Page 125 of Obsession
“Well,” he says, waving me off and leaning back in his creaky chair, “that was before our server crashed and our sales saw figures we could have only dreamed of.”
I blink at the starry look in his eyes.
He fixes those eyes on me again and leans forward, all business. “This could be your opportunity to plead his case.”
“I’m sorry? Plead his case?”
“The governor is already under pressure.” His lips quirk, and he tips his head sideways. “Support for capital punishment is at an all-time low, Miss Campbell. Make the readers fall in love with you and the idea of you and Hammond together, make them root for the bad guy, rack up enough support, and the governor might have no choice but to offer clemency.” He spreads his hands wide, a knowing glint in his eyes.
Something ugly and unwelcome, like hope, flares a bright flame in my chest. Hope is a dangerous thing; hope is ultimately what will break me, but I cling to it, nonetheless.
James flashes a victorious smile and claps his hands together. “Excellent. I can even see us publishing our first book.” He shoos me away, his attention already back on his laptop.
After exiting his office, I stop to talk to a few of my colleagues to be polite before making my way to my cubicle.
I stop short in the doorway when I spot the wrapped parcel on the desk, with a small black bow on top. My heart climbs up my throat, and my pulse skyrockets. Nothing good comes from parcels, not in my experience.
Inching closer, I look behind me to ensure I’m alone. Then I carefully pick it up and discard the bow before unwrapping it and removing the lid.
Scrunched black shredded paper crinkles beneath my fingertips as I pull it out. I discard it on the floor and reach in to remove the postcard. Then I turn it over in my hand, confused by the print of the local library in the neighboring town.
The same town my father grew up in.
I flip it over.
Tonight, at eight. At the back of the library, you’ll find a small seating area. Don’t be late.
“What the…?” I whisper, my eyes drifting from the card to the shredded black tissue in the box.
After placing the postcard on my desk, I shift through the tissue until my eyes catch on something soft and wet, something that’s thawing.
I freeze, snatching my hand back.
The box shakes in my trembling grip.
My breath catches in my throat when the sound of conversation drifts closer to my cubicle, and I wait until James and Chris from administration walk past.
They nod a greeting in my direction.
I spin around and place the box on the table while debating what to do. Whatever is in that box is bad.
I’d be much better off not looking, but the growing curiosity inside me won’t release me from its clutches. Not until I’ve satiated it.
With my hands clenched, I stare at the box for seconds, maybe minutes. “Fuck it.” I dive forward and remove the shredded tissue paper, my heart beating erratically.
Surrounded by wet strips of shredded black paper is a pair of shriveled, defrosting lips.
Human lips.
Shrieking, I fall back on my ass, and my tailbone rattles from the hard impact. I scramble back, like a crab, until my spine connects with the wall.
My panicked, frazzled mind whirls as it tries to make sense of the situation.
The Bridge Killer removed his latest victim’s lips before suspending her from the railing by the wrists. And now those same lips were in a box on my desk, like an ominous message just for me.
He’s upping the stakes. Whatever game he’s playing is intensifying. And he knows that, rather than folding, I’ll go all in.
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