No fucking idea how ballerinas do it.
My bedroom door is shut. Adrenaline steadily releases into my bloodstream, like injecting heroin in a vein.
It wasn’t shut before.
I stand outside my door, staring at it as if it’s going to grow a face and warn me of what’s inside. That’d totally be beneficial right now.
Because not knowing what I will find on the other side is the worst part. That’s what makes my heart pound viciously in my chest and tightens my lungs.
Will I open the door and see the shadow from my nightmares? Going through my things?
My eyes widen, realization hitting that the sick fuck could be going through my underwear drawer. The thought sends a tsunami of anger washing over me, and before I can consider the ramifications, I barrel through the door.
No one is inside.
I charge through the room, checking every corner before storming out onto the balcony. No one.
Chest heaving, I whip around and scope out the room, trying to figure out where an intruder could hide. My eyes pause on the closet.
I aim for it, sliding the door open so forcefully, it nearly comes off the track. My arm lashes through the clothing, searching for someone that isn't here.
But I know I heard something.
My breath catches when I turn, and my eyes sweep across my bed, forcing me to backtrack. Right under my bed is Gigi’s diary, lying on the floor and flipped open.
That must’ve been what the thump was, but how the fuck did it fall? My blood freezes when I look on my nightstand and see the diary I’ve been reading still there.
I had put Gigi’s other two diaries in my nightstand for safekeeping until I got to them. So how did one of them end up on the floor?
With another suspicious sweep of the room, I walk over to the book and pick it up, leaving it open. Skimming my eyes across the page, I pause when I take in the words.
Judging by the dates, it’s the last book she wrote in before she died. The three books span across two years, Gigi having died on May 20th, 1946.
The book was open on an entry two days before Gigi’s murder, May 18th. She’s expressing fear, but she doesn’t say of who. Clearly, she’s terrified of something. My heart thumps harder as I ingest her rushed words.
She talks about someone being after her. Scaring her. Who, though? Forgetting about everything else around me, I sit on the edge of the bed and flip to the beginning.
With each passing entry, her words become clipped and fearful. Before I know it, I’m nearly ripping through the pages, trying to find any inkling of who her murderer is.
But on the very last page, her last words are: he came for me. No lipstick kiss on the page. Just those four daunting words. I turn the page, looking to see if there’s more. Desperate for it, actually.
There are no more entries, but I do notice something strange.
A jagged piece of paper sticks out from the spine. I trace my fingers over it. A page has been ripped out of the diary.
Did she write down something important and decide it wasn’t worth the risk of anyone knowing? All three of these books are risqué, full of cheating and sex. Above all, full of love for a man that stalked her.
I look up, staring ahead but seeing nothing.
When Mom left, she left with the hopes that I’d listen to her advice and move out of Parsons Manor. But when she walked out of that door, the sickening smell of her Chanel perfume lingering in my nostrils, I decided I didn’t want to move.
Did Nana have a weird attachment to the manor? Possibly. But if this house meant so much to her, it doesn’t feel right to give it away. Even if that means I have an unhealthy attachment, too.
And now, that decision is only solidifying. There’s no way this book could’ve ended up on the floor. Yet it did. And I don’t know if it was Nana’s doing, or Gigi’s, but someone wanted me to read these entries.
Do they want me to find the person who killed Gigi? God, I can’t imagine how difficult it would’ve been to solve a murder in the 40s with such underwhelming technology. Is her murderer even still alive?
Maybe it doesn’t matter if he is or not. Maybe Gigi wants justice for her murder, and for the man that ended her life too soon to be exposed—dead or alive.
I exhale a shaky breath, my fingers tracing the four daunting words.
He came for me.
“Can you please explain to me why you’re making me hack into the PD’s database to look at crime photos of your murdered grandmother?” Daya asks from beside me, her fingers hovering over her mouse.
I’m tempted to reach over and push her finger down for her so she’ll finally click the damn button. Once she does, it’ll pull up Gigi’s records.
I sigh. “I told you already. She was murdered. And I think I know who did it, I just… well, I don’t know anything about him but his first name, and the fact that he stalked her.”
Daya eyes me, but eventually relents. She clicks the mouse—finally—and pulls up Gigi’s crime scene photos.
They’re pretty disturbing. Gigi had been found in her bed, with her throat slit and a cigarette burn on her wrist. They never found the killer due to insufficient evidence.
A lot of blame pointed towards the officers that responded to the call, citing that they trampled all over the crime scene. Evidence was lost or contaminated by the police force, and fingers were pointed, but ultimately, no one was held accountable for it.
Daya clicks through the photos, each one more disturbing than the last. Close up pictures of the wound on her neck. The burn on her wrist. Gigi’s face, frozen in fear as her dead eyes stare back at the camera. And her signature lipstick smeared across her cheek.
I swallow, the sight a stark contrast to the picture that concealed her safe. Her wide, smiling face so full of life and fire. And then her dead, cold body frozen in fear.
Whoever had killed her had scared her pretty bad. A niggling feeling tugs at the back of my head. Based on Gigi’s entries, her stalker didn’t scare her. In fact, it sounds like he did the exact opposite.
I shake the thought from my head. He was obsessed with her, and there were several entries nearing her death that indicated they weren't getting along due to his jealousy over her marriage.
His obsession must’ve been of the deadly variety.
Daya then clicks over to the police reports. Not just the ones released to the public, but documents from the investigation that were confidential.
Technically, the investigation is still open. It’s just gone cold.
We took our time reading through the documents, but in the end, the only thing we learned was the time of death, and the fact that Gigi fought and fought hard.
My great-grandfather, John, was immediately ruled out due to having several eyewitness reports seeing him at the grocery store during the time of the murder.
I bite my lip, the thought eliciting guilt, yet I can’t help but think it.
What if he was still an accomplice?
I shake the thought from my head. No. There’s no way. My great-grandfather loved Gigi, despite the fact that their marriage was falling apart at the seams.
It had to be her stalker.
It’s the obvious explanation. The stalker gained Gigi’s trust—somehow—made her feel comfortable enough that she relaxed around him. And then he killed her.
“There has to be significance to that ripped-out page,” I murmur, growing frustrated from the lack of evidence. I could never be a detective and do this shit every day.
“Maybe the killer did it,” Daya guesses, scrolling mindlessly through the pictures.
I twist my lips, considering it before I shake my head. “No, that wouldn’t make sense. Why would they rip only one page out and not just dispose of all the journals? They’re all incriminating. Whether it was the stalker or someone else, Gigi speaks of being hunted. And if it wasn’t the stalker, then they could’ve easily pinned the blame on Ronaldo and been done with it. Whoever it was, they can’t
have known about these. Gigi had to have ripped the page out before hiding the books.”
Daya nods her head. “You’re right. Whatever is on that missing page is important, but we can’t rely on that.”
“We need to figure out who Ronaldo is,” I conclude.
Daya nods her head, appearing a little exhausted from the thought. Can’t say I’m not either.
“And we have nothing to go off of. There’s no mention of his last name. Barely any physical description.”
“He had a scar on his hand,” I offer, recalling mentions of those things in Gigi's diary. “And wore a gold ring.”
“Did she mention his social standing? Job? Anything that could lead us to who he might be?”
I twist my lips, “I’ll have to look again. I remember she said he was involved in something dangerous, but I haven't gotten the chance to read through everything yet.”
She nods and heaves out a weighted sigh. “Until then, I think we’re going to be stuck until we find Ronaldo or that missing page.”
I sigh, my shoulders drooping. “That could literally be anywhere, or it not even exist anymore.”
Daya looks at me then, sympathy in her eyes. “We'll keep trying different avenues. I’m just as invested as you at this point.”
I shoot her a grateful smile before looking back at the crime scene photos.
This was undoubtedly a crime of passion, and if I know anything, stalkers tend to be deeply passionate about their obsessions.
I bolt upright, a gasp lingering on the tip of my tongue. Sweat coats my skin, and my hair is plastered to my cheeks, neck, and down my back.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. But something woke me.
Heart pounding, my sleep-riddled eyes drift over the dark room. Just enough light from the moon filters in through the balcony doors. The furniture casts shadows across the room, creating figures that aren’t really there. I don’t mind the phantoms dancing across my floor, but whatever woke me has a presence. A soul.
The floorboards creak from my right, outside my bedroom door. My head snaps in the direction, and I suck in a sharp breath. The hair rises on the back of my neck, like a scared dog backed in a corner.
I hold the air in my lungs, careful not to make a sound should I hear the noise again. Stillness settles around the house. Too still. My fingers clench the duvet on my lap as my heart rate increases.
Someone is outside my room.
But how?
How the fuck did he make it past the alarm system?
Another creak followed by heavy footsteps. A methodical walk, slow and purposeful. Intentional.
I slowly slip out of bed and tiptoe backwards until my back presses against the cool stone wall, creating distance between the intruder outside my door and me.
Despite my best efforts, I release a shaky breath. My chest heaves with small, fast pants as the footsteps come closer.
I’m frozen. My back is pressed so deeply into the stone that I’m becoming a part of it, preventing me from moving. From hiding.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
Desperately, my eyes search across the expanse of the room. They land on a lone screwdriver sitting on the chest at the end of the bed. I had carelessly tossed it aside after assembling my vanity chair, and now it sits there like a beacon of hope. Possibly the only thing that could keep me alive tonight.
Move, Addie. Goddammit, MOVE!
My limbs unlock, and I rush to the screwdriver, gripping the tool in my slick hands. My eyes are glued to the door handle, waiting for the knob to turn. Quietly, I slink over to the door and mold myself to the wall.
I’ll wait for him to come in and then attack. Hopefully I can get the screwdriver lodged in his neck before he knows what’s happening.
So with bated breath, I wait. The knob doesn’t turn, but I can feel deep in my bones that someone is out there. Are they waiting for me? They’re out of their mind if they think I’ll open that door. I suppose they must be, though, if they’re breaking into my house and lingering outside my room.
The longest minute of my life passes. It feels like it’s been hours before I hear another creak. And then I hear the footsteps retreat. Further and further they fade, until eventually I no longer hear them at all.
My ears prick, and just like I suspected, I hear my front door shut. A soft click that feels like thunder in a silent house. Instantly, I rip open the door and run across the hall into the bedroom with windows that face the driveway.
Hunkering down, I peek through the curtains and wait for the person to emerge from the front porch.
It feels like an eternity passes, but I imagine it’s only been seconds before I see movement. An audible cry leaves my lips when a large man saunters off the steps and walks out onto my driveway. He’s wearing all black, with a deep hood settled over his head.
He’s tall—very tall, but not bulky. Even beneath his clothing, I can tell his body is fucking lethal. Lean, but packed with muscle. His hoodie clings to his body, showing off his broad shoulders, thick arms, and trimmed waist.
God, he could crush me if he wanted to. His hand looks big enough to cover the entirety of my face. Or wrap around my neck.
Would he do it to cause pain or pleasure? Does my shadow want to hurt me or love me?
He stills, his back facing me. He can feel me watching him, just like I felt him outside my door.
I find myself curling deeper into the shadows, out of sight. My heart is still racing, though now for an entirely different reason.
Something about him has me wanting to press my face into the window. I want to see him. I want to see the man that’s been creeping inside my house, leaving me flowers, and mutilating any unsuspecting soul that dared to touch me.
Was his hand on the knob, ready to come in? What stopped him?
As if hearing my thoughts, he cocks his head slightly. Intently, I watch him slowly turn his head to the side. And ever so slightly, he raises his chin, the moonlight revealing his wide mouth and a sharp jaw.
I huddle deeper into the wall, feeling his eyes on me. There’s no way he can see me. Yet somehow, I feel his gaze piercing me anyway. Like little, sharp knives grazing my skin before digging inside me.
And then he smiles, his mouth stretching into a wicked smirk. My breath hitches, and my lungs fill with fire.
Oh, this is funny to you, asshole?
Before I can process what to do—what I’m feeling—he turns and walks away, disappearing into the tree line. Slow and purposeful, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
chapter 11
The Manipulator
D aya said Nana was the freak, but I’m starting to wonder if it was her mother that was the freak. I skim through the diary, reading over her words.
I’m sitting in the same rocking chair Gigi used to sit in to write in her diary while her stalker watched on. While she let him feast his eyes on her, and got off on it too, apparently.
Snapping the book shut, I throw it on the footstool before me, the furniture rocking from the movement of the heavy book.
I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off the blooming headache.
I mean, what was she thinking? Letting a strange man watch her, come into her home, and touch her? That’s insane. Certifiably insane.
What’s truly insane is the fact that I found this diary, and a stalker found me on the same night. I don’t want to think about what that means.
The wind blows outside the window, rattling the glass. Storm clouds are rolling in, the ever-present weather that plagues Seattle like bad acne. Just when you think we're going to have a lovely sunny day, a storm cloud pops up, ready to burst.
Okay, gross, Addie.
A loud thump sounds from the kitchen, causing me to nearly jump out of my seat. Heart pumping heavily in my chest, I look towards the direction and find nothing amiss.
“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers.
Attempting to even my breathing, I
turn back right as movement from the corner of my eye snags my attention right outside the window. My head snaps in that direction and my eyes zero in on whatever it was I just saw. It’s nearly pitch-black outside save for the moonlight and a single light outside my front door.
Another flash of movement causes me to nearly plant my face against the glass. It’s a person, walking towards my house, having emerged from between two large trees. My eyes narrow into thin slits as the person’s shape becomes more apparent.
He’s back.
After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back.
My hand drifts over to the end table next to me, snagging the butcher knife I’ve been carrying around with me since he broke into my house last. Turns out my security cameras are useless with him. The second he left, I checked them just to find out that they didn’t catch sight of him.
When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went wide with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and made it appear as if nothing was happening while he was walking through my house while I slept.
She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so well, it was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to come to that conclusion is because she knows how technology works and she does the same thing herself for her job.
This guy is dangerous—in more ways than just his violent tendencies.
I grip the handle in my fist and settle it on my lap. As he nears, my heart pounds in my chest, matching each step he takes towards me.
I stand and close in on my window. I don’t know what I’m doing exactly. Provoking him? Daring him to come inside my house again? If he does, I have every right to defend myself.
The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again hidden deep in a hood. He widens his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something I can’t see. It’s not until I see him flick a lighter, enunciating his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette and a blaring cherry.
Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1) Page 11