Reckless Touch

by Veronica Larsen

  "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 FORTY

  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 only 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.

  Darting into my kitchen, I pull open the drawer to grab a knife, but I'm yanked backward before I can reach inside. A hand clamps over my mouth, stifling my cry of surprise. Instinct takes over and I twist my upper body, throwing an elbow backward and connecting with something hard. But, at the same precise moment, something pricks my neck, stinging me.

  The person behind me grunts at the blow, releasing me. But my advantage is lost because my limbs grow numb and my legs give out from under me. Eyes wide, I sink against the counter, sliding down to the floor. I'm unable to move my head or any part of my body. The edges of my vision grow dark until everything is just a pinhole. I'm forced to stare at a single vantage point. A pair of legs, a hand with a syringe in sight.

  "Couldn't have you holding your breath again, could I?"

  The voice almost jars me to consciousness.

  I recognize it immediately.

  No.

  Not him. It can't be him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Amelia

  A HAND TAPS MY cheek and my eyelids flutter.

  I nearly open my eyes, but hesitate when a voice hisses, "Get up."

  My pulse picks up at my ear, but I keep my eyes closed, trying to grab onto a few extra seconds to gauge the situation before I reveal I'm conscious. A few extra seconds before I have to face him.

  "I know I didn't get the dose wrong. Get up."

  His voice is familiar and somehow completely foreign. He sounds angry but also a bit uncertain. He taps my cheek a little harder this time, obviously sensing I'm awake. I can keep my eyes shut but I can't keep my chest from rising quicker from my increased breathing rate.

  Trying to think, I listen for movement but hear only the rushing of blood, pumping in my ears. My arms are tied at the wrists behind my back. My ankles are tied as well. I don't need to move to know that the binds are tight. I feel them on my bones. I'm lying on a hard surface with something right up against my back. A wall? There's a faint but familiar scent that registers slowly in the back of my mind.

  My candle.

  I have a candle on the bookshelf of my living room with strong notes of frankincense.

  I'm still home.

  As this fact sinks in, a hard slap stings the side of my face.

  "Wake the fuck up."

  I jerk uncontrollably and my eyes fly open. Dale's face is level with mine, staring right at me. He's the same Dale I've always seen. Eyebrows permanently turned up in an almost sorry expression. His blue eyes scan my face and soften.

  "I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" he asks, bringing a hand up to scratch his nose. There's a knife in that hand, a long hunter's knife with a shiny stainless steel blade. My eyes widen at the sight of it, and I start to let out a sound only to realize there's a gag in my mouth. "Oh this?" He lifts the knife. "Don't worry about this, darling. I just needed to cut up something to tie you with."

  I look down at my body. Just as I suspected, my legs are tied together at the ankles with a blue t-shirt I recognize from my closet. I struggle against the binds on my wrists.

  "No use in doing that," he says. "Learned those knots from my father. You're not getting out of that unless I undo them myself."

  I keep my eyes on
him as he gets to his feet and I register for the first time that he's in his security guard uniform. He lifts his pant leg over his right leg and stores the knife in a sheath strapped to his calf. There are at least six other knifes there, too, flush against his very real, perfectly intact leg.

  I stare in utter bewilderment.

  Why should this come as a shock considering everything else about him revealed itself to be a lie? I'm not sure. But seeing a leg where I'd always expected a prosthetic really fucks with me. I continue to stare at it, shaking my head, the gag in my mouth muffling the word that keeps stumbling from my lips.

  No. No. No.

  What do you want from me? I try to ask him, but those words are muffled, too.

  Dale walks over to the windows at the end of my living room and, with a single finger, pulls down one of the blinds. He peers outside, looking from side to side.

  "Now how the fuck am I going to get you out of here without your neighbors seeing?" he asks under his breath.

  He's not talking to me. I know that. But I start trying to gain his attention. All I can manage are pathetic, low mumbling noises that are barely audible through the ball of fabric strapped to my mouth.

  All the while, I attempt to move my wrists, trying to loosen the knot holding them together. But I can barely move them a millimeter in either direction, and even that is painful.

  I need to get him to remove my gag. Maybe I can talk to him, get him to untie me. But he's distracted, still looking out of my window. I groan low and loud as I can to get his attention.

  "Shh," he snaps, preoccupied.

  Even from where I lie on the floor, I glimpse the way his expression falls at whatever he sees outside. He pulls his finger away from the blinds, letting them snap back in place.

  "Shit," he whispers under his breath.

  Walking over to the front door, he double checks the lock, then turns and stalks back in my direction. Getting down on one knee, he brings his face close to mine, and presses a finger to his lips. "Shh," he says again, this time in a low whisper. "Don't make a sound or I will drive my blade straight into your throat."

  My breathing grows heavier as I realize why he says this. The sound of footsteps out in the hall reaches us. My eyes go wide. I start grunting and writhing around, making as much noise as possible. But then Dale reaches under his pant leg for a knife and brings the cold steel to my throat.

  "Shut up," he hisses between his teeth.

  The blade rubs slightly against my skin, stinging me, and I freeze. Someone knocks on my door. It echoes throughout my apartment in the way no knock ever has. Dale and I both go eerily still, his arm suspended in mid-air, holding the knife to my throat.

  "Amelia?"

  Sebastian.

  At the sound of his voice, my eyes get so wide they sting. I want to scream out again, against my rag. As though sensing the instinct, Dale presses the blade harder against my skin. My breathing accelerates and I'm terrified the smallest movement will sink the blade into the flesh of my neck. This man really might slash my throat.

  What then?

  "Amelia, please open the door. I know you're in there. Your car's out front." His voice is only slightly distorted by the door. I can hear the worry in his tone. The hurt. "I saw the photograph. I know what it looks like, but I have no idea where it came from. Please open the door, let me explain."

  He knocks on the door again. I nearly flinch at the sound, but manage to hold still. My muscles hurt from keeping my neck stiff against the blade's edge.

  "Amelia…all right, don't open the door. But let me know you're there. Let me know you're listening."

  He waits. And I shut my eyes and breathe my jagged, uncomfortable breaths. Wishing he could hear the pounding in my chest. Wishing he could sense the terror wrapping around me. Wishing, somehow, that he'd sense something was wrong and burst through those doors and save me.

  He's so close.

  Help is so close.

  There's a slight thump on the door. At first I think it's Sebastian's fist, but when he says, "Please?" the word is just slightly more audible and I can picture him. He's standing out there, arms up and fists pressed against each side of the frame, head resting on the door. My heart aches. It aches because I want him to know what I now know. That it's Dale. It's been Dale all along. Right in front of my nose, making me crazy, making me suspect everyone else but him.

  "Just listen," he pleads. "Someone's been sending me photos of you. It started Friday night. They show up tucked in the doorframe of the gym. I've been poring over surveillance. I've been going over suspects. This guy is a ghost, but I've been putting all my resources into finding out who he is. I should've told you. I know. I just…I didn't want to scare you. You've been living this nightmare. And there's no end in sight. I didn't want to add to that. Please, just open the door and I will tell you everything. All I want is to keep you safe."

  Dale releases a huff of air, like a silent half-laugh.

  Sebastian grows quiet.

  Did he hear it?

  Can he somehow sense that someone is listening? How could he not sense the danger I'm in at this very moment? How could he not know, implicitly, that I'm in need of protection right now? How can he not hear my shaky breaths?

  "I'm not leaving until I see you," Sebastian goes on. "I'll wait in my car for as long as I have to."

  My heart sinks. His tone answers my question. It's defeated and tired, not alarmed or suspicious. He didn't hear it. He doesn't know.

  Silence.

  His retreating footsteps bring me to shut my eyes again.

  As they grow farther and farther away, some part of me shrinks smaller and smaller. Dread lines my veins and a hot tear rolls down my face. Help is just outside of that door, heading in the opposite direction. The truth sinks into me.

  There is no help for me.

  I'm on my own.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Amelia

  DALE WAITS BY THE window, peering carefully between the spaces of the blinds without moving them. The knife is still clutched in his hand, but with his attention away from me, I start trying to free my hands again. Pain pricks at the skin of my wrists as I twist and tug them in their binds, trying hard to keep the rest of me steady so that Dale doesn't notice. I can't be sure, but I think I'm able to move my wrists a tiny bit more than I could a minute ago. What I need is something to cut the binds.

  My kitchen is too far for me to reach and my movements are impeded by my bound limbs. Not to mention, I couldn't move an inch without Dale coming over here.

  From beside the window, Dale's posture relaxes and he turns to me again. "Well, that was close."

  I stare at him, willing myself to see someone other than the Dale I've known all along. I want to see some monster that unzipped that man and came out in the light of day. But no, he looks the same. He sounds the same. He's Dale. And I can't wrap my mind around that.

  "I need to ask you a question," he says. "So I'm going to remove your gag. But you're not going to make a sound, are you?"

  I shake my head.

  His grin is indulgent and builds slowly over his face. I fight a cringe as his fingers drag across my cheek before loosening the tie that holds the balled-up fabric in my mouth. I spit it out and take hard, jagged breaths in through my mouth.

  Dale watches me and a warm look crosses his face. He drags a finger over my lips, slow. I nearly scream out for him to get away from me. But I shut my eyes instead.

  The sounds of Sebastian's footsteps moving away felt like a winter coat ripped from me, leaving me naked in the middle of an icy tundra.

  I shiver as though the bite of my fears is an actual, physical coldness.

  Anger doesn't help you any more than panic does.

  Learn to calm yourself, focus your energies.

  The memory of Sebastian's voice brings a pang to my chest.

  "What do you want?" I ask, my voice a mere rasp.

  Dale squats in front of me, arms resting on his knees, th
e shiny blade of the knife hanging loosely from his left hand.

  "I want you to tell me who lives in the apartment right under this one."

  I swallow.

  "Why?"

  "I've been watching this place for a few months. I know the movements of everyone here. What time they go to work. What time they come back. But that apartment? I never see anyone coming in or out. The curtains are thick and always shut. I can't tell how many people live there. It's a blind spot. I don't like blind spots."

  I thought I knew terror. I thought fearing for my own life was enough. But now, an awful chill climbs up the walls of my stomach.

  What would Dale do if he knew that it was just a lonely old woman who lived in that apartment? Would he set out to kill her?

  "Tell me," he says. His fingers tighten over the knife like he's considering threatening with it again.

  "What do you want with me?"

  The question leaves me in a rush of insecurity and fear. It's the question that's kept me up at night since the attack. The question that stole my sense of security in every haven I've ever had. Except the studio. That is still a haven.

  He diverts his eyes and shakes his head. His lips twitch down before gathering into a flat line again. For a split second, he doesn't scare me. Because in that instant, he is the same old Dale I've always known. The one I never saw as a threat. The one I underestimated and dismissed.

  Dismissed…

  Instinct tells me to soften my tone. "Dale, it's me. You can tell me. Just tell me?"

  "You have no idea who I am, do you? You don't see a resemblance, not even a little bit?"

  I stare at him, but can't think of what he could possibly be referring to.

  "That's your problem, Amelia. You don't see things. Not really. You're so busy picking everything apart you don't see anything for what it truly is." He runs a hand over his face, as if overtaken by a surge of impatience. "It didn't have to happen like this. I started out just wanting payback, but…you…you made me lose focus. And somewhere along the line, I started wanting to make you see me."