A few come out with personal stories of when the mayor looked at them or spoke to them in ways that made them uncomfortable. This is exactly what I thought would happen.
"Look at you, kid. Poking the bear in the nuts. I'm quite proud," Kathleen says on her way back from the break room. She gives me a weak smile.
"Why, thanks."
"You know he's going to fight this."
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
A mischievous smile grows in her eyes. "You've got more on him, don't you?"
"He's going to need a shovel to dig himself out of all this."
I would also be cautious for the angle to not be so sharp, for you need to be prepared to fall on top of it.
The mayor meant to scare me when he said this. I'm sure he's now realizing I'm damn well prepared to fall on top of my stories, however sharp. I'm a different breed of adrenaline junkie. Words are my drugs and their effects are my high.
Except...
The high isn't what I anticipated. The thrill I expected fails to sink past my skin. It's clear I won't feel good about any of this until I make things right with Sebastian. I need to see him. I will see him. Tonight. The thought lightens the weight in my chest a fraction, and the shift sparks an entirely different, scarier realization about him.
I've had to reconcile some of the most terrifying moments of my life with him by my side. We tried to remain strangers, but the reality of the situation chipped away at his resolve. All it took was a few quiet words. One reckless touch. We unraveled in each other. We unraveled together. It felt safe with him. And safe isn't something I've ever truly felt. But that's what I crave most of all, the sense of safety that envelops me whenever he's around.
I prop my elbows on my desk and rest my face between my hands, just to close my eyes from the harsh lighting of the newsroom. Just to gather the rollercoaster of emotions that swirls around me without fully sinking into me.
"What the hell is this?"
The voice thunders toward me. I lift my head and turn to the sudden movement in my peripheral. Caleb reaches my desk, a determined look in his eyes. My posture changes, becomes defensive at his proximity, at the callous expression on his face.
"What?" I ask.
He takes a step closer to my desk and flings something onto its surface. It's a business card, and it lands upside down.
"What is this?"
"Your boyfriend left it. I'm not playing this game. I won't be intimidated by some meathead. I told him on Friday, I have nothing to do with the damn gifts, or sending papers to the printer--"
"Friday?" I cut in. "You talked to him Friday?"
He was here?
"He cornered me in the parking lot, on my way out to lunch. Harassing me, accusing me of taking photos of you, leaving shit on your desk and all sorts of bullshit." His blue gaze moves over the surface of my desk, as though looking for something. "I have nothing to do with any of that."
I pick it up and see it's Sebastian's business card. Turning the card over, I read the four words scrawled there, in a very familiar handwriting.
Stay away from her.
Coldness sweeps through my veins. I spin back around to Caleb, but my eyes are glued on the handwriting.
"He didn't leave this," I snap.
"Who the hell else would've left it?"
I'm shaking my head, speechless. Caleb throws up his hands at the dumb look on my face and stalks off, muttering under his breath. The moment he turns away, I yank open my desk drawers and start a frantic search.
He's a liar. Caleb is a liar.
"You look like shit," Duncan says as he walks past, sipping coffee. He hesitates when I peer up at him but doesn't ask why I'm sorting through every piece of paper on my desk like I've lost a lottery ticket.
Finally, I find it, one of the notecards that were left with the gifts a few weeks ago. I hold up Sebastian Reed's business card, and stare at the words scribbled on the back of it.
He couldn't have written this.
This is the same handwriting as all of the notes from my stalker.
CHAPTER 38
Amelia
THE PARKING LOT BEFORE ME doesn't inspire confidence, even though a dozen parked police cruisers line it. Uniformed officers walk past me in conversation. Not at all concerned with me or with how hesitantly I approach the building.
A car door shuts from somewhere in the lot and Sebastian steps out from between parked cars, speaking into his phone in a hurried tone. But when he notices me, he cuts off mid-speech, hangs up, and approaches me.
"Amelia."
He says my name in a rigid tone that stings.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to decide what to say. He's never been easy to read, but there's a solid wall behind his eyes, one that wasn't there just a few nights ago. The night air grows cooler, just as it had the last time I saw him, when he neglected to kiss me back in front of my apartment.
Standing in front of him now, it hardly seems worth it to have allowed my work to suck me in at the expense of everyone around me. Sebastian. Emily. And even though I've only known him for a short time, I can't help how familiar he is to me.
"Do you have a minute?" I ask, staring up at him.
"O'Brien has someone in our office right now," he says, glancing toward the entrance of the station, then to the parking lot. "Let's talk in my car."
I follow after him. When we reach his car, he holds open the passenger door for me.
I hesitate and he notices.
"What's wrong?"
I pull out the business card and hand it to him. He takes it but doesn't react until he turns it over and sees what's written there.
"What is this?"
"You left it on Caleb's desk."
I hate those words. I hate my need to avoid asking the question and risking a lie. I hate how the easiest way to get the truth from someone is to pretend you already know it.
Shaking his head, he lays his hands on my shoulders, so gently I almost can't feel the weight of them. And it's pathetic how badly I've missed his touch that I can't bring myself to pull away.
"I didn't write this. Caleb is lying."
I search his eyes for the truth. As though somehow I know him well enough after a couple of weeks to tell if he's lying. But I can't tell, so I press on.
"You cornered him on Friday."
"I needed to go back and ask more questions. Something hasn't sat right with me about these gifts, about why he's denying his involvement. If the story you published today is the reason behind it all, then there has to be some connection between this Caleb guy and the mayor. I just need to find it."
"I didn't see you on Friday. Did you make sure of that?"
"I needed to clear my head of you. You're clouding my judgment. You're..." He trails off, apparently unable to find a word strong enough to describe the ill effects I have on him. And that? It hurts.
But I need to focus.
"This handwriting, it's the same as the notes I've been getting. Tell me you didn't write this."
My uncertainty slaps him in the face. He sets his jaw and just stares back at me. I work hard to pretend I'm unaffected. To pretend my damn heart isn't already a puddle on the floor, weak for him. Wanting to give him every benefit and not a smidgeon of doubt. But my mind? It needs proof. My mind is distrustful. My mind is at odds with my heart, all the time. Even now.
"Look--" He reaches past me and grabs a small notepad on the dashboard of his car. Flipping to the first page, he hands it to me. It's just a list of contacts, names and numbers. But it's clear what he's trying to show me.
The handwriting in this notebook is small and neat. Nothing like the wild scribbling on the notes.
I almost let out a sigh of relief. It's not him.
It's not him.
He frowns and I know my relief only stings further.
His phone rings and he answers it without breaking eye contact with me.
"Reed. No, I'm up front. Yeah, give me a minute." H
e hangs up and slides the phone back into his pocket. "I've got to run in for a few minutes. Wait for me here?"
"I'm sorry I lied," I blurt out. Some pathetic part of my heart wishes I could pull the words back in again and make them sound...better, stronger.
"We'll talk about it when I get back."
He takes a few steps toward the station, but turns abruptly. His sights fall on my lips and he takes my face in his hand, and I let him. I do more than let him. I close my eyes to his touch. He kisses me. It's a kiss that tastes just slightly of frustration held back by the thinnest of threads. But even while the panic of uncertainty still hangs over me, his simple touch eases the unpleasant tension between us, tugging it into territory that is more familiar. A place where I'm reminded that he's been there for me more in the short time I've known him than any man has in entire my life.
"I had nothing to do with that note," he says. "Or any of the notes. You know that, right? Listen to your gut."
His words ring with sincerity and I look down, ashamed. Of course. Of course he didn't write that note. Caleb could've gotten the business card from anywhere. Sebastian has been to the newsroom multiple times asking questions, poking around.
It's true I've never trusted a single person one hundred percent. Trust is a concept I've never fully embraced. But I've never wanted to trust in someone as badly as I want to trust in Sebastian. I've never needed to.
"I believe you," I say.
He rests his forehead against mine and shuts his eyes. "Whoever's doing this won't get away with it. Even if they try to stop now that the story is published. I'll find him, Amelia. I promise you. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I'll be back in just a few minutes, are you going to be okay?"
"Go," I tell him. "I'll be here."
"Are you sure? You're still shaken up."
"Yes."
He pulls back to look me in the eyes and I can tell that he'd stay right here beside me if I asked him to. That he'd sacrifice losing everything else if it meant keeping me.
"For a second there, it felt like everything was going to slip through my fingers." He gently squeezes me at the word everything and my heart splits open, spilling out things I try hard not to feel. Things that make me vulnerable, with all my layers splayed out.
I'm scared.
I'm so goddamn scared because I feel what he feels. I feel that awful lining of lead in my gut, whispering warnings that everything seems to tilt right at the tip of my fingers. Every single thing I want to hold on to is uncertain and unsustainable in the light of all the unknowns.
"Go," I say again. "I'll be in your car."
"Five minutes, I'll be right back."
He walks away and I get into his car, lock the doors like I promised, and wait for his return. His absence is a visceral experience, one that leaves me shifting in my seat.
I look at the small notebook, still in my hand, examining the handwriting. Sebastian is neat and likes things in order. The handwriting on the notes had a certain personality to it. They carry the feel of someone frantic and disordered. I push open the glove compartment to slide the notebook inside, but something else falls out. A picture becomes wedged between the seat and the center console.
I bring my fingers over the edge, nudging the photo outward, revealing what seems to be an abstract image. White lines and shadows. I pull the photograph out farther, slowly as to not have it slip away. Once half of the picture becomes visible, I turn my head, able to make out the shape of open window blinds.
An unpleasant tingling rises up my arm and before I know what I'm doing, I yank the photograph out all of the way. My stomach does a sickening summersault and plunges into oblivion.
My hands shake as my eyes scan the photograph, somehow not believing what they see. It's a picture taken from the outside of a window, a figure visible through the cracks of the open blinds. A bed.
My bed.
And me sleeping in it.
CHAPTER 39
Reed
LENA THATCHER LOOKS AS IF she's aged since I saw her last, that night I stopped her husband from attacking her.
"Mrs. Thatcher," I say, trying to hide my impatience as I take my seat behind my desk. "You wanted to see me?"
She's wearing sunglasses, and I resist the urge to ask her to remove them. I like being able to look people in the eye when I talk to them. But I'm sure I can guess why she's more comfortable with them on.
"I won't take much of your time," she says. "I want to apologize for what you've been through because of me."
"Does your husband know you're here?"
"No. But starting now, what I do is not his business anymore. James is in jail tonight. I've pressed charges against him. For this." She removes her sunglasses to reveal a horrendously bruised eye. "His father already said he won't bail him out this time. James has no one else but me. And that's how I'm going to make him clean up this mess. I'm going to get him to drop the suit."
"How, exactly?"
"I'm going to tell him I'll drop my charges if he drops his lawsuit."
"I can't have you do that. I can't have you auction yourself off just to clear my legal troubles. I made a decision that night, Mrs. Thatcher. I can deal with the consequences."
"No. No, it's time he dealt with consequences. Don't you get it? He's never had to face the music once in his life. He'll think I'll be here when he gets out, but I won't be. I'm leaving. My sister's got a place in Florida and--" she looks away, slipping her glasses back on "--and I can see a fresh start there."
"You don't have to do this, uproot your whole life."
"I do," she says. "It's the only way for me to stay away from him. And I've already decided. I just wanted to come tell you before I go visit him in jail in the morning. My bags are packed and in my car. By the time he's processed out, I will have already gone. I wanted to say thank you. Your gym, it gave me courage."
We fall silent and on her face, I see determination. There's an anger in her eyes, just enough that I believe she's really going to go through with it.
When I get back out to the parking lot, the passenger door of my car is open, but Amelia is not inside.
I jog there, alarm slams into me. Did someone take her? Then I see it, lying on the seat. The picture. And I know she's gone, run off, terrified of me. I slam the door shut.
"Goddamn it."
CHAPTER 40
Amelia
ANY THOUGHT PROCESS THAT'S NOT devoted to me keeping one foot in front of the other is a dangerous waste of time. I'm out of Sebastian's car in seconds, rushing across the parking lot.
The noises around me are an overwhelming cacophony as I fight to gather my senses. Distant sounds of traffic, people talking somewhere close by, a car door slamming, a creature of the night moving in some bushes. I pull on every strand of myself I can muster and straighten up.
Once again, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, this time half-running to my car without looking back to check if anyone sees me. I shove the key into the ignition, start the engine, and drive out onto the street.
My fingers grow numb from how tightly they grip the steering wheel. I only make it a few streets over before I have to swerve the car to the side of the road. I barely yank my door open in time before the acid from my stomach rises up to my throat. I wrench uncontrollably and food I don't remember eating pours out of me, splattering onto the pavement beside my car.
My heart drills a painful hole through my chest and I can't quite catch my breath. The urge to move is overshadowed by my inability to pull myself together. I shut the car door, hit the lock button, and sit back in the driver's seat. Acid still tingles on my tongue. I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing.
Think. Think. Think.
I need to think, but every cell in my body is at war with itself. Nothing makes sense anymore. And my gut? My fucking gut is broken. I can't trust it. I can't trust anyone. Or myself. I can't trust anyplace or anything.
I drive home. Home. It's the onl
y place I can think to go, even though I don't feel safe there, either. But what does it matter if I'm not safe anywhere?
My mind spins and spins, trying to latch onto some rational thought. Rational plan forward. Maybe I should go into hiding, pack my bags and hole up somewhere long enough to make sense of everything. Long enough to add everything up.
My keys clink together in my shaky hands, like chattering teeth in the cold. I throw open the entryway door and race down the hall and up the stairs to my apartment. I take the stairs two at a time, positioning the key to my front door between my fingers to save myself time in opening it.
The moment I reach my apartment, I sink the key into the keyhole and push the door open. Slipping inside, I shove the door closed in a blur of motion before setting my forehead against the frame. I fight the urge to fucking cry.
I can't. I need to think and I can't think here. If I can't think, I need to move. I turn to face my apartment and take an automatic step farther in, when my peripheral vision picks up an anomaly. I feel it in the clenching of my stomach, before I even see it.
A flash of white and red.
There, on the counter that separates my kitchen and dining room, is a cup of coffee and a rose lying beside a note. Even from here, I can make out the single word written on the paper.
Soon.
A second of paralyzing panic grips me. My purse--with my phone and my gun--is in my car. The thought turns my insides to ice, but just as suddenly, something strange happens. The panic falls away to something primal. Something angry and vicious that floods my veins and numbs me to the core.
Whoever is in my house, whatever the hell he wants with me, it doesn't matter.
I'm going to kill him.
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