Lunging forward, I grab the paper again. Folding it and holding it tight like I'm afraid my own erratic breaths might blow it away.
This is proof. Proof that someone is after me. Someone is after me and this is their message.
It was me. I'm still out here.
And I'm watching you.
The AC kicks on at that moment and the vent, right above me, bathes me in cold air, sending chills down my body and bringing with it the realization that I'm sweating profusely. Not from physical exertion. From nerves, from the cold wash of fear.
What the hell does he want?
To unhinge me?
It's working. It's fucking working.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Amelia
MY HANDS ARE STILL shaking when the cab pulls into the parking lot of Trident MMA Studio. The squeak of the windshield wipers swiping back and forth against the pouring rain is unnerving.
"We're here," the cab driver says, hesitant.
The building's lights are off and dread fills me for just an instant before I notice the lone car parked in the corner of the lot. Reed's car. It has to be. He said he'd be here. I pay the cab driver and spring out of the car. Rain pours down around me as I run to the entrance.
I bang on the front doors, but feel certain Reed hasn't arrived yet. I turn around to face the darkening parking lot and watch the cab drive away. Being here alone seems like a huge mistake. This building is largely cut off from the nearby shopping center, surrounded by trees on either side. The road in front is desolate, not a single car has passed since the cab drove off.
Rain taps an unsettling rhythm on the pavement.
My unsteady hands fish my phone out of my purse and dial Reed's number again. Pressing the phone to my ear, I wait for an answer, but each ring seems impossibly long.
Ring.
The rain falls harder and I worry the sound could mask someone's footsteps. It's getting impossible to make out my surroundings.
Ring.
Breathing heavily, I keep my back pressed to the gym's door, using the indentation as weak coverage from the rain. My eyes wide, I try to make out any movement in the parking lot.
Ring.
A low click and the lights of the studio cut on behind me, sending my heart shooting up into my throat. Reed appears at the door and I nearly collapse from relief.
"Jesus, Amelia. Get in here. Are you all right?"
I step inside, too relieved by his presence to answer his question. It's not until I take a few squishy steps forward that I realize I'm soaked in rainwater.
"You're shivering," he says, after wrapping a hand around mine to guide me inside.
I'm not wearing a jacket. Just a drenched blouse, clinging to my skin, dark-washed jeans stained darker from the rain.
Reed looks toward an open door at the other end of the gym and seems to weigh a silent decision.
"Come with me."
He heads in the direction of the door before I can ask him where he's taking me. The door leads to a stairwell. The stairwell leads to a landing. The landing leads to a short hall and another door.
Reed opens the door to reveal something unexpected. A living room. Dark wood floors, high ceilings, and a tan leather sectional curving around a large wooden coffee table. The sharp contrast between the sterile, emotionless gym, the industrial hall, and this cozy room is so staggering that I don't follow him inside.
"You live here?"
He's already halfway through the living room when he turns at my words and appears surprised I'm still standing at the doorway.
"I do."
Glancing back at the front door, I wonder why I don't feel apprehensive, standing in his entryway. I barely know Reed and I just followed him up an isolated stairwell, down an obscure hall, and into his freaking home.
My gut would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't it?
I hope so. But I'm so worn down and overstimulated, I can't tell the difference between a whisper from my gut and the blaring of a horn.
"I'll be right back," he says, disappearing through a door off of the living room. Half a minute later, he reemerges, holding folded fabric. He hands the clothes to me and I unfold them to reveal a pair of women's sweatpants and a tank top.
"Uh," I start, hesitant.
"They're my sister's. She came to visit for a few weeks. Left a bunch of her crap behind."
Did I think he was giving me his girlfriend's clothes to wear? Okay—the real question here is: would it matter? Should I care if he has a girlfriend?
No.
No, I shouldn't. The question then becomes: would his sister want me wearing her clothes?
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable wearing her clothes, without asking her."
He appears unconcerned. "Really—it's not a big deal. She lives on the east coast, told me to just dump them when she left, but I haven't gotten around to it. Go change," he says, "Then tell me what's going on."
I pause for just a moment longer. They're just clothes. I can have them washed and returned tomorrow.
"Thanks," I say, "but there's something I need to show you first. It can't wait."
I set the clothes down on the sofa and reach into my purse. My fingers graze the gun and a few other contents as I search around. Panic grips me. Opening my purse with both hands and exposing the contents to the light of the room, my eyes grow wide.
A whisper trails from my lips.
"No…no."
The photo.
The paper with the printed picture, the proof of everything. It's not in here.
It's gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Reed
THE UTTER HELPLESSNESS THAT comes over her rips something inside of me, triggering an insane instinct to pull her into my arms and fix whatever troubles her.
"What's wrong?" I ask, again. The longer she takes to answer me, the more worried I become.
She kneels over the couch, frantically searching through her purse as if her life depends on it. I catch sight of the gun in her bag and straighten.
She turns around and starts scanning the floor, backtracking her footsteps into the room. Eyes desperate, chest rising with quicker, shorter breaths like she's having a panic attack. I wordlessly urge her to sit down onto the couch, not caring that her clothes are still soaked. She does so, but buries her face between her hands, mumbling something that sounds like, "Where is it? Where'd it go? Am I losing my mind?"
I reach into her bag and retrieve the gun without a word.
"Where'd you get this?"
Her head snaps up, eyes fix on me and go wide. The distrust blaring in them just about shreds me.
"I've had it for years. I used to keep it in my bedside drawer. But now I wanted it with me at all times."
I don't ask if she has a concealed carry permit. A glance in the barrel shows a round inside. Though I can tell the gun is fully loaded from its weight alone, I remove the magazine to peer inside then replace it.
"Do you know how to use it?"
She looks annoyed at the question and snaps, "Of course I do."
"Your safety was off and there's a round in the chamber," I tell her, handing it back. "That's not safe."
She takes the gun without responding and sets it back in her purse, hands trembling slightly. I realize she still hasn't told me what the hell is going on. I sit down beside her.
"Amelia," I say, "you can tell me what happened. I can help you."
"Not if you don't believe me," she whispers.
The way her fingers tap mindlessly against her lips as she stares over my shoulder indicates her brain is working overtime. I lay a hand on her shoulder, gently, and use the smoothest, softest voice I can muster.
"Try me."
Her eyes search mine, weighing a decision.
"You'll think I'm going crazy."
"Let me decide for myself."
She lowers the hand from her mouth, takes a deep breath, and tells me. She tells me all about the panicked scene in the p
rinter room, where hundreds of pages were sent to the printer to torment her. Each with a single line from a story she's working on.
"But the last page that printed was a photograph," she says.
She almost sounds calm now. Deliberate and intent on wrangling her emotions long enough for me to take her seriously.
"Of what?"
"Of me. A picture of me standing in front of the steps of my place. He took it, Reed. He wants me to know he's still out there, he wants me to know he's watching me."
Alarm pools in me and rises. I don't speak for several seconds, staring off at nothing in particular as my brain turns over a series of phrases to latch onto a plan of attack. Wireless printer. Print jobs can be traced to their senders. A room where the server and internet routers are kept? Access. Who has access? Inside job. But, motivation. Why? Security. Surveillance footage?
She lets out a humorless laugh. "You think I'm crazy."
"No," I say, wanting so badly for that fear to leave her eyes. "You were so frazzled when you got here, I wouldn't doubt you dropped that paper somewhere."
The realization lights up her face and she nods quickly, but still seems to need convincing. I touch the side of her face, without thinking. I gaze into her eyes and will her to trust in my words.
"Amelia, I believe you." The gratitude and relief in her expression collect right in the center of my chest, spreading an unusual warmth there. Her skin is soft under my palm. Her lids lower for a beat at my touch and when she meets my eyes again, a slow, shaky exhale leaves her lips. "I swear I believe you."
"God," she breathes out. "This nightmare just won't end. He knows where I live. I'm not safe. Anywhere." She pauses, then in a low murmur I may not be meant to hear, she adds, "I'm on my own."
"You're not," I whisper. My hand is still on the side of her face. It's the only part of us touching, and yet the sensation of her spreads through every part of me. "You're not alone."
Lashes lower once again and she blinks rapidly. Before I know it, she pulls away, turning her face from me completely. My confusion dies the moment I realize she's wiping at her eyes with her hands. She sniffles, then clears her throat, but keeps her face turned away.
Everything about her demeanor screams shame at her display of emotions, like she's never in her life allowed herself to cry in front of another person and can't stand the idea of letting someone witness her like this.
All I want right now is to bring her comfort. But I've never been one to know what to say. I come up blank, and every second of silence between us widens into miles of physical distance. Until I can't stand it any longer and pull her into the nook of my arm, her face falling against my chest with a gasp.
Her wet clothes press to mine, spreading the coolness and discomfort she must be feeling. She only allows me to hold her for a few seconds before pulling back to look at me. Her full lips part on a long, shaky breath. Wet strands of hair frame her face and my mouth goes dry at the way her soaked shirt clings to her breasts.
God, I want her. Her lips. They're so close…
"I need to know if you're going to help me," she says. Her voice has a subtle tremble to it, as though she's still not sure I believe her. She's rattled, uncertain, and looking for comfort. This isn't the time for indulging.
"Of course I will. You should sleep. We'll talk more in the morning. I've got a room for you, if it makes you feel safer."
It would make me feel safer.
Her smile is tired and hopeful, and I nearly lean in to taste it. Her gaze drifts to the padded column off to the corner of my living room. "I could use a go on that," she says. "I need it."
"You want a lesson? Now?"
"All I know is the only time I've felt in control of anything since all of this started was during our last lesson."
I drag a hand over my mouth, thinking.
She's got no idea what she does to me when we train. She doesn't realize the sparks that shoot out of her and set me on fire. How there's nothing I crave more than to see her work up a sweat, but with me inside of her as she moans out my name.
"Tomorrow night, after work. Come over. We'll have another session. But tonight, let's talk more about your case."
She bites her lip and a flutter of apprehension flashes in her eyes. There's something she hasn't told me, it's all there in her reaction.
"That sounds good." Mumbling something about getting dressed, she collects the clothes beside her and asks me where she should change. I show her to the bathroom. The moment the door clicks shut, I pull out my phone and make a quick call to O'Brien. I should've listened to my own gut instead of always leaning on my partner's intuition.
O'Brien answers on the second ring. I keep my voice low as I speak, not wanting Amelia to overhear. My partner curses under her breath when I tell her about the photograph.
"A stalker," she says. "Someone with access to the paper?"
"I'm going by in the morning, shouldn't be too hard to trace back to whoever sent the files to the printer."
"Bring the photo in, it might tell us something."
"She dropped it somewhere. There wouldn't be any prints on it but her own since it was sent to the printer."
"Wait—so you haven't actually seen it?"
My silence is answer enough.
"Jesus, Reed."
I resist the urge to take her bait, resist the urge to lash out at her.
We're not okay, O'Brien and I. Not really. Not since I dragged her into my mess.
"I believe her. We dropped the ball on this one, O'Brien. It's on us. On me."
She lets out a sigh into the phone. "Fine. Whatever you need. I trust you…"
The way she trails off tells me, plainly, she doesn't so much trust Amelia. I end the call and just as I lower the phone to my side, I hear, "She thinks I'm lying, doesn't she?"
I spin around at the question and find Amelia standing at the bathroom door dressed in the fresh clothes I gave her. She's a sight for sore eyes, and just looking at her slows the racing thoughts in my head.
Amelia nods at the phone in my hand. "That's what that was about, wasn't it?"
"O'Brien's stubborn," I say. "And knowing what she knows, I don't blame her."
My words cause an awkward rift in the air. Amelia's lips turn down.
"What does she know?" she asks, a sliver of fear in her tone, like she already suspects the answer.
I hesitate, knowing full well the subject isn't going to do anything to alleviate the sudden air of accusation. But I need her to understand the full predicament we're in.
"Your file, Amelia. It casts a serious shadow on your credibility."
Pulling her downturned bottom lip between her teeth, she nods.
She lets out a weak laugh, looking just as discouraged as she did when the frantic search of her purse came up empty.
"So, why do you believe me?" she asks. "Since you know I've seen things before that weren't there."
I take a few steps toward her, but I don't get too close. She needs space, I can tell.
"Because," I say, "I know there's more to the story than what we have on the file. Your side. Tell me your side."
A long pause follows. It sounds a lot like determination, like she's decided she is not going to tell me a thing. But then she starts speaking. Slowly and without urgency. Not looking at me, like she doesn't want to see my reaction, her brown eyes scanning the floor somewhere off to my left.
"I have trouble finding a balance. I can become…obsessed sometimes…"
She's quiet for several seconds, but just as I open my mouth to prompt her, she begins to speak again.
"My senior year of college I entered a writing competition. It was to land an internship at The New York Times. The Times. The golden egg of newspapers. I wanted it so badly I could barely breathe when I learned I was one of the finalists. It was crazy stressful, writing a story with a deadline on top of all of my regular schoolwork. I pushed myself too far. I barely ate. I didn't sleep. Like, I literally didn't sle
ep. I took pills to stay awake. I binged on caffeine and energy drinks. At first it seemed like my body was going to crash but then…something happened. After a few days or so, I got this bizarre surge of energy. A second wind, but of insane proportions. I was ahead for a while, making great progress—but I couldn't sleep for longer than a few minutes to an hour, even when I tried. That's when the hallucinations started. I thought someone was after me to stop me from winning the internship. I…lunged at my roommate when she walked in unannounced. She called the police on me. I ended up hospitalized for a few days." She shakes her head as though scolding herself. "The doctors couldn't really figure out what happened. The theory is that I accumulated enough sleep debt to send my body into crisis mode, flooding me with adrenaline to keep me awake. The hallucinations, they think, were the side effects of my brain's desperate need for sleep."
I stare at her, unsure of what I should say, but I can't stop myself from moving closer to her. She goes very still. She lifts her gaze to mine and her eyes grow a little wider in surprise at my proximity.
"What do you make of me now, Detective?"
Knowing it's a bad idea, knowing I'm already standing too close, I reach out and graze the side of her forehead, collecting some of her hair and tucking it behind her ear. Anticipation seeps from between her lips in a quiet outward breath.
"You?" My fingers trail down to rest just above her collarbone. She seems to have stopped breathing altogether. "I don't think you're ready to hear what I think of you." I pause, waiting for her to argue this, but she doesn't. I straighten, guiding myself back toward control. "I'll make some coffee. For me. You should stick to water."
I leave her to sit on the couch and head into my kitchen. Raindrops tap slowly at my skylight windows and I'm glad she's here, with me, where I can keep an eye on her.
My floor plan is open and I can see the living room if I look over my shoulder, but it's on the opposite end of the apartment so carrying on a conversation would be pretty hard. I want her to take some time to relax. I wonder when the last time she slept was.
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