Page 24 of Eyes in the Shadows

I hesitate. Do I chance it? I desperately want to tell someone and surely Melissa, who’s miles away in Pittsburgh, is safe from any potential repercussions. It’s not like she’d be able to do anything on her end, anyway. “Well, there is one thing—”

“No, no! Paul, gah! Bad dog! Ellie, I need to call you back. My asshole dog just took a dump in the middle of the floor.”

I snort, like I always do at the mention of Paul the Asshole, as he’s fondly known. She puts the phone down, but forgets to hang up so I hear her voice trail off as she begins to admonish him and her kids start to chant in sing-song voices, “asshole, asshole.” With one last chuckle, I hang up for both of us.

And fall right back into my spiral.

If the package was from him, that must mean the flowers are, too. I look over at them, biting my lip against a smile. He sent me flowers? Why would he do that? Then I remember the note and wipe away the expression completely.

I’m sorry,it says. He’s sorry?! For what, being a total creep?

Suddenly, I’m sick of this. Sick of questions with no answers. Sick of this note crap only going one way.

I place the frame carefully on the edge of the windowsill, facing my picture inward. The only blank paper I have is an almost used-up yellow legal pad that I don’t remember buying, but it’ll do. I write big, in sharpie, pressing the tip a little too hard to the paper in my anger. Then I tape my note to the window above the picture so the arrow I drew is pointing right at it.

Really fucking creepy.

9

Eleanor

What kind of twisted game is he playing?

Satisfied with a job well done, I head towards the shower. Before I get too far, my phone starts buzzing again and I grab it from the pocket of my robe, figuring it’s Melissa calling to finish our discussion. Which is honestly a bit out of character for her—she usually forgets to call me back.

But the name on the screen baffles me. Grandpa? My last grandfather died nine years ago, and he never even got a cell phone.

“Uh… hello?”

“Really fucking creepy, am I?” There’s amusement in the deep timbre of his voice, and it sends an immediate shiver down my spine as my stomach clenches. But not in fear. My stupid adrenaline response seems to be broken.

Mac. He’s calling me? He put his number in my phone? How did he… when did he…

I inhale and it breaks in my throat, making me sound afraid. I try for some false bravado to save face. “You realize I have your phone number now and I could easily take that to the police?”

“How do you know I’m not with the police?”

I hesitate for a second. There’s no way… “Are you?”

“No,” he says with a totally unbothered laugh. The noise sluices across my skin like hot water, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “And even if I believed you were going to, it wouldn’t matter. It’s a burner.”

I hesitate. The dozens of questions that were swirling around in my head that only he could answer are suddenly, inconveniently gone. I look up at the window, like I’m looking at him. Then, realizing that I probably actually am looking athim, I retreat to the bathroom. It feels like leveling the playing field—now we both can’t see each other.

I nearly groan. That’s really not a normal reaction. None of this is normal.

“This is… This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I grumble.

“What, getting a call from your favorite grandpa?”

I wince, wishing I didn’t want to laugh at that.

The way his voice wraps around me, the rasp of it, the very subtle twang—way more subtle now than it was initially—the confidence in his tone. I wish there was a way to bottle up how the sound of him makes me feel.

The full-body flush, not the self-doubt.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the bathroom door. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

“I want you…” the pause is pregnant. I almost gasp, thinking that’s all he’s going to say, when he finishes, “to tell me what you want.”

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