Page 2 of The Art of Obsession
What else has he seen? A cold sensation prickles my spine, and I look around, wondering if this stalker put cameras in my motel room. Is he watching me now?
I drop the sketch again.
With anger burning a lit fuse through my blood, I turn the water to hot and watch the charcoal bleed out, turning the sink dark before the paper slips down the drain. Guilt tightens my throat, but I swallow it, hoping it disappears as quickly as the paper just did.
Well…I didn’t actually throw it away.
A lightness fillsmy chest as I approach the AirBnB.
This time, my boss made all the arrangements. I said I didn’t want the destination until I was already on my way. At least I finished my last assignment. The chilly northwest coast will be perfect. All I know about this venture is it’s an abandoned chapel recently discovered near a condemned lighthouse.
When the Uber pulls up to the AirBnB, I smile, take a deep breath, and climb out of the car, tugging my suitcase along. To call it a cabin would be an understatement. More like a cabin-style manor.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots. It’s darker than I expected, the dense woods around the cabin swallowing the last traces of twilight. The golds, burnt oranges, and scarlet reds of the leaves like an autumnal regalia don’t bring me the usual comfort and nostalgia. My boss promised me this place was safe—untraceable. Still, I hold my breath as I glance around, swearing the shadows are clawing for me.
The mansion looms ahead. Massive beams frame a wall of windows glowing with golden light. Inside, I can see the warmth of a fireplace, welcoming me from the eerie, cold stillness outside. Luxury. That’s what this is. I should feel lucky, but I can’t shake the prickle on the back of my neck.
I clutch my bag tight, fumbling with the lockbox on the door. My fingers tremble, but the code works, and I step inside, locking the door behind me. The silence swallows me whole.
My heart leaps in my chest. It’s breathtaking. The kitchen gleams, all marble and polished wood, the space meant for magazine covers and celebrity chefs. It has every amenity I could possibly want and need. The inviting sitting room stretches before the fireplace, assuring me nothing bad could ever happen here. A perfect retreat for a historian. For the first time in days, I exhale.
I head for the bedroom upstairs with relief filling my chest.
The stalker couldn’t know about this place. It’s impossible. He couldn’t have?—
I freeze in the doorway, the breath knocked out of me. I nearly buckle.
They’re everywhere. Sketches. Hundreds of them. Me. Nude.
Icy fear spreads into my bloodstream. They’re pinned to the walls, dangling from the ceiling on strings, strewn across the bed, mixed with black rose petals speckled with red paint. Or…no. Please no.
My heart stutters, then races. I step back, but my heel catches on the doorframe, and I shriek, turning toward the stairs.
But when I rush out the door, the Uber’s already gone. No one is outside. I’m alone.
Dammit.
I scramble back inside, slam the door shut, and set the alarm, every motion sharp and mechanical. My hands are shaking as I dial my boss, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Of course.
A chill lurks along my spine with the gnawing question. What if he’s already here?
Grabbing the closest weapon I can, a fire poker, I search each room. “Come on, Evie, you can do this,” I whisper as I creep around the next door, my palms clammy as I hold the poker with a death grip.
What if he has a gun? What if he’s big and bulky and wearing a mask? Um…why did my thoughts just gothere? I blame dark romance culture.
Dammitdammitdammit.
I’m acting just like a stupid girl in a thriller film. I have a credit card. I should just check into some very populated hotel, right? But considering my last two experiences—he’d come while I was asleep—this may be a better option. Just clear all the rooms, change the security password to something long and numeral, and hole up until tomorrow.
After I search the place, even testing the walls and floors for any signs of hollowed passages, I return to the bedroom, pace the floor, my eyes darting back to the bed. The sketches mock me, taunting me with the declaration that he was here. I should throw them away. Burn them all.
Instead, I collect them, pulling them off the walls, gathering the ones on the bed, sweeping petals to the floor. When I have an armful, I carry them down the stairs to the main room…and start burning them in the fireplace. The edges curl black, the images of me fading into ash. I burn another. And another.
Until I can’t anymore.
Instead, I break down in tears, confirming how royally fucked up I am.
They’re beautiful. That’s the worst part. The lines, the shadows, the way he captures me like he knows me better than I know myself. It makes me sick.
