Page 32 of Claiming His Bunny
“I’m not afraid of you!” I shout, my trembling voice calling out my bullshit. “I’m not,” I add like a petulant child, unable to even convince myself.
I turn on the lights in the living room and the kitchen, hiccuping a sob as I notice the vase on the kitchen table. The single bluebell flower has been replaced by a whole fresh bouquet.
He’s been here again, now there’s no doubt about it. I pull out my phone and enter the emergency number, my finger hesitating over the dial button.
Would they come? They probably have to. But would they believe me? That someone broke into my house just to bring me flowers? Would they think I’m crazy? Send me to a shrink? If Benjamin Adams found out, he’d use it against me, and I’d lose my job for sure.
I can’t call them. I’m on my own. Yay me!
Trembling with fear, I muster up the courage to enter the bedroom. The bed is neatly made, and the clothes I left scattered around the room are gone. Did he steal them? Or…
My suspicion turns out to be correct as I open the tiny walk-in closet and find all my clothes there, hanging from the racks. Formal wear on the right, casual clothes on the left, organized better than my closet has ever been. Even the things I haven’t unpacked yet are here.
Curious, I slide open a dresser drawer to find my underwear meticulously folded and…sorted by color? Damn, even my socks are folded in the exact same way. What kind of neat freak is this guy?
I should be panicking. And I am, I suppose. Somewhere deep down in my mind, a voice is screaming in terror. But my thoughts are so derailed by the neatly folded socks that I can’t do anything but stare and blink.
“What the actual fuck?” I mutter to myself, unable to wrap my head around the fact that someone broke into my house to be my maid.
I leave the bedroom in a daze. A test wobble on the back door doorknob confirms that it’s locked. How considerate of the stalker to lock up after himself so I don’t get robbed. The thought nearly sends me into a giggling fit. The hysterical kind of giggles, one that can turn into crying or screaming at any moment.
The last place to check is the bathroom. My stalker isn’t hiding here either, but there’s a box of chocolate on the sink, and the room smells of some citrusy cleaning agent. It sure as hell didn’t smell like this when I was leaving this morning.
The bathroom is clean. Spotless. The stalker came over and cleaned it.
Why?
The chocolate gives me the answer. It’s what I asked for, isn’t it? I literally said I wanted a stalker who brings me chocolate and cleans my bathroom.
I said that. In my kitchen, with nobody around to hear it.
I bite down on my fist to stifle a whimper, a few tears rolling down my cheeks. If he heard that, then…what does it mean? Is he listening to me? Watching me?
“Are you watching me now, you fucking bastard?!” I scream at the spotless shower cubicle. “Why are you doing this?”
My voice echoes off the tiled walls, but there’s no answer.
I move back to the kitchen and scowl at the fresh flowers. “I said I didn’t like flowers,” I mutter. “You can stop bringing them to me.”
Great, now I’m talking to him as if he were here. Perhaps he is?
Panicked, I look around but can’t see anyone inside, nor any movement past the windows. But how did he hear me talking about chocolate?
Maybe a camera?
I spend the next hour scouring the kitchen and the living room for any signs of a recording or listening device but come up empty-handed.
There’s a tiny black spot on the curtain rod that could be a camera in a sci-fi movie, but it’s too small to be anything but a screw in reality. Still, I put a piece of tape over it to make myself feel a little better.
Then I sit at the table and watch the box of chocolate. Only a fool would eat it, right? Even though it’s one of those really expensive praline sets where each piece tastes different and all are beyond delicious. Still, it’s a gift from a very dangerous person. What if he drugged them? Poisoned them? Hell, how can I ever eat or drink anything in this house ever again?
“What am I supposed to do now? What do you want from me? Is this a threat? Are you telling me to leave the house? The town?”
It’s certainly an option, but it doesn’t feel right. The stalker’s messages never felt threatening. I don’t think he sadistically craves my fear. If he did, he would have destroyed my clothes instead of putting them away. He would have made a mess in the bathroom instead of spot-cleaning it. He would have gifted me body parts instead of flowers and chocolate. He wouldn’t have helped me with my case.
No, he doesn’t want me afraid. He wants me to…like him? Is that what this is about? Doing things for me, giving me gifts… It’s like a twisted version of courting. He likes me and wants me to like him back. But what am I supposed to do?
With a resigned sigh, I make myself my usual cup of tea and open the chocolate. I no longer think it’s poisoned. If the stalker wanted me dead, I would be dead. The ease with which he killed Craig proves that.
