Just to repeat the process.
It’s torture in itself. Not knowing if I’m going to strike. Or when.
“Do not call me Archie,” he snaps, seething as I stand behind him. He’s tense.
I circle back to the front and his shoulders loosen, just an inch.
“You’re evading the question, Archie,” I point out, deliberately using the name. He snarls at my defiance but doesn’t reply.
His mother always called him Archie. Up until she died of breast cancer when he was ten years old. That’s when his father lost it and started dealing drugs to make money to pay off all the medical bills and funeral expenses.
He raised his children to be cold and ruthless, and Archie here never let anyone call him by his mother’s nickname without stabbing them.
He’s stabbed a lot of people for calling him that name, including his best friend Max. His buddy complained about it a time or two in a bar Jay frequents.
“Don’t make me ask again,” I warn, my voice lowering to convey just how serious I am.
“I don’t know,” he shouts, frustrated. “A couple, I guess. The fuck does it matter?”
“I read up on your ex-wife,” I say, ignoring the stupid fucking question. “You beat her so badly, she was barely recognizable when she was taken to the hospital. Evidence indicated that you broke a tequila bottle against her face and then stabbed her with it. Not to mention the countless broken bones and bruises. You nearly killed her.”
Archie sniffs, not the slightest bit of remorse reflecting in his cold eyes. The narcissistic assholes never are. Somehow, they twist it in their head that the victim deserved it and whatever injuries inflicted upon them were their own fault.
“She was cheating on me,” he replies petulantly. Pouting like a child that didn’t get a birthday cake.
“Did you cheat on her first?”
“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps back. “She’s the wife and I make the money. If I feel like buying a stripper for a night, that’s my goddamn right. All she ever did was sit at home on her lazy ass and spend my money.”
I nod, accepting his answer for what it is.
“Would you have hurt Addie?” I ask after a pregnant pause.
He scoffs. “I would’ve fucked her how I like to fuck. If she ends up with a couple of bruises, so what? Bitches like that shit. They like it rough.”
Renewed anger punches me in the chest. And it takes all my self-control not to plunge this screwdriver in his eye right then and there.
Archie wouldn’t know how to have proper rough sex if he was given a fucking manual for it. He hurts women because he enjoys it. He doesn’t know how to push women to the edge of pain and pleasure, balancing between the two and making them desperate for more.
He just hurts them. By the time he’s done, the girl is thoroughly bruised and traumatized—maybe even bleeding. And he’s walking away with a satisfied smirk on his face, as if he was the first man to prove a woman orgasming isn’t actually a myth.
“You didn’t hurt Addie,” I observe, waiting for the answer I know he’ll give. He isn’t desperate enough yet—scared enough. He’s still attempting to put on a false bravado act and die with dignity. But that will change very soon.
He smirks. “You gotta relax them first. The plans I had for her…” he trails off, licking his lips vulgarly. “Her cries would’ve been such a beautiful song.”
Again, I nod my head in acceptance of the answer. I accept it because it fuels exactly what I have planned for him.
And I’m very much going to embody his method for sex. I will enjoy hurting him and making him bleed, and him? He will wish he had never met Adeline Reilly.
Chapter 10
The Manipulator
“H ave you heard anything?” I interrogate, my phone growing slick from the persistent anxiety since Arch went missing from my doorstep.
“No one has been able to locate him,” Daya answers through the phone. She’s been looking into Arch’s disappearance herself since I told her what happened last night, never one to rely on the police to solve anything.
But Daya doesn’t have much to go off of. She hacked into Arch’s known enemy’s systems—their cameras, phones, laptops, and the GPS on their cars. Just like we suspected, they had no connection to Arch’s disappearance—at least not that we could find.
It was my shadow who took him. And without having any idea who he is, there’s really no way to find Arch.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I practically got this man killed,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes.
“Babe, I hate to say this, but I don’t think that’s the worst thing that could’ve happened. I think this guy would’ve really hurt you. The things he did to his ex-wife… they’re unspeakable. He wasn’t a good man. None of those guys were…” she trails off, and I don’t need her words to know she’s thinking about Luke.
She said they had an incredible night together, but she ghosted him the second she found out what kind of guy Arch is—was.
She said anyone who is friends with a man like Arch isn’t a nice man themselves.
Can’t really disagree with that, either.
I take a deep breath. “I know, you’re right. I guess I just don’t like that he was hurt—maybe killed—because of me. I would’ve much preferred one of his many enemies caught up with him.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been the best-case scenario,” she allows.
“The best-case scenario would’ve been a wild night of hot sex with a hot guy where I orgasm multiple times and then send him off on his merry way,” I interrupt.
She pauses a beat before saying, “Yeah, you’re right. But that’s not what would’ve happened. Not with this guy’s history. He’s violent.”
“Well, apparently, so is my stalker.”
“I know, which is why I’m hooking you up with a security system. You’re not going to be another statistic, not more than you already are. If you die, I have to follow, and I’m quite attached to my body. God gave me a good one this lifetime.”
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, especially because she’s not even religious.
“Okay, just bill me for it,” I agree. I like the idea of having cameras in my house. It makes me feel better about someone sneaking around when I can’t see them.
“I’ll be over later to set them up.”
Getting cameras will be the first thing to happen in a month that gives me any semblance of safety. No matter how fragile it is.
I’m just finishing up another chapter when I hear the USPS truck pull up. The mailman has always been a pretty nice guy. He doesn’t stick around long and spends most of his time glancing around nervously.
The last time I asked him about it, he said something evil happened here.
And since a man went missing off my doorstep last night, I'd say several evil things have happened here.
I open the door just as he’s dropping off several cases of books. I have to sign these and get them shipped out to my readers.
Eight large boxes later, the mailman is panting, sweat running down his light brown face.
“Thank you, Pedro. Sorry for all the boxes,” I say, waving awkwardly.
He waves a hand in acknowledgment before getting back in his truck and shooting off.
I sigh, staring at the boxes with a look of dread. These are going to be a bitch to haul in. I step out, but my foot knocks into the corner of something heavy.
Looking down, I notice a small, lidded cardboard box. There's no shipping label on it, which means Pedro didn't drop this one off.
My heart plummets, a burst of anxiety hitting me right in the gut.
I don’t know why, but my eyes dart towards the woods as if I’m actually going to see someone standing there. I don’t. Of course, I don’t.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pick up the box. And then nearly drop it when I see a smear of blood where the box was sitting.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. God? Please don’
t allow this to happen to me on this fine Sunday morning. Please let me not find what I think I’m going to find,” I pray out loud, my voice cracking as a drop of blood lands on my toe.
Hands shaking, I set the box back down and just panic. There’s a drop of blood on my toe. I knew there was blood on my hands already, but now my toes? I can’t take this.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I tip the lid off with my foot.
Hands.
Severed hands are in the box, just like I feared.
“Oh, fuck me. Fuck this shit.”
I twirl and run back in the house, scrambling to find my phone to call Daya.
The line rings for all of two seconds before she answers.
“I’ll be there in a few hou—”
“Daya.”
“What happened?” she asks sharply.
“A hand. And another hand. Two of them. In a box. On my porch.”
She curses, but my panic mutes the sound.
“Don’t do anything yet. Wait till I get there,” Daya orders. “Go take a couple of shots and wait for me.”
I nod, despite that she can’t see me. But it doesn’t stop me from nodding again and then hanging up without a word.
I do exactly as she says. Taking two shots of vodka to calm my nerves. And then take deep breaths, slowly, in and out until my racing heart calms.
The fucker actually did it. He sent me Arch’s hands. A part of me knew he wouldn’t lie, but somehow, I didn’t believe it anyway.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping my head low between my shoulders, balancing my weight on the edge of the counter.
Twenty minutes later, Daya shows up, her car ripping through the driveway, based on the squealing tires.
Her car door slams shut. By the time I get to the door, she’s approaching my gift still sitting on the porch, her gaze riveted on the grotesque sight.
“This guy is fucking deranged,” Daya spits, picking up the box to inspect the hands closer. “Definitely Arch’s too. He’s got that stupid ass star tattoo on his thumb.”
I blink, curious how she even knows that, but still too much in shock to open my mouth and ask.
“There’s a note in here,” she mumbles, plucking out a piece of paper covered in blood. Carefully, she opens it. It takes her two seconds to read it before she’s sighing and handing it over.
Hesitantly, I reach out and grab the note by the corner that doesn’t have blood on it.
While I will enjoy punishing you for every time you call the police, let’s hold off this time. Wouldn’t want to have to hurt them next, little mouse.
Is this guy shitting me? He’s going to punish me? Don’t you think sending me fucking severed hands is punishment enough, asshole?
“He’s seriously going to threaten to kill a cop?” I hiss. Daya swallows, her eyes darting to the hands.
“I think you need to listen this time,” she says quietly. I look up at her, having come to the same conclusion. This guy is dangerous. Very dangerous.
As much as I want the police to handle this, there are two problems. I don’t have any faith whatsoever that they’d be able to catch the guy. And secondly, I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.
I don’t know if I will be able to bear it.
“I don’t know what to do, Daya,” I whisper, my voice cracking. Daya sets the box down and rushes to me, enveloping me in a tight hug.
“I have a friend coming over to help install the security cameras and alarm system. Listen, normally, I would say call the cops anyway. But I don’t know, Addie. You know how I feel about cops as it is, but I truly don’t believe they will be able to help you. I have some connections, and maybe we can hire a personal bodyguard or something.”
I’m shaking my head before she can finish her last sentence. “So he can die, too?”
She gives me a droll look. “This isn’t just going to be some guy off the streets, Addie. Whatever you’re up against, they can’t be more badass than a trained killer, right?”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I don’t know about any of that yet. Having a bodyguard follow me everywhere just makes me feel like a damsel in distress.”
I can tell by the look on her face that she thinks I’m being stupid. I mean, I do have a hand-chopping, possible murderer stalking me. But then what? I have some random guy following me around until my shadow is caught, and who knows if that’ll ever happen.
I grind my teeth, overwhelmed with frustration. I don’t want to live my life with an extra attachment—an extra limb. And in both scenarios, I have one. One is there to protect me, while the other is there to… I don’t know. Hurt me? Love me?
Either way, I don’t want either of them.
“Do you think Arch is dead?” I ask, failing to keep the tremble out of my voice.
She twists her lips. “I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility. But it’s also possible he chopped off his hands and let him go as a warning. We won’t know until Arch either shows up… or doesn’t.”
I nod. “I’ll let you know about the bodyguard thing. Let’s just see how this alarm system thing works out first.”
“Okay, in the meantime, I’m going to dispose of these hands. I’ll be back in an hour, and then we’re getting hammered.”
My eyes widen. “Daya, you don’t have to do that. This is morbid enough, and I don’t want you to have to—"
The severity of her expression stops me short, my words trailing off.
“I see worse every day, Addie. Go inside, I’ll be back soon.”
Swallowing, I nod and turn towards my door, shooting one last lingering look at my best friend’s retreating form, wondering what the hell she’s involved in if she sees worse than chopped up body parts every day.
“They’re all dead.” The words are a bomb going off in my ear, like that judge in Law Abiding Citizen.
“What?”
“Arch's entire family was reported dead. His father, two brothers, an uncle, and two cousins. I don’t know the details because the crime was fucking smooth as hell. No witnesses. No evidence. Nothing.”
“Oh my God. Do you think it was the stalker?”
She sighs, and even through the phone, I know she’s twirling her nose ring. “That’s a pretty hefty crime, but not impossible. There’s been word that when Arch was reported missing after you called the police, Connor started throwing some serious accusations around to their rivals. The police seem to think it was them, but with lack of evidence, there’s no one to pin it on.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, a headache blooming in my temple. “So the stalker did kill Arch, then.”
“Probably,” she hedges. “If Arch made it back home before the family was wiped, he would’ve said who mutilated him and Connor wouldn’t have gone off on their rivals. So, I think it’s plausible that Connor’s accusations are what got the rest of them killed.”
There’s so many emotions swirling in my head, and I can’t make heads or tails of what I’m feeling. I’m fucking horrified that my shadow murdered somebody.
But he was an evil man.
That shouldn’t matter, should it? And to be perfectly honest, I think his true intentions for killing Arch were because he touched me, not because of his crimes.
“Honestly, Daya, I’m a little relieved. Arch's family won’t come for me now, and I feel so selfish saying that.”
“Then we’re both selfish bitches because I’m happy as hell.” I snort at her enthusiasm. “Look, the Talaverra's were bad people. Arch wasn’t the only one with a bad history. Connor had rape allegations against him, and their father must’ve taught them how to rape and beat a woman because his rap sheet… even worse.”
I nod my head, forgetting she can’t see it.
“I certainly won’t mourn their deaths,” I mutter.
After that, we hang up, both needing to get some work done, but my mind keeps wandering.
Truly, I’m not sad to hear about the fate of the Talaverra's, but there is stil
l that niggling worry in the back of my head that my shadow is the one who delivered it to them.
It’s been a week since Arch went missing and still no sign of my shadow. Not to say he still isn’t sneaking around, but he hasn’t made his presence known.
Daya’s friend set up my new alarm system and cameras, and I’m ashamed of how obsessive I’ve been with checking them since.
The naïve part of me is hoping now that I have a security system, he’ll stay away. But while I make a lot of stupid decisions—and I mean a lot—I’m not stupid enough to believe he isn’t going to show up here soon.
I stretch, groaning as my muscles crack, the barstool in my kitchen doing little to support my back while I write. I’ve been working on a new fantasy novel about a girl escaping slavery, and the deadline I set for myself is vastly approaching.
Right as I begin typing again, a creak from above snags my attention. The sound immediately has my heart kickstarting into overdrive. I pause, listening for any more noises. Several beats pass with no disturbance. The only sounds are the furnace and the low pattering of rain against the window.
Just when I begin to think I’m losing my mind, I hear another creak from directly above me.
Holding my breath, I slowly get up from the stool, the metal legs screeching against the tile. I wince, the eruption loud and unpleasant.
Well, goddammit, good thing I didn’t become a spy. I would so die on the job.
Quickly, I walk over to the silverware drawer, slide it open and grab the butcher knife. Holding this weapon is starting to become a daily routine, and I’m becoming bored with it.
I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing. I clamber towards the stairs, whip around the railing, and quietly make my way up the steps. Briefly, I consider the movie title of the horror movie they’d make after my life.
Making my way down the hall, I peek into open rooms, holding the knife out in front of me. The hallway is long and wide, with five of the bedrooms up here.
Just as I step out of one of the empty bedrooms, I hear a small thump. It sounded like it came from my room.
With bated breath, I creep down the hallway, holding all my weight on my toes.
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