Page 149 of Obsession
Eyes glassy with sympathy, Mr. Needham watches me, and I wait.
Wait for something,anything. When he still doesn’t speak, I huff an angry sound. Then I turn back around and set off down the road, propelled forward by my own stubborn determination.
59
SAVANNAH
Why the hell am I here, waving a red flag to a bull I haven’t seen a glimpse of in so long? And why do I put myself through this? I don’t care for small talk. I don’t even care for men unless, of course, they’re psychopathic serial killers on death row, or so it would seem.
I refuse to even think about how many months have passed since I moved halfway across the country to this small town, Girsby, away from the noise and the pressure of trying to be someone.
It’s been so long since I last spoke to Mr. Needham.
I just want to move on.
But there’s one man I can never forget. One man who demands my attention even now. The mystery of his whereabouts is the reason I’m scrolling through today’s news articles on my phone in search of any hints, no matter how small, of where he could be hiding. Every article about a murder is scrutinized and read twice over, but I’ve not come across a single article to make me think, “Ah, that’s Robbie.”
Nothing.
He’s a ghost.
I dim my screen when my date—a man whose name I’ve already forgotten—returns to the table in the small roadside diner and retakes his seat. This is what I do now: agree to dates at forgettable diners with forgettable men because I want to piss Robbie off, like a spoiled, immature brat.
What boils my blood even more is that none of the men interest me. None of them even come close.
Where Robbie made me feel alive, these men make me feel empty.
Even more than I already am.
“Tell me about yourself, Savannah,” he says, stirring his tea.
I look up from the pale tan line on his ring finger and push back my resentment. I smile sweetly instead, knowing far well a quick fuck, regardless of who he is, would fill this damn void even if the relief lasts only minutes before expanding even wider, threatening to consume me.
“I’m a freelance writer.”
“What do you write?” He sips his tea, pretending to listen.
“I’m writing my first book.”
The cup clinks against the sticky table. “Let me guess, romance?”
“Something like that,” I reply drily, holding back an eye roll.
He roams his gaze over my face, evaluating, bored yet curious. “What’s it about?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he cares. But since we both know he doesn’t, I reply with the unmasked truth. “A reporter who falls in love with a serial killer.”
“A serial killer, you say,” he responds, his lips pulling back into a smirk. “I guess they fall in love, he breaks out, and they live happily ever after?”
“Not quite.” My own fake smile is one I’ve perfected. “They fall in love. He disappears, and she is left behind to search for him.”
“And does she find him?”
Pulling my lip under my teeth, I mull over his question. A few months back, I hired a private detective, hoping and wishing he would find some answers,anythingto give me closure but, of course, he found nothing.
Robbie doesn’t want to be found, as elusive as the treasure at the rainbow’s end.
As much as I don’t want to accept it, I need to move on sooner or later. A year has passed since I last saw him. A whole fucking year.
