Page 3 of The Shadowed Oracle
“I wasn’t a bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.” Ingrid’s cheeks warmed. “But I’m about to be. It sounds like you’re hinting this stalking might be partly my fault?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is—well, I guess I kind of was saying that. But not intentionally! I was only thinking, where, specifically, does this guy’s obsession stand now?”
Ingrid scoffed. “So you want to know if he wants to fuck me, kill me, or both?”
This was where Franky would usually laugh, play it off, shoot back an equally sassy remark. Yet, he couldn’t even smile.
“Sorry kid,” he said. “This one, it feels different. If he’s got your phone number, that’s a line being crossed. That’s harassment. I think we have to call the police.”
Ingrid instinctively shook her head. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get their help. Especially before an actual attack happens.” Or at the very least a threat. During Kyle Twyker’s barstool tirade he’d only talked about hurtinghimself. Which wasn’t exactly newsworthy.
Franky had his hands on his head now, rocking back so hard in his chair that it let out a pitiful squeak. “Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Just you and me then?”
“For now,” Ingrid said. “Otherwise, word will spread. It’ll only cause me more headaches. I’m sure we can handle it ourselves.”
Franky’s chest puffed out a bit, his brows lowering. It wasn’t a show of confidence, but an odd habit he had whenever an idea occurred to him. “Oh, I’ll handle him,” he said. “And any of the other creepers, too. If they come in, I’ll take over at the bar while you hide back here.” He gestured to the tiny office. “Then you’ll immediately call that strange number. If it rings, thenboom, we got him.”
Ingrid smiled, surprised at how eager Franky was. “Boom?”
“Bam!” Franky jested, and Ingrid couldn’t hold in her amusement, feeling the smirk on her face stretch wider.
No matter how childish he could be, Franky had an uncanny ability to make Ingrid smile. Within the first week she’d worked for him, she found herself falling victim to snorting fits of laughter so uncontrollable she wondered if she’d ever truly laughed before she met him. Even then, so new to each other, having hardly any conversation extending outside of work, she’d understood that Franky was a rare breed. Selfless, unassuming, both intentionally and unintentionally hilarious. And with that humor, a softness followed. All the years she’d spent trying to avoid the stereotypical father complexes, and Franky had broken down her wall with little effort.
His plan was what she’d stick to.
“But if his phone rings, and itishim,” Ingrid said, crossing her arms. “Please don’t knock him out right away. I want a few shots first.”
“Careful.” Franky slapped a finger on the nametag placed at the front of his desk. “I’m still your boss. Not to mention thecameras just got fixed, remember?” He winked, lowering his voice. “We’ll go out back before any punches are thrown. You have my word.”
“Simple enough,” she said.
Now all she had to do was go to work like nothing had changed, standing behind that bar counter… like bait.
Chapter Three
After her shift was over,Franky tailed Ingrid home in the convertible he’d bought ten years ago during a self-described “mid-life thriving.” He gave Ingrid an assuring glance through his open window, letting her know there hadn’t been anyone behind him, and she blew a two-handed kiss to him before turning.
She trudged through her apartment door, throwing herself carelessly into the corner of her couch. Her blinds were closed, the lights were dim, the TV was off, there was no loud music for distraction, and she even ignored her new book rental,Tragedy of Saints and Sinners: The Thirty Years’ War,Vol. I,which she’d been so excited to get into. It sat on the armrest of her couch next to her, untouched and uncracked.
Bookshelves and her own collection would’ve been too much of a commitment for Ingrid, but that exact spot was always occupied by a book, sometimes stacked three high with thick history texts from the library. She would spend most of her sleepless nights right there on her couch, parked under her curved reading lamp. It had been one of her many late-night routines over the years, diving into stories long past, stirring herfantasy of living in another time, and enveloping her so deeply that even the waking nightmares were somewhat slowed.
Yet, in that prolonged suspense, waiting for a stranger to send her another veiled threat, she was nearly paralyzed. Every sound from the street outside and every movement from her nearby neighbors felt aimed directly at her. She could only sit, barely moving for hours, almost willing the screen of her phone to light up with another message.
But nothing came until the next morning.
As she was leaving for work, she opened her door to a new kind of torment, one that sent a tingle from her hands to the base of her skull. She could almost feel its presence before her eyes drifted down to the welcome mat.
It was a gift. From him. It had to be. No one other than Franky knew where she lived—information like that was withheld from her co-workers and acquaintances for this very reason.
Approaching the package like it was an armed explosive, Ingrid knelt at her front door and examined it. There was no postage on it. No note. It was just a plain gift bag placed in the very center of her doormat. Small, and all black. Black handles, black folded paper poking out from the open black bag.
Black, just like the work uniform she donned every night. Black, like her hair that attracted so much attention. Black… her favorite color.
Her first instinct was to leave. To step over it and walk down to the lobby of her complex, call Franky or, begrudgingly, the police. The simple fact that her stalker had figured out a way inside her gated building was enough for them to look into it. There were no cameras in the building, but maybe there were fingerprints? DNA? It would be foolish not to at least report it.
But for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she wanted to look inside first. Wanted to see exactly what kind of person this new admirer was, and just how twisted their fixation might’ve been.
She quickly ran back through her apartment door and fetched a plastic bag to use as a glove. Then, pinching at the black paper like it carried a disease, she pulled it from the bag and peered inside at the contents.
