Page 7 of My Masked Stalker
Ethan breaks the moment with a laugh, lifting his bottle in mock salute. “Christ, Damien, don’t go all Florence Nightingale on him. Killian here’s head over heels. Only question left is whether Emily gets a happy ending… or one of those Dateline specials.”
I slam my Guinness down hard enough that the table rattles.
“You think this is a game?” My voice cuts sharp enough to flay skin. The chatter of the bar dips for a second before rising again.
Ethan only smirks wider. “Oh, it’s a game, brother. You just haven’t figured out the rules yet.”
My phone vibrates in my palm. Emily’s dot is moving, leaving Barbara’s place. My pulse steadies, and purpose slides back into my bones, cool and certain.
I rise, tossing a few bills onto the table. “Play your games if you want. I’ve got something real to take care of.”
Damien watches me with that quiet worry he’ll never voice out loud, and Ethan’s grin follows me out, sharp as broken glass.
But none of it matters. Emily’s on the move.
And I’ll be the shadows, waiting for her. Keeping her safe from everything but me.
4
EMILY
Ilook over my shoulder, feeling a tingling sensation on the back of my neck. Is it my stalker? Do I want it to be?
God, I’m losing my mind. There’s no other explanation for why I didn’t call the police the second I got that message—my neighbor’s killer admitting to shooting Chris as well. A tiny part of me worried that I might look like a suspect. After all, it wasmyneighbor andmysort-of boyfriend who died the same night in two different parts of town. But still, that doesn’t explain why I didn’t at least block his number. Get a new phone. Move to the other side of the planet.
I can’t even tell Barbs—she’d have me committed.
I cried over Chris at first. Then I remembered just how crap he treated me, emotional violence masked by good sex. Once I stopped crying over him, I felt guilty. If I hadn’t caught this stalker’s eye that night, Chris would still be alive. Right? He wasn’t a good guy, but I don’t think he deserved to die.
My hair stood up on end every time I got one of the killer’s messages. When he praised me, my heart skipped a beat. When he gave me an order, it beat faster. I was constantly lookingaround, wondering which one of the men I encountered on the streets was him, wondering if I was safe.
Then a couple of nights ago, he upped the ante. Seeing him on that rooftop, the tall, muscle-bound frame surrounded by moonlight… it made him real. A person, not a looming shadow. He was too far away to see clearly and covered by a hoodie and some kind of mask. Not a lot of guys have that physique, though, or carry themselves with such assurance. Would I recognize him if I saw him now?
I flinch when I kick an empty can on the sidewalk, the sound too loud in the dark, and my steps quicken to the nearest subway entrance. Barb hates it when I don’t call an Uber from her place. She doesn’t think taking the subway alone at night is safe. If only she knew. I don’t think I’m safe in my own kitchen anymore. The only question is whether the danger is to my life or my sanity.
I swipe my MetroCard with shaking fingers, forcing myself not to glance over my shoulder again. I don’t want people to think I’m one of those nutsos who imagine they’re being followed. I don’t have to imagine things, though.
He’s out there.
Sometimes I think I catch glimpses—broad shoulders vanishing down a side street, that figure from the rooftop reflected in a shop window as I pass. But when I blink, he’s gone. Was he ever there, or am I inventing him just so I’m not alone?
The train screeches into the station, brakes shrieking. As the doors slide open. I slip inside, clutching the pole with both hands. My reflection stares back from the darkened window. My eyes are wide, excited, my lips slightly parted as I take in enough air to satisfy my rapidly beating heart.
I don’t tell Barbara because I can’t explain it. Not the fear that knots my stomach, not the strange… thrill that sparks low and shameful every time his words hit my screen. Whoever he is, he’s rewired something inside me, something I can’t undo.
The train lurches into motion. My phone buzzes in my bag. My pulse rockets. I don’t have to check to know who it is. He’s watching.
You look afraid, sweetheart.
I swallow the lump in my throat before peeking out from under my lashes. The train isn’t rush-hour full, but it’s far from empty. And I don’t see anyone who looks like my masked stranger. My finger trembles over the text window. I’m not actually considering replying, am I?
Before I can make up my mind, the phone vibrates again, and I squeak, nearly dropping it. Once I have it back in my fumbling grip, I can see a new message.
Are you afraid of me?
Then two more.
I won’t hurt you.
