Ask me later when they’re standing over my bed watching me sleep, I’ll feel differently, I’m sure.
“I’ll be fine, Daya. I promise. I’m sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow. I’ll barricade myself in the bedroom if I must. Who even knows if they’ll come back?”
My argument is weak, but I suppose I’m not even really trying at this point. I’m not fucking leaving.
Why is it that being in public places and social settings make me want to light myself on fire, but when someone breaks into my house, I feel brave enough to stay?
It doesn’t make sense in my head, either.
“I don’t feel okay leaving you here. If you die, the rest of my life will be ruined. I’ll live on in misery, plagued by the what if questions.” With all the drama she learned from theater, she looks up to the ceiling and puts a contemplative finger on her chin. “Would she still be alive if I had just dragged the bitch out of the house by her hair?” she wonders aloud in a whimsical voice, mocking her possible future self and me.
I frown. I’d rather not be dragged out by my hair. It took me a long time to grow it out.
“If they come back, I’ll call the police immediately.”
Exasperatedly, she drops her hand and rolls her eyes, her mannerisms saturated with sass. She’s angry with me.
Understandably so.
“If you die, I’m going to be so pissed at you, Addie.”
I give her a weak smile.
“I’m not going to die.”
I hope.
She growls, grabs my hand roughly, and pulls me into a fierce hug. She’s letting me go, and all I can feel is immense relief tinged with a little regret.
“Call me if they come back.”
“I will,” I lie. She leaves without another word, slamming the door behind her.
I heave out a breath, grab a knife from the drawer, and tiredly make my way into the bathroom. I need a long, hot shower, and if the creep chooses now to interrupt me, I’ll be happy to stab them for it.
Chapter 5
The Manipulator
T he breeze coerces my body forward, as if urging me to jump. To take the leap and plunge to my death.
You won’t regret it.
That little intrusive thought lingers. Somehow, I feel like crashing into sharp rocks would be regrettable, to say the least. What if I don’t die right away? What if I miraculously survive the fall, and I’m forced to lie there, broken and bloody, until my body finally gives out?
Or what if my body refuses to give out and I’m forced to live the rest of my life as a vegetable?
All regrettable.
I’m snapped out of my musings when I hear a throat clear.
“Ma’am?”
I turn my head to see a tall, older man with a softness about him that almost comforts me. His grey, thinning hair is matted to his forehead from sweat, and his clothes are stained with dirt and gunk.
His eyes bounce between me and the edge of the cliff I’m standing on, emanating nervous energy. He thinks I’m going to jump. And as I continue to just stare at him, I realize I’m not giving him any reason to think otherwise.
Still, I don’t move.
“We’re heading out for the night,” the man informs me.
He and his crew have been rebuilding my front porch all day, giving it the facelift it so desperately needed. While also ensuring that my foot isn’t going to go through the rotted wood and probably give me sepsis.
He looks me up and down, his brow lowering as his concern seems to deepen. The breeze blows hard, swirling around us and stirring up my hair. I claw the strands away to see that he’s still eyeing me closely.
When I was younger, Nana refused to let me near the cliff. It’s only a good fifty feet from the manor. The view is breathtaking, especially when the sun sets. But at night, it’s impossible to see where the cliff’s edge is without a flashlight.
Currently, the sun is descending into the horizon, casting this lonely piece of land in dark shadows. I’m standing three feet away from danger, life and death separated by a rocky edge. Soon, it will disappear.
And if I’m not careful—I will, too.
"You okay, miss?" he asks, taking a single step forward. Instinctively, I take a step back—towards the cliff’s edge. The man's brown eyes widen into saucers, and he immediately halts and puts up his hands, as if he’s trying to keep me from going over with the Force. He was just trying to help, not scare me. And I’ve gone and scared the shit out of him in return.
I suppose I have been this whole time.
I look back, my heart lodging in my throat when I see just how close I was to stepping off. All I can feel in that moment is pure terror. And just like clockwork, the familiar heady feeling settles low in my stomach, like water circling down a drain.
Something is clearly wrong with me.
Sheepishly, I take a few steps away from the cliff and shoot him an apologetic look.
I'm on edge.
Red roses appear everywhere I go now. It’s been three weeks since I found the whiskey glass and rose on my countertop.
After Daya left, I took a long, hot shower and during that time, I decided that I need to start making reports. Leaving some type of evidence behind. That way if I turn up dead or missing, they’ll know exactly why.
By the time I got out of the shower, the empty cup with plucked petals was gone, depleting me of any warmth in my body.
I had immediately called the police that night. They humored me with a report, but they told me finding a rose in odd places around my house isn’t sufficient evidence for them to do anything.
Ever since then, the incidences have escalated. I'm not sure of the exact moment I realized I had a stalker, but it's been made clear that’s exactly what's been happening for the past three weeks.
I’ll get into my car to go to my favorite coffee shop to write and waiting for me on my seat is a red rose. Inside a car that has been locked, and still was when I had approached.
There’s never a note attached. Never any type of communication other than the red roses with clipped thorns.
My paranoia only heightened when renovations started two weeks ago. Numerous people have been in and out as they repair and replace the bones of the house. Electricians, plumbers, construction workers, and landscapers have all been here.
I’ve replaced every single window in Parsons Manor and installed brand new locks on every single door, but just as I suspected, it doesn’t make a difference.
They always find a way in.
Any of the people coming through my house could be them. Admittedly, I’ve interrogated a few of the poor workers just to see if they acted suspiciously, but they all looked at me like I was asking them if they could sell me some crack.
“Ma’am?” the man prompts again. I shake my head—a sad attempt at focusing back on the conversation.
"I'm so sorry, I'm just really out of it," I rush out, waving my hands out in front of me in a placating gesture.
I feel like an asshole for my behavior.
Had I’d fallen, the poor guy probably would’ve blamed himself. The earth could’ve easily given out on me, or I could’ve just taken too large of a step and plummeted to my death just because he was concerned.
He would’ve lived the rest of his life with guilt, and who knows what would have become of him because of it.
"S'kay," he says, still eyeing me with a pinch of wariness. He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Well, we'll be back tomorrow to put the railing up."
I nod, twirling my fingers together.
"Thank you," I respond lightly.
The second he leaves, I'll cry about how I almost ruined his life, and even though he seems incredibly nice, I can tell he wants nothing more than to just leave. But his kindness perseveres. Or that insistent need to make sure he walks away guilt-free.
