He sniffles, snot leaking down his chapped lips.
“Mexican, bald, has a scar cutting across his hairline, and a beard. You can’t miss the scar, it’s pretty fucked looking.”
I roll my neck, groaning as the muscles pop. It’s been a long fucking day.
“Cool, thanks man,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been torturing him slowly for the past three hours.
His breathing calms, and he looks up at me through ugly brown eyes, hope radiating from them in spades.
I almost laugh.
“Y-you’re letting me go?” he asks, staring up at me like a goddamn stray puppy dog.
“Sure,” I chirp. “If you can get up and walk.”
He looks down at his severed heels, knowing just as well as I do if he stands, his body will go pitching forward.
“Please, man,” he blubbers. “Can you help me out here?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I can do that,” I say, right before I swing my arm back and plunge the entirety of my knife through his pupil.
He dies instantly. Not even all the hope has vanished from his eyes yet. Or rather, his one eye.
“You’re a child rapist,” I say aloud, though he’s no longer capable of hearing me. “Like I’d let you live,” I finish on a laugh.
I slide my knife from the socket, the suction noise threatening to ruin any dinner plans I had in the next several hours. Which is annoying cause I’m hungry. While I do enjoy myself a good torture session, I’m definitely not a dickhead that gets off on the sounds that accompany it.
The gurgling, slurping, and other weird noises bodies make when enduring extreme pain and foreign objects being plunged into them is not a soundtrack I’d ever fall asleep to.
And now for the worst part—dismembering it into bits and pieces and disposing of them properly. I don’t trust other people to do it for me, so I’m stuck with the tedious, messy job.
I sigh. What is that saying? If you want it done right, do it yourself?
Well, in this case—if you don’t want to get caught and charged for murder, dispose of the body yourself.
It feels like ten o’clock at night, but it’s only five P.M. As fucked as it is after dealing with human body parts, I’m in the mood for a mean ass burger.
My favorite burger joint is right off of 3rd Avenue, and not too far of a drive from my house. Parking is a bitch in Seattle, so I’m forced to park a few blocks away and walk there.
A storm is rolling in, and soon sheets of rain will be descending on our heads and shoulders like icepicks—typical Seattle weather.
I whistle an unnamed tune as I walk down the street, passing shops and an array of stores with people bustling in and out like a bunch of worker ants.
Ahead of me, there’s a bookstore lit up, the warm glow shining onto the cold, wet pavement and inviting passersby into its warmth. As I near, I notice it’s packed full of people.
I spare it a single glance before moving on. I don’t care about fiction books—I only read the ones that are going to teach me something. Particularly about computer science and hacking.
By now, there’s nothing those books can teach me anymore. I’ve mastered and then surpassed it.
As I’m turning my head to look at some other shit, my eyes get caught up on a board right outside the bookstore, a smiling face beaming back at me.
Without permission, my feet slow until they’re glued to the cement sidewalk. Someone bumps into me from behind, their smaller stature barely knocking me forward, but it does manage to jolt me out of the weird trance I fell into anyway.
I turn to glare at the enraged guy behind me, their mouth opening and gearing up to cuss me out, yet the second he gets one look at my scarred face—he takes off into a half-walk, half-run. I’d laugh if I weren’t so distracted.
Before me is a picture of an author that’s hosting a book signing.
She’s fucking incredible.
Long, wavy cinnamon hair brushed over dainty shoulders. Creamy, ivory skin with freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Light and sporadic without overwhelming her innocent face.
Her eyes are what draw me in. Sultry, slanted eyes—the type that always look seductive without trying. They’re nearly the same color as her hair. A brown so light, it’s unusual. One look from this girl and any man would be on their knees.
Her lips are pouty and pink, stretched into a radiant smile with straight, white teeth.
I note the name below the picture.
Adeline Reilly.
A beautiful name fit for a goddess.
She doesn’t have that plastic beauty you see lining the magazine rack. Though she could easily make it on one of those covers without photoshop and surgery, her features are natural.
I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. Fucked a lot, too.
But something about her captivates me. It feels like a hurricane is at my back, pushing me towards her and leaving no room for resistance. My feet are carrying me into the bookstore, my black boots soaking the welcome mat at the entrance.
The only lingering scent filling the air is one you attain from used books—though convoluted from the large group of people congesting the area. This small structure wasn’t built to house more than the ten large bookshelves lining the left side of the room, the small checkout desk on the right side, and maybe thirty people. Now, there’s a large table in the middle of the room where the author sits, and at least double the occupancy limit packed in the stuffy store.
It’s too hot in here. Too crowded.
And one asshole beside me keeps picking his nose, his dirty hand touching all over the book he’s holding. I glimpse Reilly on the cover.
Poor girl. Forced to sign a book that probably has boogers all over it.
I open my mouth, ready to tell the fucker to stop looking for treasure in his nostrils when it feels like heaven’s gates open up.
In that second, the people in front of us seem to part at the perfect angle, providing me with a clear view. I only see her from the corner of my eye at first, but the small glimpse is enough to send my heart into a tailspin.
My head turns like one of those creepy bitches in an exorcist movie—slow, but instead of an evil smile, I’m sure I look like I just found out that there’s evidence the earth is actually flat or some shit.
Because that’s also fucking laughable.
Oxygen, words, coherent thoughts—all that shit escapes me when I get my first look at Adeline Reilly in the flesh.
Shit.
She’s even more exquisite in person. The sight of her has my knees weakening and my pulse racing.
I don’t know if God really exists. I don’t know if mankind has ever walked on the moon. Nor do I know if parallel universes exist. But what I do know is that I just found the meaning of life sitting behind a table with an awkward smile on her face.
Taking a deep breath, I find a spot against the wall in the back. I don’t want to get too close yet.
No.
I want to watch her for a while.
So I stay in the back, peeking through dozens of heads to get a good look at her. Thank god for my height because I’d probably barrel through everybody if I were short.
A tall, willowy woman hands my new obsession a microphone, and for a brief moment, the latter looks like she’s ready to bolt. She stares at the mic as if the woman is handing over a severed head.
But the look is gone in seconds, barely there before she slides her mask in place. And then she snatches the microphone and brings it to her wobbly lips.
“Before we start…”
Fuck, her voice is pure smoke. The kind you really only hear in porn videos. I suck in my bottom lip, biting back a groan.
I lean against the wall and watch her, absolutely enthralled with the little creature before me.
Something inexplicably dark arises in my chest. It’s black and evil and cruel. Dangerous, even.
All I want to do is break her. Shatter her into pieces. And then arra
nge those pieces to fit against my own. I don’t care if they don’t fit—I’ll fucking make them.
And I know I’m about to do something bad. I know that I’m going to cross lines that I will never be able to come back from, but there’s not an ounce of me that gives a fuck.
Because I’m obsessed.
I’m addicted.
And I will gladly cross every single line if it means making this girl mine. If it means forcing her to be mine.
My mind has already been made up, the decision fortifying like granite in my brain. At that moment, her wandering eyes slide right onto mine, clashing with a force that nearly sends my knees to the ground. Her eyes round in the corners ever-so-slightly, as if she’s just as enraptured by me as I am by her.
And then the reader before her is pulling her attention away, and I know I need to leave now before I do something stupid like kidnap her in front of at least fifty witnesses.
No matter. She won’t be able to escape me now.
I’ve just found myself a little mouse, and I won’t stop until I’ve trapped her.
Chapter 3
The Manipulator
T his isn’t how I imagined I’d spend my Friday night. Digging around in the walls of an old-ass house with god knows what kind of creatures trapped inside.
I’m just waiting for a rabid squirrel to jump up and latch onto my outstretched arm, driven mad with hunger and willing to eat anything due to so many years being trapped in the walls, nothing but bugs to keep it fed.
My arm is shoulder-deep in the goddamn hole Greyson created, a flashlight held tightly in my grip. There is just enough space to fit my arm and part of my head in at an odd angle to look around.
This is stupid. I’m stupid.
The second I heard the door hit Greyson’s ass on the way out, I inspected the damage. It’s not a massive hole, but what gave me pause was the rather large gap between the two walls. At least three or four feet of space. And why else would it be built this way if there wasn’t a reason?
It feels like a magnet is pulling me towards it. And every time I try to pull away, a deep vibration travels through my bones. The tips of my fingers buzz with the need to reach out. To just look inside the fathomless void and find what is calling my name.
Now here I am, bent over and stuffing myself in a hole. Suppose if I couldn’t get mine stuffed tonight, I might as well get my action this way.
The flashlight on my phone reveals wooden beams, thick cobwebs, dust, and bug carcasses on the inside of the wall. I turn the other direction and point the light down the other side. Nothing. The webs are too thick to see much, so I use my phone like a baton and start tearing down some of them.
I swear if I drop it, I’ll be pissed. There will be no getting it back and I’ll have to get a new one.
I wince from the feel of the hair-like webs brushing across my skin, imitating the sensation of bugs crawling on me. I turn back towards the left and shine the light one more time.
I bat down a couple more cobwebs, ready to just give up and ignore the siren call that got me into this dumbass situation in the first place.
There.
A little way down the hall is something glinting off the light. Just the barest hint, but it’s enough for me to jump in excitement, knocking my head off the thick drywall and sending flakes tumbling down in my hair.
Ow.
Ignoring the dull throbbing in the back of my head, I rip my arm out and rush down the hallway, guesstimating the distance on where I saw the mysterious object.
Grabbing a picture frame, I unhook it from its nail and gently set it down. I do this several more times until I come across a picture of my great-grandmother sitting on a retro bike, a bundle of sunflowers sitting in the basket. She smiles wide, and even though the picture is black and white, I know she’s wearing red lipstick. Nana said she’d put on her red lipstick before she’d put on the coffee.
I pull the picture from the wall and stifle a gasp when I see an army green safe in front of me. It’s old, with a mere dial for the lock. Excitement burns in my lungs as my fingers drift over the dial.
I’ve discovered a treasure. And I suppose I have Greyson to thank for that. Though I’d like to think I would’ve taken these pictures down eventually for the sake of no longer having my ancestors look down on my extremely questionable decisions.
I’m staring at the safe as a cold breeze washes across my body, turning my blood into ice. The sudden freezing temperature has me turning around, my eyes sweeping the empty hallway.
My teeth chatter, and I think I even see my breath puff out of my mouth. And just as quickly as it came, it dissipates. Slowly, my body warms up to a normal temperature, but the chill down my spine lingers.
I'm unable to tear my eyes away from the empty space, waiting for something to happen but as the minutes tick by, I end up just standing there.
Focus, Addie.
Gently setting the picture down, I decide to brush off the weird chill and google how to break open a safe. After finding several forums that list a step-by-step process, I run off towards my grandfather’s toolbox collecting dust in the garage.
The space was never used for cars, even when Nana owned the house. Instead, generations of junk collected here, consisting mainly of my grandfather’s tools and some odds and ends from the house. I grab the tools I need, run back up the stairs, and proceed to force my way into the safe. The old thing is pretty shitty in terms of protection, but I suppose whoever hid this box here didn’t actually expect anyone to find it. At least not in their lifetime.
Several failed attempts, bouts of frustrated groaning, and a smashed finger later, I finally crack the sucker open. Using my flashlight again, I find three brown leather-bound books inside. No money. No jewels. Nothing of value really—at least not monetary value.
I hadn’t been hoping for those things honestly, but I’m still surprised to find none, considering that’s what most people use safes for.
I reach in and grab the journals, reveling in the feel of the buttery soft leather under my fingertips. A smile breaks across my face as I trail my fingers over the inscription on the first book.
Genevieve Matilda Parsons.
My great-grandmother—Nana’s mother. The very woman in the picture concealing the safe, notorious for her red lipstick and bright smile. Nana always said she went by the name Gigi.
A quick look at the other two books reveals the same name. Her diaries? They have to be.
Dazed, I walk to my bedroom, close the door behind me and settle down on my bed, legs crossed. A leather cord is wrapped around each book, holding them closed. The outside world fades as I grab the first journal, carefully unwrap the cord, and open the book.
It is a diary. Every page has an entry written in a feminine script. And at the bottom of each page is my great-grandmother’s trademark lipstick kiss.
She died before I was born, but I grew up hearing countless stories about her. Nana said she inherited her wild personality and sharp tongue from her mother. I wonder if Nana ever knew about the diaries. If she’s ever read them.
If Genevieve Parsons is as wild as Nana said she was, then I imagine these diaries have all sorts of stories to show me. Smiling, I open the other two books and confirm the date on the first page of each book to ensure I’m starting from the beginning.
And then I stay up all night reading, growing more disturbed by each entry.
A thump from below wakes me out of a restless sleep. It feels like being ripped from a deep, persistent fog that lingers in the recess of my brain.
Blinking my eyes open, I stare at my closed door, focusing on the faint outline until my brain catches up with what I heard. My heart is well ahead of me, the muscle beating inside my chest rapidly while the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
A cloud of unease rolls in the pit of my stomach, and it’s not until several seconds later that I realize the sound I heard was the shutting of my front door.
Slowly, I sit up and s
lide out from under the covers. Adrenaline is coursing through my system now, and I’m wide awake.
Someone was just inside my house.
The sound could have been anything. It could have been the foundation settling. Or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. But just like when your gut is telling you something bad is going to happen—mine is telling me that someone was just in my fucking house.
Was it the person that pounded on my door? It has to be, right? It’s too much of a coincidence to have a stranger deliberately trek over a mile to the manor just to bang on the door and leave. And now they’re back.
If they ever left at all.
Shakily, I get up from my bed, a cold chill washing over me and puckering my skin into goosebumps. I shiver, nabbing my phone from the nightstand and pad lightly over to the door. Slowly, I open it, cringing at the loud creak that rings out.
I need the Tin Man to oil the hinges on my door just as much as I need the Lion’s bravery. I’m shaking like a leaf, but I refuse to cower and let someone walk around my house freely.
Flipping the switch on, the few working lights flicker, illuminating the hallway just enough for my mind to play tricks on me and conjure shadow people residing just beyond the light. And as I slowly make my way towards the staircase, I feel eyes from the pictures lining the walls watching me as I pass by.
Watching me make yet another stupid mistake. As if they’re saying stupid girl, you’re about to get murdered.
Watch your back.
They’re right behind you.
The last thought has me gasping and turning around, though I know no one is actually behind me. My stupid fucking brain is a little bit too imaginative.
A trait that works wonders for my career, but I don’t fucking appreciate it in this very moment.
Forging on at a quicker pace, I make my way down the stairs. Immediately, I turn on the lights, wincing from the brightness that burns my retinas.
Better than the alternative.
I would die on the spot if I was searching around with a single beam of light and found someone lurking in my house that way. One second no one is there, and the next second hello, there’s my murderer. No fucking thank you.
Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1) Page 3