CHAPTER 44
Dexter stares at me, unblinking. Snaggletooth gleaming like a warning.
I stop scratching, drop my hand, and inhale.
He yips, nosing the grocery bag like I’ve forgotten the real crisis.
“Right. Okay. Mr. Picky Pants. Let’s see if you’ll eat tonight.”
I line up three overpriced, artisanal, vet-recommended packets like a tasting menu at Le Bark. Duck. Stew with Lamb and pumpkin—more expensive than my favorite bottle of wine.
I spoon a bit of each onto a tiny crystal dish I once used for olives.
He sniffs. Circles. Pauses. Then—of course—goes straight for the duck with the gravy and bougie compostable packaging.
He licks it clean.
I narrow my eyes. “Really? That’s the one?”
A burp. Followed by a full-body wiggle of smugness.
I throw my hands up.
“I’ve created a monster. A fluffy, bougie little monster.”
Dexter finishes eating like the tiny culinary diva he is, then prances to the side door and gives a single, commanding bark.
Bathroom break.
Of course.
I’m so frazzled, the thought of going outside sends my heart rate to the sky. And this is one person’s fault.
Mr. Silent-Treatment Stalker.
If he hadn’t had my rental picked up, I could’ve driven myself. I wouldn’t be paranoid about some mid-life private school teacher moonlighting as a ferry for strangers.
Did Roger offer to drive me? Yes.
Would I have called him for a kibble run? Absolutely not.
Does the object of my paranoid delusions deserve my irritation?
Sure does. And I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.
The knife is coming with me. It’s cold and steady in my grip, grounding me, if only for a breath. I dig through my bag with one hand, the other gripping the handle.
No stalker-phone.
Cheese and crackers, it’s not here.
I check the floor. The counter. Couch cushions. Panic rises like acid.
I must’ve dropped it somewhere between slamming the door and trying not to hyperventilate.
Because of course I did. Because why wouldn’t I misplace my stalker-issued terror device the same day I found a man with his throat cut open like a soda can?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe.
“We need to calm down.”
I put both hands out, speaking to Dexter like he’s part of the hysteria. He’s not.
He waits patiently by the door while I have my breakdown.
It’s probably right outside. Maybe it slipped from my pocket when I tripped over my own feet.
“Okay, I can do this,” I mutter.
Dexter needs to go out, and—scientifically speaking—indoor peeing is a stronger trigger than potential homicide.
I exhale. Flick the lock and open the door.
Just a minute. Just long enough for Dexter to do his thing.
It’s cooler now. Quiet in that eerie way residential streets get at night when it’s too still.
Dexter trots forward like he owns the street.
And there it is. On the pavement.
My heart jerks into my throat.
The phone.
I crouch, scoop it up in one hand, knife white-knuckled in the other.
The moment I flip it open, the screen lights up.
Seventy-three texts. Forty-five missed calls.
“My stalker has separation anxiety. Cool.”
I swipe to unlock.
Dexter stops and stiffens. Growls low in his throat, snaggletooth front and center like he’s auditioning forCujo: Teacup Edition.
“Dex…” I whisper.
My eyes drop to the most recent message.
UNKNOWN: HE’S COMING TO KILL YOU!!!
And just like that, every scrap of calm I’d managed to gather slams into the pavement.
I’m a goddamn wildfire tearing through the city.
Horn blaring. Tires screaming. My hand glued to the wheel while my foot punishes the gas like it insulted me.
Every red light is a dare.
Every slow car in front of me is a target.
I swing the car up onto the curb without hesitation, clipping a trash bin that explodes across the sidewalk in my rearview like confetti at the world’s worst parade.
I don’t give a shit.
This car’s a junkyard decoy. Old, dented, and forgettable. It’s not meant to last. It’s meant to get me there fast enough to stop a murder.
Her Murder.
It can burn, crumble, wrap around a lamppost—I’ll still be crawling toward her with broken ribs and blood in my lungs if that’s what it takes.
My phone is in the cup holder, screen glowing like a flare—her location dot moving on the map with agonizing slowness.
She’s on the way home.
Heading straight back to the place he’s already defiled. The house he broke into.
The house where he tucked a hunting knife under her cushion and coiled rope under another like she’s some piece of prey.
And now she’s in his car.
Alone with a fucking monster.
I hit the button to call her for the hundredth goddamn time.
Come on, come on, come on.
I blow through a stop sign. Some asshole honks.
I flip him off. “Die mad, dickhead.”
The phone rings and rings. “FUCK!” I slam my hand onto the steering wheel like it’s the cause of all this.
She has no idea she’s sitting three feet away from a mother fucking serial predator.
And if I don’t get there in time, she’s going to die.
My iPad is running the security feeds from her house—every motion-triggered camera I’ve wired into the place. Living room. Porch. Hallway.
I can’t look at it for more than a second at a time. Eyes on the road. Eyes on the feed. Eyes on the road. Eyes on her.
She’s close now. Just a few blocks.
I’m too far away.