Page 129 of Obsession
Mark Archer.
David O’Sullivan
Michael Heikkinen
Andy Frazer
The page blurs before me, and I blink it back into focus while my thoughts race in a bid to make sense of the truth that’s right in front of me.
This is why he insisted I interview him, because he knew my father. He knew my tormentors. He knew who I was even before I set foot in that room. He didn’t simply knowofme; he knewme.
He was curious.
The initial shock morphs into heated anger, and I clench my teeth as I slam the book shut. The sudden sound echoes off the marble flooring. All thoughts of The Bridge Killer fade to the background as I shoot up and grab the book.
Why did Robbie seek me out? Why now? Was he curious? Was I part of some plan of his? He spoke of students being mean to him back in his youth, but he conveniently left out names.
My reporter’s brain is putting the pieces together. All this time, Robbie has fed me small tidbits of truth while lying by omission. He sat across from me and spoke about my father, and I was none the wiser.
Dad never mentioned him. Not that we talked, but I had no clue about this part of his life. He was in the same class as Robbie Hammond. Why is there so little information about his childhood?
A thought occurs to me, and I slam the book back down on the table and open it up to the first page.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper, turning pages almost frantically. It’s a personal copy that doesn’t belong to the library.
I scan the room and whip my head from left to right, spinning around on the spot. My stalker left me his copy, but where did he get it from? And more importantly, why does he want me to see it?
A sudden slam at the front of the library startles me out of my whirling thoughts, and I jump back with a gasp. Seconds pass as silence settles like a blanket once more. Another slam follows, echoing through the dark space.
Fear crawls along my every nerve, and a bead of sweat trickles down my back. I wait with bated breath for something to happen, for something to come dashing at me from the shadows.
My sanity is holding on by a thin thread, but I refuse to let the panic pull me under.
When my lungs begin to burn, I inhale ragged, deep breaths and wait.
I hate being scared. I hate that it keeps me rooted to the spot, helpless and vulnerable, as though hiding here will save me.
It fucking won’t.
After pocketing my phone, I swipe up my scarf and the yearbook. I set off toward the front of the library, taking cover in the shadows.
While I chased them away earlier with my flashlight, I consider them my ally now, my protector.
My heart thumps so hard inside my chest that I worry it might skip beats or stop altogether. I inch forward slowly, barelyable to see my hand in front of me, as my back slides along the spines. Determination steels my heart. I won’t let fear paralyze me or hold me in its clutches any longer.
When I exit the mouth of the aisle, a cold breeze sends shivers skittering down to my bones. The doors are open, and snow drifts across the marble floor. A sudden gust of wind takes hold of the left door and slams it into the wall.
I run out, emerging into the freezing night. My heart ceases to beat when I gaze upon the imprints next to mine in the snow.
Fresh imprints.
Big boots that dwarf my much smaller size—a pair of boots belonging to a man.
I’m suddenly aware of the icy breeze against the side of my face, the strands of hair stuck in my lip balm, and the slight crunch beneath my feet when I shift my weight.
I skate my eyes across the parking lot, noting the layer of snow on my windscreen before letting my gaze drift. My stalker has disappeared into the night like a dispersing shadow, and now it’s just me, the snow, the howling wind, and a lingering eeriness that wraps itself around my bones.
“Beatrix Carr,an eighteen-year-old student at Atley Hill University, was reported missing last night after she failed to return home from her music lesson?—”
