Page 76 of His To Erase
“I don’t think so,” I say. “He doesn’t sneak. He performs. And this... this feels like someone watching.”
“Okay. Real talk?” she says. “Frank gives Godfather brunch vibes. But this sounds like someone who wants you scared. Which means they’re probably scared of you.”
“I wish that made me feel better.”
“You want me to come over?”
I hesitate. “No. I’m okay. Just—needed to hear a voice that doesn’t make me want to punch something.”
“You sure?” she asks. “Because I’ve got wine, knives, and emotional availability in a horrifying leopard robe. I can be there in ten.”
“I’m good. I swear.”
“Okay, then here’s your action plan… eat something, lock your doors—again—and sleep with your knife. But notwithyour knife. Save the knife play for someone hot.”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t gonna?—”
“You were. I could hear it in your horny little silence.”
“I hate you.”
“You worship me. And you’d cry at my funeral.”
“Only because you’d haunt me with your ghost boobs.”
“Exactly.” Her voice dips softer. “Babe... you really okay?”
I glance at the shadows and my heartbeat skips one beat too long.
“No,” I whisper. “But I will be.”
She exhales, gentle now. “Alright. Text me if anything moves, breathes, or whispers boo.”
“Define boo?”
“Tall, tattooed, emotionally constipated, and currently starring in your late-night brain porn.”
I hang up before she can keep going, then I kill the lights, sliding the knife under my pillow, and crawl into bed like it might keep the dark out.
Tattoo Man
Tuesday mornings are predictable. The library opens at ten, and she usually shows up by nine-thirty with her earbuds in, and her keys clutched between her fingers like a weapon.
But today, she’s late. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. And when she finally walks in—something’s wrong. Even from this distance I can see it. Her shoulders are curled tighter than usual. She flinches when the return bin thuds shut, and she’s glancing over her shoulder like she’s expecting someone to be there.
It’s subtle, but I notice because I don’t just watch her—I study her. I’ve memorized the way she moves when she’s calm, pissed off, amused, and even when she’s pretending not to care. I know what her laugh sounds like when she thinks no one’s listening. I know she bites her bottom lip when she’s stalling, not nervous. I know the difference.
This—this is neither.
The same girl who launched a whiskey glass at a drunk’s head last week without blinking is now clutching her bag like it’s the only thing tethering her to gravity.
Something happened.
I shift, staying in the shadow at the far end of the aisle—right where I know the cameras blur out. I know it’s a blind spot, I mapped them all weeks ago.
The tension in her limbs. The stiffness in her spine. The split-second pause when she reaches for a book and her hand trembles before she steadies it. Yeah, something for sure happened. I was busy last night, but had checked in a few times and she seemed fine.
What happened between then?
