Page 10 of Do Not Open

I don’t justify this Annie Wilkes wannabe with an answer.

“Mari, your books have changed my life. Truly. I’ve read all of them seven times each.”

I have no doubt that’s an exact figure.

“You have no idea what you mean to me. I… I feel like I’ve screwed this all up. I just wanted to talk to you. To pick your brain. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” He touches my knee gently, and I flinch. “Please talk to me.”

I look up at him then, searching his eyes for a shred of humanity. “I want to go home, Owen.”

“I know. I know you do.” He doesn’t say I can. Or will. What if I never do? Before this, I wasn’t sure it mattered. Since losing Declan and Liam, nothing mattered. But now…Now,I’m positive I want to get out of this room. I want to fight. I want to go home to my own space, live whatever portion of this life I have left. “Is there anything else I can get you to make you more comfortable? Wine, maybe? Or… Are you hungry?”

I am, but I have no intention of eating or drinking anything else he brings me. “Did you drug me?” I ask.

The side of his mouth quirks up a bit.

“You did, didn’t you?” I study him. “Are you even Owen Doyle?” He has to be, doesn’t he? The email matched his website. His silence gives me the answer I feared. “Who are you?” I demand.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m no one. Nothing. I’m just a man. You’re… You’re everything, Mari. Everything to me. Everything that matters.”

“So, you’re not a producer? This was all a lie to get me here so you could…What, exactly? What is your plan?”

“I’m not a producer, but I’m something better. Your number-one fan, remember? I mean that. I know everything about you that’s available to the other readers, but I want to know more. I deserve to know more. I need to get to know the mind behind the characters I’ve fallen in love with.”

“I don’t understand. You could’ve just emailed me. I respond to every—”

“I did. Several times. We’ve talked so much, Mari.” He tilts his head to the side as I run back through the thousands of emails I’ve responded to over the years. Some creepy, but most polite and well-meaning. Did I have any inkling what sort of monster I was talking to then? “See? You’ve already forgotten me. To you, I’m just another fan. A number. A face among millions. But I needed more. I needed toknow youin person. I’m sorry for how it had to happen, and it’s my greatest hope that someday, you’ll be able to understand that. I also hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive me for it.”

I clutch my hands to my chest. “Of course I will. I’ll forgive you if you let me go. I’m so happy to meet you. Honestly. I’m sorry I didn’t realize we’d spoken. I’m so grateful for your support. But I need to go home. My family will be worried about me.”

“Your family is gone, Mari. I know about the shooting. I know you’re alone.”

Shooting.The word assaults me, slamming into my chest with a vengeance. Most days I can’t even bring myself to think about it. Still, occasionally it sneaks up on me, a similar incident on the news or in a movie, and I’m right back in that moment. Reliving every second of the horror.

He lifts his hand, brushing a bit of my hair back from my eyes. “It must’ve been so hard.”

“Don’t talk about them,” I say through gritted teeth, hating the betraying tears that line my eyes. I hate him so much it physically hurts me.

“Please don’t cry. You’re not alone anymore, Mari. Don’t you get that? You have me now. You’ll never be alone again.” He pulls me into a hug, whispering gently in my ear as he rocks us back and forth. “It’s all going to be okay. I promise everything will be okay.” My entire body is stiff as a board under his grip, and I loathe him so much I feel like I could combust.

“What do you want from me?” My lips brush the fabric of his shirt, and I want to vomit at the rancid scent of his sweat. My only hope at this point is that Kassara has called the police with my location. His name will do nothing for me, but still, I’m so grateful I had the forethought to give her the address where I was headed.

It will only be a matter of time before the police arrive and I’m rescued. I have to hold onto that hope.

Seemingly in no hurry to answer my question, he pulls back and lies down on his stomach across the bed, his feet up in the air over his back like we’re girlfriends at a picnic discussing the cute boy in class. “I want to talk about your books.”

“What about them?”

He clicks his tongue, thinking. “Well, we’ll start withDeadly Games.”

“What do you want to know?” The thought of my debut story reminds me of my husband, of the early days when this was all still just a pipe dream. When we’d sat in the living room of our first apartment and dreamed of what someday might be our reality. That was when I’d had the initial idea for what would become my debut novel. But I refuse to share any of those memories with this monster. Those are mine. They belong to me. They once belonged to us. To the man I loved more than anything else in this world.

“How did you come up with it?”

“I, um, I heard a story on the news about a serial killer who carved a symbol into his victim’s skin.” Saying it out loud makes me feel terrible, even now. “I thought it would make for an interesting story.”

He rolls over to his side, propping his head up on his palm. “Oh, your instincts are so spot on. Interesting, it was. One of the darkest, most twisted books I’ve ever read. As soon as I finished, I knew you were something special.” He stares at me with wide-eyed wonder. “I brought it to class with me because I couldn’t put it down.” As he says the words, I can see on his face he’s revealed more than he meant to. “Anyway, I—”

“You were in college?” He looks my age or older, so this is surprising but not completely unbelievable. I had just turned thirty when my debut novel was published thirteen years ago.

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