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.
