Page 4 of The Shadowed Oracle
A wave of relief came over her. For all she was looking at, was a book. It was spine down with the cream-colored pages staring back at her. The sight was almost calming, and she nearly reached for it with her bare hand.
Don’t be stupid, she thought.Don’t rush this.
Cautiously, she pulled the book up just far enough over the paper bag to see the title. She held it there a moment, blinking fast as if it would somehow alter what she beheld.
A small part of her, she realized, had been hoping this was a gift from Franky. Or a simple mistake, a sweet gesture delivered to the wrong door. But there could be no mistaking it now. The book was familiar. Everything from the cover art, the size, the font, even most of the title was exactly the same as the one currently sitting on the armrest of her couch. The only difference was the volume number. It was the second part of the book she’d checked out at the library just a few days prior.
A book that no one could’ve seen her with… unless they were there when she’d checked it out, or they had been inside her apartment.
Tragedy of Saints and Sinners: The Thirty Years’ War,Vol. II.
She knocked the bag over on its side and placed the book on top of it.
Somehow, she knew there would be more—there was always more.
Her breath caught as she opened the cover.
Inside, written in black ink, was another message.
“For the long, sleepless nights ahead. Stay safe, Ingrid.”
Hours felt like minutes.
In a flash, Ingrid found herself standing next to Franky outside The Boneyard, reporting that morning’s events to a uniformed police officer. She’d refused to go to the station and considering the new developments she felt even less comfortable than usual at home.
The officer, a young but attentive man with a blonde buzzcut and acne along his jawline, took down every bit of information with a nod. The carefully bagged gift couldn’t be accepted into evidence since there was no actual case being filed, he said, but if she wanted to take further action she could take out a restraining order.
“She doesn’t even know what the fucking guy looks like!” Franky argued.
Ingrid grabbed his arm gently, pulling him back. “I appreciate you coming out here, officer. Thank you,” she said, and with that, the dejected pair walked back inside the restaurant, already discussing what precautions they could take.
Ingrid kept her gun close by and Franky bought a doorbell camera and motion sensors for her apartment. The rest of the staff were asked to keep a close eye on who came in, and to report immediately on any suspicious behavior. Especially if they saw suspect number one: Kyle Twyker.
By the end of the day, word had spread fast (as Ingrid predicted). Instead of dating rumors and feuds between line cooks, the gossip now consisted only of Ingrid and her stalker.
One of the couples that frequented was getting divorced, the owner of the cigar shop next door was in the hospital after his third DUI, and a particularly gruesome murder was in the news that same day—the crime scene not ten minutes from where they ate their dinner—but regulars only stared and speculated in hushed tones, all focus on Ingrid and what she’d been through. What she wasstillgoing through.
The telephone effect warped things beyond her imagination, and after a few incident-free days, the finished, cartoonish invention was brought to her attention.
Had she really seen him peering into her window?
Did she really find a dead bird in a gift box at her front door?
Does she watch true crime shows? She might learn what to look for and how to avoid being murdered if she did.
“Idiots.” Franky said it loudly, but cupped his hand over his mouth and leaned over the bar-top so only Ingrid could hear him. It was a packed Friday night. Any conversation had to be held at a high volume, risking a lull in the chatter. “All of them. They’re all idiots. And believe me, I say that with love. But we work with complete idiots.”
He peered around the mess of bodies until his eyes found one of the waiters, Jaxon, a tall, handsome man with curly blonde hair bouncing off his forehead as he glided around from table to table.
“Especially that poor ignoramus,” Franky said. “I wonder how he’s made it this far sometimes. If you’re looking for the culprit of that dead bird rumor, it’s probably him.” Franky winced, a surge of protective instincts overcoming him. “Need me to say something to him?”
Ingrid paused mid-shake on the drink she was fixing, glancing inconspicuously over at Jaxon. He was at the server’s corner now, flirting with a waitress named Kitty. He was veryobviously flexing his forearms as he typed in an order. As he turned and faked a booming laugh, Ingrid caught the nametag on his uniform black t-shirt: “Jaxon Smith.”
He'd printed and laminated the tag himself, using equipment he bought off the internet.
Ingrid huffed a laugh from her nose. “No, no. It might not be him. And even if it was, it’s fine. He doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body.”
Franky tracked the path of Ingrid’s eyes, giving a second examination of Jaxon, then nodded in slow motion. “It does have an endearing effect. The nametag. I’ll give it that.” He paused, considering. “But I still think he made it sohedoesn’t forget. Why else would he add his last name? I mean, look around. Do you see another Jaxon? That’s right, you don’t. Because there’s no other Jaxon here. Just him. The Jaxon that can’t remember his own?—”
