Page 34 of The Art of Obsession
And then, I found the smartwatch on the counter. A prototype that would have cost me five year’s worth of salary. And I get paid decent wages.
I’d gasped at the holo program that popped up the first time I turned it on. Acheron designed most of the programs and included an app with recipes for my new “lifestyle” as he dubbed it.
The first time we tried the kale and banana smoothie with coconut and almond milk, I wanted to fling it at the wall for its audacity to taste so good. I still fantasize about dumping everything in the garbage.
My boss has had local assignments for me. Mostly research and paperwork at the Smithsonian. But it’s been harder than ever to focus. Any moment, I’m ready to snap, wondering if Acheron will come for me in my sleep, drug me, and carry me away…never to be seen again.
I have a plan. I’ve put it into place. But anytime I think about it, my insides shrivel, and I lose my nerve, feeling…knowing he’ll find me.
What is he planning?
The momentI step into my apartment, I know something’s wrong. It’s too quiet like the air itself is holding its breath.
I toss my keys onto the counter, their jangling sound barely registers over the pounding in my ears.
That’s when I see it.
A single piece of paper sits on the counter, stark against the dark granite. My name is scrawled across the top in his unmistakable handwriting. And a charcoal sketch of me inside an elaborate art frame. My stomach twists as I pick it up, my fingers trembling.
“It won’t be long now.”
My breath catches. The words blur as tears sting my eyes. I stagger back, the note slipping from my hands.
“No. No, no, no.” The words tumble out as I clutch the edge of the counter, trying to keep myself upright. My mind races. I have to get out. Now.
I snap.
I grab my go bag from the closet, the one I packed weeks ago but never thought I’d need. My hands are shaking so badly, I can hardly lift it. I shove my new/used flip phone into my pocket and sling the bag over my shoulder. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.
As I step outside, the cold night air hits me like a slap. My plan is half-assed at best—get to the bus station, buy a ticket to the used car seller I checked out at the paper stand a few days ago, and figure it out from there. My parents’ friends have a place off the grid in Kentucky.
The bus ride is a blur. By the time I get to the seller’s house, it’s well past midnight. The seller barely glances at me as I hand over the cash—my emergency cash I’ve stashed in a hidey hole—and take the keys.
The car smells like stale cigarettes and regret, but it’s mine. And it’s freedom.
Probably the illusion of freedom.
I hit the road, the empty highway stretching out before me. The headlights cut through the darkness, but my mind is racing. What am I even doing? Where am I going? I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles white.
This is a terrible plan,Cherry chimes in from the passenger seat, picking at her nails. Sometimes, the hallucination of her shows up in reality.
“Not now, Cherry,” I mutter. But I’m well aware of how I’m panicking. And she’s my touchstone in all of this. Sometimes, we switch places. She’s the rational one…but never loses her dark humor.
I’m just saying, you’re basically starring in your own murder thriller. Woman on the run, middle of nowhere, no backup. This is how it starts, you know. He’s going to catch you, you know that.
I glance at her, my imaginary best friend lounging like she owns the car, her red wings draped casually against the seat.
“You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” I tell her.
Excuse you, MissThing, but I’m a byproduct of your subconscious, so maybe turn that finger around, babe.”
I groan, focusing on the road. “You’re not helping.”
Neither is this death trap you’re driving.
I open my mouth to retort when a deer leaps out of the darkness.
“Shit!” I scream and yank the wheel to the right, the tires screeching as the car veers off the road. The world tilts, and then I’m in a ditch, the engine sputtering before falling silent.
