Page 24 of Claiming His Bunny
“Are you alright, Kayla?” Michelle asks as we get into her car. “I can do this myself if you—”
“I’m fine,” I reply, a little harsher than I intended. “Really, Michelle. I’m fine. Let’s just go.”
“Alright, alright.”
As Michelle drives, I rub my forehead. I’m fine. I am. I should have called the police, but it’s a little too late for that now. I’ll call them next time.
Just the thought that there will be a next time makes my body tense up. But there will be, I’m certain of it. Stalkers don’t just give up, do they? They escalate their actions until something terrible happens. Why in the world haven’t I called the police?
Maybe it was the thought that they can’t help me. After all, the stalker followed me to Kansas City. Three hundred fucking miles from Bluebell Springs and I still found a bluebell on my windshield. This time, it wasn’t just the flower, though. There was a tiny card attached to the stem—a photograph.
The photo remains the main reason I haven’t called the police. If it had been a picture of me in my underwear or something similarly threatening, I would have called them. I would have called them, and I never would have come back here. But it wasn’t a picture of me at all. It was Craig’s.
When I first saw Amy’s ex-boyfriend staring back at me from the picture, my stomach dropped. I was convinced that, somehow, he was behind it. That he faked his death so he could terrorize Amy and the person he considered his archenemy. Me. But then I realized his face was crossed out with a permanent marker, and the true meaning of the picture dawned on me.
Someone sent me a message to let me know they’ve taken care of Craig. For me? The thought was crazy, but how else could I interpret a picture attached to a flower? The same flower someone planted in my locked house? God, this is messed up!
My stalker killed someone for me. And that’s not even the worst part. The most fucked up part of the whole thing is that—aside from being frightened to death—I actually feel grateful.
Grateful. For a murder.
Grateful to some creep who’s been in my house, who somehow figured out where I was going and why, who knew enough about me to find my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Who had the strength to kill a linebacker and the skill to cover their tracks?
My stalker is a dangerous man. He has probably killed before and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Then why haven’t I called the police? I have the card Detective Brown gave me. I could have dialed her number and told her I have a lead on her case. It was what any reasonable, law-abiding citizen would have done. After all, by hiding the evidence, haven’t I just become a murder accessory?
Yet, I did nothing. I didn’t even toss the flower into the trash. I wanted to, but it was just too pretty to throw away. Currently, it sits on my table, in the same vase the stalker put the previous flowers. The police finally returned it after not finding any fingerprints on it. No surprise there.
The patrol car is gone, too. I called it away when I left for Kansas City and never called it back. What good would the police do against a seasoned killer who effortlessly found me in a city three hundred miles away?
Besides, and maybe this is the craziest thought of all, I don’t think the stalker is actually out to hurt me. He could have killed me a million times already. Even if he didn’t want me dead and “only” to kidnap me, he could have done it while I was driving, all alone, stopping at shady gas stations for quick bathroom breaks.
I feel safe, and if that’s not a sign I’m losing my mind, I don’t know what is.
At this point, I’m actually curious about him. Frightened, too, but mainly intrigued. Why did he pick me? What does he want from me?
Who is he?
Chapter 15
Ethan
I grin as Irewatch the footage of Kayla coming home from Kansas City last night. She clutches the bluebell in her hand as if she wants to crush it and toss it away, but then carefully places it into the crude vase she and her siblings made when they were kids.
The simple act symbolizes everything I wished for. She’s begun accepting me as a part of her life sooner than I expected. She didn’t even call the police after finding my message. She typed several digits into her phone, then deleted them and never tried again. Never told anyone about it either, as far as I can tell.
Thanks to my stealthy app, I can turn her phone into a listening device whenever I want. The sound isn’t perfect, especially when she keeps it in her purse or pocket, but even then, I can still make out most of her words. And so far, all she’s been talking about is work.
My little bunny is deeply passionate about her work, which is yet another sign of how perfect she is for me. She cares about children and wants to do everything in her power to protect them, even if it means going against dangerous people. People like Dr. Benjamin Adams.
I frown as I think about the man. I’ve never liked him; he’s always come off as a pretentious bastard, but it never even crossed my mind that he might be abusing his son. His wife, too, if Kayla’s hunch is correct.
My fists clench as a wave of rage rises in me. I stamp it down. I don’t kill where I live. I don’t.
Killing Benjamin Adams would draw too much attention. The wrong kind of attention. Besides, it’s unclear if the rumor is true or not. I’ll leave it to Kayla and her partner to find out the truth. If they can’t, I’m sure Director Smith will reach out to me. And if she doesn’t, well…there are more ways to get rid of an abuser than simply killing them. Right now, I need to focus on my other case.
It’s not an official case for my PI company but rather one of my “hobby” cases.
Carl Oberman, 45, a doting husband and a father. Allegedly, also a man who kidnapped, raped, and murdered at least three children in the past ten years, then covered his tracks so well the authorities didn’t get even a whiff of suspicion. In fact, the evidence I have against him is so circumstantial that even I’m not sure he really did it.
