwood as I tumble from bed.

Heat licks my ankles through slippers I don’t remember wearing.

The hallway yawns ahead, a tunnel choked with undulating black clouds.

A framed drawing of mine shatters nearby, glass teeth spitting across the floor.

“Here!” My shout emerges rasped, bisected by hacking.

Embers swirl like malevolent fireflies. “I’m?—”

Coughing doubles me over.

Something crunches under my palm—the charred remains of my sketchbook, pages curled like dead moths.

Through the roaring in my ears comes Dad’s baritone, warped as though underwater. “—house collapsing—window?—”

Flames erupt through the floorboards to my left.

I recoil, sleeve smoldering.

My slipper sinks through weakening wood up to the ankle.

Wrenching free, I stumble toward where Mom’s voice had been.

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