Page 8 of Chalk Outline
The tight squeeze in my chest says otherwise. It’s never enough when your nightmares become you.
I grab the note on my way to the gas stove and let it burn. The flames curl the paper into ashes. I ball my hand into a fist at my side to suppress a wince and shove it into the pocket of my black cargo pants, grazing my fingers over my pocket knife.
I was twelve years old when a man was slaughtered in front of me on Halloween night by a masked man. In a pool of blood, his severed body lay, and the flames started scorching the nothingness he had become. That fatal night marked the precipice of a new dawn, heralding a bloodbath on the horizon. Torture and fire were always the killers’ play. My husband suffered the same fate.
Somehow, occasionally, his sandalwood cologne still envelops me. I pull out the knife and stab the air around me before glancing over my shoulder at the photo on the fridge—his face is like a ghost that still haunts me.
I jump in place at the sound of a loud bang, followed by a cat’s high-pitched scream. A cold chill runs up my spine. I rush to turn off the TV and peek through the gap in the curtains, waiting to see someone, but instead, Muffin, the stray cat who always camps outside my house, crosses over.
I let out a sigh of relief and pocket the knife.
Rule number 1: Always stay alert.
Rule number 2: Never be predictable.
Rule number 3: If you’re in danger, don’t hesitate.
Rule number 4: Your husband is gone, so don’t search for him.
Muffin rubs her body against my leg and purrs as I shut the house door behind me.
“Winona, watch your six.”
A small smile tugs at my lips when that sweet memory crosses my mind. I never had to do that while he stared at my ass all day.
The silent streets buzz with bittersweet memories, and a cold breeze brushes against my cheeks, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I pull my hood up and cross the street. This neighborhood is where it all began and where I lost everything.
This seemingly tight-knit community of wealthy neighbors is gated and enforces a strict policy due to everything that transpired with the Halloween Killers. No one is allowed in without identification, and guards patrol 24/7.
Truthfully, Grandma owns all the houses. She customized a safety, dome-like reality for me, just like she always does.
I walk past the guards who hold the door open as soon as they see me. Here, everything is under control; yet outside this electric gate, the chaos begins.
I’ve always preferred going there instead of being stuck at home.
“Stop following me around. I can hear you breathing down my neck even from six feet apart.” I halt abruptly in the middle of the crosswalk, and my annoying bodyguard bumps into me.
“It’s my job, Winona. Just go to your party already.” The irritation in his husky voice is priceless, and paired with the eye roll he’s giving me, I chuckle.
“Someone’s in a mood.” I quirk an eyebrow and turn around.
He grunts.
“Come on, you love those parties and the way people stare at me,” I tease, eyeing him up and down, taking in his mesmerizing appearance. His ripped jeans fit him perfectly, paired with a black t-shirt, a leather jacket, and combat boots.
“They can stare because you’re coming home with me when the night ends.” He points forward. “Now, less talking, more walking. Unless you need me to carry your sweet ass there.”
“I knew you stared at my ass this whole time.” I press my hands to my hips and cock my head to the side. A ghost of a smile hovers across his lips, but it soon disappears when my eyebrow rises. My smirk automatically fades as I meet his steel gaze. I wrinkle my nose. “Mood killer.”
A jeep swerves around the corner, piercing my eardrums as its tires screech just an arm’s length from me.
“Watch out, asshole!” I smack the hood and point to the right. “There’s a stop sign.”
“It’s not like death is so uncommon around here. I might be doing you a favor.” That prick of a driver yells back at me, pushing his head out of the window and signaling me to cross over.
“Yeah, babe, don’t assume it was our fault you ran between our headlights like a little deer.” Another guy adds from the passenger seat.
Is strangling a college kid considered a crime if I’m trying to teach him a lesson? I’m doing society a favor.
