Page 1 of Saved from Obsession

PROLOGUE

GEORGIA

Some days, I wonder if time is playing tricks on me.

Rationally, I know I’ve been gone for less than an hour. Just a short walk—four blocks each way—plus a quick in-and-out at the grocery store. I only grabbed the absolute necessities and ducked my head the entire time so no one would even think about talking to me.

It was probably only a forty-five minute trip, but each minute seemed to take exponentially longer. By the time I was halfway home, it felt like the sidewalk was stretching on toward infinity.

I forced myself to walk normally and not cave under the weight of dread I was feeling. To ignore my racing heart and shrinking lungs, the cold tendrils of unease sliding up and down my spine. I kept up my normal pace, even though every instinct was telling me to run the rest of the way home.

Now that I’m finally in sight of my apartment building, the wave of icy slick fear starts to recede. Not entirely—neverentirely—but the promise of my apartment and my cozy couch and a double-locked door are a warm embrace I can’t wait to return to. I already have my phone out and ready to open the door—the one good thing the property owner did in the last few years was install a keyless entry system—and take a quick glance around before I come to a stop in front of the five-story brick building.

Even though the winter sun has already set, it’s not even eight o’clock, and the streets are well-lit with plenty of people around. During my short journey, I walked past couples holding mittened hands, pet owners briskly walking their dogs, businessmen intently talking on their phones, and not one of them gave me a second glance. I made it to the store and back with no issue. So there wasreallynothing to worry about.

Except. I can tell myself that a thousand times, but I can’t seem to make myself believe it. I wish I could. I’ve been walking the same streets of my neighborhood in Astoria for years and, until recently, I’ve never been nervous about traveling on my own.

Until a month ago, when I realized my security was only an illusion, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

As I unlock the heavy glass door and push it open, the tight band around my lungs releases. Warm air wraps around me as I step through the doors, drawing me into the welcome safety of my apartment building. Everything looks as it should—rows of mailboxes, worn burgundy carpet, a bulletin board with notices for cleaners and nannies and dog walkers tacked to it. Once the door closes behind me with a comforting snick, I can finally take a full breath.

I’m not doing that again.I don’t know what possessed me to make this evening trip to the store. I could have waited until tomorrow, gone in the daytime. Or I could have just had everything delivered. I didn’t need any of the stuff I boughtthatdesperately.

But Idoknow why I went tonight. To prove a point to myself.

Two months ago, I would have run to the store at night without even thinking about it. And I hate that I’m scared to do it now. I didn’t want to let my fear control me—to bethatwoman hiding out in her apartment from invisible dangers. So I forced myself to go, no matter how badly I didn’t want to.

And I guess I proved myself right, in a way. Even though I was afraid to do it, I made it back home just fine. Nothing terrible happened. And now I’m minutes from my apartment, where I can take a hot shower to wash the chill away, cuddle up on my couch to watch something mindless, and maybe have one glass of wine—not enough to compromise my senses, but enough to ease some of the tension vibrating through me.

Everything is fine. I keep repeating it to myself as I get into the elevator, pressing the button for the fourth floor.I made it back safely. There was nothing to worry about.

At least, that’s what the police said when I went to the station last week.

They told me thatfeelinglike I’m being followed isn’t something they can investigate. That the hangups and blocked numbers that keep calling me are probably just spam. When I showed the officer the strange letters I received—all ominous and vaguely threatening—he said they could be a joke. And without a return address on them, or any sort of signature, there was nothing to go on.

I shared the picture I took of the black roses that showed up for me one day at work. And the accompanying note that said,Do you know what black roses mean?

The officer raised his eyebrows and gave me a look I’ve gotten accustomed to over the years—the one that says that since I’m a model, I must not have any brains. He said, with a tiny smirk tugging at his lips, “You’re a professional model, Georgia. Surely you’ve had admirers before. I’m sure this was just a gift from one of your fans.”

I wanted to cry at his dismissive tone, but I just thanked him and left. It was clear he didn’t believe me, and nothing I could say was going to make a difference. Even though I’ve been a commercial and print model for over ten years and never gotten letters that said things likeI’m watching youandI’ll see you soon. Or had someone send me flowers that I discovered after a quick Google search signify revenge and hatred.

I’ve had some admirers over the years, but none of them have ever sent stuff likethat. But when the officer brushed aside my concerns, there was a moment when I wondered if he was right.WasI overreacting? Could I somehow be interpreting everything wrong? Attributing random calls and the prickles at the back of my neck to something more than coincidence?

Then I got home and found another letter. Still no return address. And there was no way to interpret the message as anythingotherthan threatening.

You’ll be sorry. Soon you’ll pay for your sins.

What sins? Aside from work, I keep to myself most of the time. I have a few friends in the city that I meet for dinner a couple of times a month. There hasn’t been a boyfriend in years. Most nights, I stay home watching TV and working on my various crafting projects, or FaceTiming with my mom or my best friend in Texas.

No matter how hard I wrack my brain, I can’t think of anyone I’ve wronged.

A loud ding snaps me back to attention, and the old elevator shudders to a stop. Whenever I get in it, I worry that it’ll break and I’ll be stuck there for hours, but taking the stairwell with its dim lighting and the metal stairs that echo when you walk on them?No thanks.

I head toward my apartment at the end of the hallway, thinking about the hot shower, glass of wine, and some trashy TV I’m going to reward myself with once I get inside.

I’m so close, only a few doors away, when my life changes in an instant.

Everything happens so quickly, I never even get a chance to run. I’m frozen as the world speeds up around me. My brain can’t catch up to reality.

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