And that reminder royally pissed me off. Enough to storm into the kitchen and pour myself an entire cup of wine. Wine cures everything for a little while.

Anger.

Trauma.

But now, with a glass of wine absent, rage causes my hands to tremble with the reminder of how he left me on the floor, tossing a rose on me like discarded trash and then leaving. I had never felt more debased as a human until that moment. Never more humiliated.

He hasn’t messaged me since. Hasn’t tried to come to me and wave another gun in my face. He just lingered outside the window.

And I stared back.

It’s become our fucked-up routine.

He doesn’t come around during the day, and as long as I’m not letting men feel me up and stick their hand down my pants, he doesn’t text me any more threatening messages.

I don’t tell Daya about our confrontation, and especially not about how that night ended. If my shadow doesn’t murder me first, Daya will.

I was incredibly stupid. A fact I’ve never tried to deny. Especially now.

There’s just no explaining the reactions he pulls from me. I’d love to pretend like confronting a scary man is so like me, but it’s the exact opposite. I work myself into a panic attack if I have to ask a complete stranger a question.

So why is it every time he comes around, I slip into insanity?

“Why are you wearing a turtleneck?” Daya asks with disdain, shoving a bite of her salad into her mouth. We met at Fiona’s to grab a bite to eat.

I needed to get out of the house. Desperately. The smallest things would bring me back to that night. And every time I looked in the mirror, I was overcome with the memory of his teeth sinking into me. And the bite of metal soon after.

I clear my throat. “I’m trying something new,” I mutter. It was the only thing that would cover the marks staining my body. I had to order several of them in different colors through Amazon Prime, the need for them dire.

I can never let Daya see those marks. Nor could I ever confess the new meaning my stalker gave to finger-banging.

She shrugs her shoulders, looking down at her salad. “Only you can make a turtleneck, mom jeans, and a belt look fashionable.”

I frown down at my outfit, disagreeing with her assessment. I hate this outfit, but maybe I only hate what it represents. Something designed solely to cover the bruises covering my body. Beneath these clothes is a map of purple hickeys.

“What about lover boy? Anything else happen with him?”

I hope the flush crawling up my neck stays down. If it doesn’t, maybe I can blame it on the goddamn turtleneck.

“I’d much rather talk about Gigi,” I say, eyeing the mozzarella sticks sitting between Daya and me. I’ve had four already and I want the last one. Noting my stare, Daya rolls her eyes and flaps her hand, urging me to take it.

I do so with a big smile on my face.

“I have some news on Ronaldo.” Both brows shoot up, urging me to continue. “Last night I was picking through the diaries to see what I could find on him. Gigi would often mention him wearing nice suits and that gold ring, indicating that he was middle to upper class. And there was one entry where he seemed to have gotten jumped. Came in bruised and bloodied but wouldn’t speak about it.

“So, I’m thinking he was involved in crime of some sort. He was very secretive about his life and told her at one point that he wouldn’t allow his dangerous lifestyle to affect her.”

“You think he was like a mob boss?”

I shake my head. “No, I think his boss was a mob boss. When Gigi spoke of him when he was beat up, she made it sound like he was punished for something. She quoted him saying, “it was nothing I didn’t deserve,” and that’s all he would say.

“Gigi had noted several times in entries that she kept asking anyways, concerned for his wellbeing. The last thing he told her was that he had a very strict boss, and he couldn’t know about her.”

Daya nods her head, a spark of excitement in her sage eyes. “I’ll look into crime families in the 40s. See if I can find anyone that might match his description.”

I smile, feeling the same spark of hope. The high lasts for a total of five seconds before Daya's eyes widen, her gaze locked behind me.

My heart drops and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My shadow wouldn’t show up here now, would he? In front of Daya?

“Hello, ladies.”

My eyes widen along with Daya's. Her gaze clashes with mine and a million things are said in the span of two seconds. Like that we need to be very fucking careful.

He sits down next to me, his body relaxing back into the chair as he stares at me with a wide smile that stops miles from his eyes.

I clear my throat and force a smile. “Hello, Max. Arch's friend, right?”

“The one and only,” he responds, his stony blue gaze glued to my face. I can feel a blush creeping up my neck from the intensity of his glare.

“What can I do for you?” I ask casually, sipping on my quickly depleting margarita. I’m going to have to flag down the waitress soon because I’m going to need another to get me through the conversation, and one more to get me through the aftermath.

I’m going to need to call an Uber tonight, I already feel it.

He leans forward on the table, crossing his fingers and looking at me like he’s really curious about something. His entire demeanor is hostile.

“I’d like for you to tell me exactly what happened when Arch went missing.” His lips curl into a cruel smile as he tacks on, “From your doorstep.”

I frown. “Didn’t you already hear about it from the police reports?”

He narrows his eyes, that smile frozen on his ice-cold face. “I want to hear it from you, Ms. Reilly.”

I do my best to keep my face blank, but I’m not sure how well I’m doing. Can’t say I’m practiced in the art of handling a criminal. Matter of fact, three nights ago pretty much proved that I suck at handling criminals.

He said my last name to show me he looked into me. But that would be the one thing I’m used to by now. Being stalked.

“We went back to my place and had some fun,” I start. A glimmer shines in Max’s eye when I say that. “We were actually in the middle of having fun when someone banged really hard on my front door—”

“Has that happened before?”

My nerves flare because this is a question I don’t know how to answer.

“No,” I say finally, refraining from gulping like I really want to. I also really want to pick up my margarita again, but my hands are shaking, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hide that.

So, I act like an imbecile and lean over to suck down more of the margarita with it on the table.

“Hmm,” he hums.

Max has to know I have a stalker now. It was something Sheriff Walters told me that would bite me in the ass with them, but I couldn’t not report someone stalking me. Max must’ve seen those reports. But one thing is for sure, I didn’t report his hands appearing on my doorstep.

“You see, Addie, I just can’t quite figure out the motive, ya’ know? Like, say, why would an enemy of Arch show up at your doorstep in the middle of Arch getting his dick wet?”

I flinch from his crass words, feeling almost ashamed that I let Arch touch me at all.

“Max,” Daya snaps. His cold eyes turn to her, but she doesn’t cower. “I’ve told ya’ll a million fucking times. Addie had nothing to do with it.”

His gaze thins again, and he leans further into the table, pinning Daya with a steely glare.

“That’s the problem, Daya. I don’t fucking believe you.”

She snarls, her hands clenching into fists.

“If you want answers, Max, you’re looking in the wrong place,” I cut in before this conversation blows up and Max murders us right here and now.

“I don’t think I am,” he responds, facing me again. “Because Arch’s hands ended up on your doorstep the next morning. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s personal. So why would Arch’s hands be personal to you?”