Page 61 of Dark Knight

“Yeah, I can imagine why. Nobody misses him.”

I want to ask where he is and what happened to him, but something in her face steals my words. “You know what, I shouldn’t be talking with you about this. It’s not my place,” she decides before returning to her work.

“It’s fine. I won’t tell him.”

“It’s not fine. He’s who you need to talk to you about this, not me.” And just like with Romero, I can practically see her walls coming down. She’s made up her mind. The subject is closed.

“Thank you for talking with me at all,” I finally tell her. “You must be very busy.”

A bunch of emotions move across her face all at once. “Thank you for coming in, and talking to me,” she murmurs, offering a weak smile. “For real. At least I know I didn’t do anything to make him hate me.”

“He’s really good at treating people like that when they didn’t do anything to deserve it.” But I still feel bad, so I add, “Like I said before, I think it’s hard for him to be here. It’s not you. It’s the way being around him makes him feel.”

“You don’t need to defend him.” She lifts a shoulder before mumbling, “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s time for me to go. I’ve already stuck my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I finish grabbing what I need without putting too much thought into it, taking everything to the register while a hundred different questions run through my head all at once. Will I ever get answers? I doubt it. I shouldn’t even bother trying since I know he’ll stonewall me like he always does. Why is it so hard for him to accept that somebody might care?

Is it because, according to Becky, he was raised by a monster? What does that mean? What was so monstrous about him? Is that why it’s like pulling teeth to get anything out of his son?

When I step out of the store, I'm almost startled by the chill in the air. That's what he does to me. I forget everything around me when I'm thinking about him. What started as a cheerful little walk to the store has turned into a brooding, and now the clouds seem darker and the wind a little stronger. It's going to storm. I wish the idea of being cooped up in the house made me feel cozy and warm, but it only creeps me out. Who am I cooped up with? What did he go through? What made him the way he is?

I don't want to hurt you. I hear his voice echoing in my head while I walk down the street with a paper bag in my arms. Does that mean he's afraid he will? And what the hell is so broken in me that I sort of wish he would lose control just once? No second thoughts, no judging himself or holding himself back. He made me come so hard that I cried when he held himself back. What if he didn’t stop next time? What if—

A scream from the street stops my heart. My head snaps around in time for me to glare at the shitty kids deliberately screaming to startle people as they ride past on their bikes. An older woman on the other side of the street jumps and drops her umbrella. “Assholes,” I whisper, looking over my shoulder and watching as they deliberately swerve in the path of oncoming cars whose drivers lean on their horns.

That's when I see him.

I wouldn't have thought twice if he didn't look away as soon as our eyes met. Maybe if he shook his head at those asshole kids or shrugged or something. But no, the tall man in the black ball cap immediately looked away when he caught me noticing him. He's wearing a gray hoodie and jeans—nothing out of the ordinary. He would blend in perfectly otherwise.

But there's something off about him.

A sick feeling washes over me. Icy cold, nauseating, and it takes everything in me not to break out in a full-on run once my adrenaline kicks in and tells me to move my ass.

I'm not going to run. It doesn’t matter how much I want to. I’m not running away ever again.

Instead, I deliberately go back to walking at the same pace. Is he following me? I could be making this up in my head. I probably am. I'm being paranoid and jumpy, when all this guy is doing is walking along the street.

But just in case, I stop in front of the pet store like I'm saying hi to the cute little puppies in the window. I smile at them, bending over a little like I want to get a closer look when really I'm watching the reflection in the glass. My stomach turns to ice when I see him half-hidden by a truck across the street.

I might not have noticed him if it hadn't been for those kids. I can hardly breathe. What should I do? Go home? I’d only end up leading him to the house. That's the last thing I should do. But then what? I can't stand out here all day, either.

The woman inside is giving me a funny look. I want to go in and ask for help, but how stupid would that look if I'm only being paranoid? This could be any average person, and here I am, making up stories about being followed. Like I'm that special. There is no chance Jeff found me here. Absolutely none.

But something won't let me head straight home. Instead of hanging a left at the corner, I keep walking straight, and I want to look over my shoulder with every step. Instead, I keep moving with my eyes focused on the next corner. I'll look back once I reach it. One step at a time, that’s all. The sidewalk isn’t stretching out longer and longer the way it seems to.

Finally, I reach the next corner, where a red light gives me the excuse to stop and turn my head while my heart hammers against my ribs.

He's not there. I scan the opposite sidewalk, then look directly behind me in case he crosses the street. Nothing.

I'm going out of my mind.

What if somebody really was following me? What would I do if they approached me and tried to shove me into a car? Like that day with Bianca. There really are bad guys out there, even if the guy in the ball cap doesn't qualify. What would I do if I came up against one of them again?

I'm still obsessing over it by the time dinner’s on the table, and I call upstairs for Romero to come down. If I didn't know better, I would think this was a pleasant, normal little domestic situation. Though I guess, in a lot of ways, it is. We live together, occasionally share a meal, and sometimes do things we're not supposed to—according to him, anyway.

The sort of things I shouldn't be thinking about but can't help when I hear him coming down the stairs, and my whole body tenses like I'm waiting for something monumental to happen. It's not easy to shake it off as I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I picked up at the store. Maybe it’ll help loosen me up a little. I'm setting it on the table when he walks in, looking much better than when I first saw him this afternoon. “Do you want some?” I ask, nodding toward the glass.

“No, thanks.” Instead, he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and downs half before sitting. Will there ever be a time when I don't feel fluttery and tingly when I'm close to him? I can't forget the way he kisses, and I can't stop craving it. The thrill of giving myself over to something that makes me weak and breathless. I could crawl over the table right now, tear that gray sweater off him, and claw his bare skin to shreds.

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