Obsessed

by Bella Winters

  “You’re something else, you know that?” My dad pushes up from his chair, and ambles around the desk to pace the length of the floor behind me. “You have the balls to come waltzing in here like nothing happened, like you didn’t toss me away like a used napkin, and ask me for a favor?” He stops his pacing long enough to fix me with an angry glare.

  I can’t stand being talked down to, especially by him, so I stand up, too. Squaring my shoulders, I meet his hateful gaze head on. I refuse to shrink in front of him.

  “It’s not a favor,” I say. My voice is strained by the effort it takes to keep calm. “I’m asking you to do the right thing. If we don’t act fast, someone could end up getting hurt.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like your problem, kiddo. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He turns to leave, and without thinking, I grab a hold of his arm and spin him back round to face me. His eyes are wide with alarm.

  “Can’t you just do the right thing for once in your life? For me?”

  “For you?” My dad pulls out of my grip and takes a few steps back. “I owe you nothing! You were the one who walked away from me—”

  “You made it impossible not to!” My temper has finally cracked. He almost looks pleased with himself as he carries on.

  “—telling me you never wanted to see me again, calling me all kinds of trash, saying what a waste of space I was.”

  “Yeah, well, you walk out of here without helping me and you’ll just be proving me right.”

  He scoffs. “And if I help you? Are you suddenly going to change your mind about me? Start coming over to watch the game together?”

  I drop my eyes. I don’t know how logical it is for me to be the one feeling guilty right now, but here we are.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says. “You came here to use me, to take what you wanted, and then disappear. And you think I’m the bad guy?”

  I look up at him then, my eyes daggers that I wish could actually pierce him. They don’t. And they don’t stop him from talking either.

  “Son—”

  “Don’t.”

  “—I gotta say, you’ve turned out to be a chip off the old block.”

  “Shut up.”

  He holds up his hands as a sign of surrender. “Just calling ‘em like I see ‘em. You think I don’t know a sleazebag user when I see one? I wrote the book on it, Petey.”

  “Screw you.” I advance on my dad in two short strides and in seconds, I have balls of his shirt in my fists and he’s pressed up against the wall. “I am nothing like you,” I say, decades of disdain seething in my words.

  He lets out a smug, strangled little laugh. “You sure about that?”

  My dad uses both his arms to push his way out of my enraged grip and slinks off to the side. I don’t move, afraid I might go for him again. So I stand there, staring at the blank wall, trying to regain control of my temper.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you in a few years, then.”

  I hear the door open and my dad leaves. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I have to calm down. I can’t believe I’m going to walk out of here having failed. With everything about this case coming up empty, I don’t have a clue what our next step is going to be.

  At least this way I figured there might be an alternate address for Trevor. A lot of kids are living with their parents when they apply to college, and that could be why he never showed up at the address we got from UMass. But if the guy had bought that car after moving out, the insurance papers might have his new address. It was a long shot, but a good one.

  I could get Ross and the guys to try the other dealerships, but this is the only one central to the school, Trevor’s parents, and Emily’s old apartment. If chances were slim I’d find his sales records here, they become close to zero at any other dealer.

  “Peter?”

  I jump at the sound of my name. There’s a mature, stern-looking woman standing in the open doorway. I recognize her as the assistant we passed on our way in. My dad’s assistant. I’ve never met her before, but he must have told her my name just now when he ordered her to throw me off the premises.

  “It’s okay, I was just leaving.” Without making eye contact, I edge around her and try to make a hasty getaway.

  “Before you go,” she says, blocking my exit with the cream-colored folder that she’s holding out to me, “your father told me to get you these.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emily

  It’s been almost a week since I stopped going to classes, and I’m still not able to relax. After Peter left, I got dressed, opting for my yoga pants and an old school t-shirt from my freshman year, only because I didn’t see the point in dressing up if I am forbidden from setting foot outside the apartment.

  Being in a particularly sulky mood because of that, I put on some Lana Del Rey and flopped onto the couch with my Organic Chemistry textbook. I’m sure anyone else in my position would be glad for some time off school, but with graduation still hanging in the balance, I’m a wreck about it.

  My phone rings, the sound piercing the stillness of the apartment. I check the time as I answer and realize I’ve been lying here reading for three hours already. But before I give my lunchtime hunger pangs any attention, I answer the call.

  “Hey, Heather, what’s up?” I’m happy to hear her voice. She’s been calling me every day to check up on me. I miss her.

  “I miss you, that’s what’s up,” she says, as if she’s reading my mind. “Please tell me we can do something this weekend.”

  “Peter doesn’t think it’s a good idea. Not until they can get a location on—on the stalker.” I curse softly under my breath at nearly letting Trevor’s name slip.

  That’s another one of Peter’s rules: nobody can know he’s a suspect until the cops are ready to bring him in. I hate having to keep things from Heather this way, but she’ll understand once I can explain it to her.

  “And how are things with Peter?” I can hear disappointment in her voice, but also something else that sounds like amusement.

  “Are you ever going to give me a break on this?”

  “Oh, come on, Em, you can’t expect me to say nothing when you break the news that you’re seeing someone, have subsequently moved in with him, and that he just happens to be a chief of police with ripped abs.”

  I laugh. “As your best friend, I can ask anything of you.”

  “Yeah, but as your best friend I reserve the right to make fun of you at will.”

  I won’t say it, but I like that Heather spends some time giving me grief about Peter on these phone calls. It makes me feel as though things are normal. Even if it’s just for a little while.

  We talk for an hour, just like every other time she calls. She fills me in on school and life on the outside, and I lament about being cooped up and losing my mind, just like every other time she calls.

  “Okay, so spill,” Heather says, after I’ve given her a boring rundown of my breakfast routine. “What’s the deal with you and Peter?”

  “What?” I don’t know how to respond to that. Mostly because I haven’t really made much sense of it myself.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Em. I’ve known you for four years now, and I’ve never heard you get this way about a guy. Hell, you’ve never had a guy to speak of.”

  “There’s nothing much to say, Heather. I don’t know what you—”

  “Fine, I’ll spell it out,” she interrupts me impatiently, but in her Heather way, so I know she’s not mad or anything. “Is this a convenience? Are you going to be scanning the classifieds for apartments to rent once this whole creepo stalker thing is over…. Or is it the other thing?”

  I wait for her to go into detail about what the other thing might be, but she doesn’t. She’s waiting expectantly for me to answer her question.

  I’ve never thought of Peter as a convenience. I mean, yes, it worked out that he had a place for me to stay when I couldn’t go back to my old apartment and that he’s in a posi
tion to drive the investigation of my case. But I was never using him for any of that.

  And the thought of leaving him once it’s all over makes my stomach ache.

  “It’s the other thing,” I say eventually.

  A loud squeal rings through the phone. I can hear Heather quite clearly freaking out, even though I have my cell phone a good distance away from my ear.

  “Are you finished?” I project my raised voice toward the mouthpiece and hear Heather immediately quiet down. “I wish we could have had this conversation in person,” I say, once the phone is back at my ear and Heather is again approachable.

  “I know, me, too. But you can still give me all the details over the phone,” she says hopefully.

  “Details? You mean about how I think I’m falling for him, but I can’t be sure if it’s real or whether it’s residual effects of this messed up life or death situation we’re in?”

  “Don’t say that. You know better than anyone whether it’s real or not, Emily. You just have to learn to trust yourself.”

  “Trust myself. Great, that sounds easy enough. Let’s see…yep, done. I trust myself. Gee, thanks, Heather. What would I do without you?”

  “Bite me. I never said it would be easy, just that it should be done. You know I’m right.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. As always.”

  “Glad you noticed. But look, I have to pick up Mark at the library in ten minutes. Same time tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, sure, abandon me why don’t you?”

  “Love you, too,” she says, and hangs up.

  I put my phone down on the couch next to me, and feel sad and empty. For the time I had Heather on the line, it felt like she was there with me. Now I’m alone again. Alone and caged in.

  Peter’s keys are still in the door where I left them after locking up this morning when he went to follow up on that lead. It’s like they’re calling out to me from across the room.

  The security in this place is really good; he said so himself the night he first brought me here. And the whole reason I’m here at all is because Trevor has no idea about Peter.

  Surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to step outside for a minute or two?

  There’s a chill in the air despite the blinding afternoon sun glinting off the clouds. I take a second to get my bearings. I haven’t really explored the surroundings of Peter’s building since we only ever move through the space between his parking spot and the entrance.

  To my left, there’s a cobbled pathway weaving through pale purple hydrangeas, all the way up to the end of the building. To my right is the same kind of path, but shorter. It stops at the high wrought-iron fence that gates in the apartment block. Adjacent to the fence are several mailboxes against the wall, black against the muted gray. I’ve brought along Peter’s mailbox key as part of my cover story for being outside and make a mental note to check the mail on my way back inside.

  I opt to take the path to my left, obviously, because the parking lot is ahead and I’ve already seen enough of that.

  There are only a few cars in their bays, given it’s the middle of a weekday. If I had to guess, I’d say one of them belongs to the brunette on Peter’s floor. She has a noisy toddler and is most likely a stay-at-home mom. I never learned her name, even though we’ve shared polite smiles on the elevator once or twice.

  Come to think of it, Peter doesn’t seem to be friendly with any of his neighbors. I’ve never seen him take a call from someone that wasn’t a colleague, and when we go out, there are never any run-ins with people in his social circle.

  The collateral damage of a life dedicated to work.

  Instead of making me feel better, this walk is making me feel worse. It’s being in my head that’s the problem, I know. The location doesn’t matter at all. I miss people, and listening to things they have to say that have nothing to do with me.

  I don’t understand how Peter has managed to do this for so long. Isolating himself, with nothing but work and sleep to fill his hours. So far, it’s the biggest difference between us. If this is real and I’m falling in love with him, what would our life together look like? Would he be open to, well, opening up? Or would I be the lonely wife, explaining to guests at every event why her husband couldn’t make it?

  I stop walking a few feet from the edge of the path and turn to head back inside. Sight-seeing around the apartment complex has suddenly dropped to the bottom of my priority list. I’m going to call Heather back and set up a lunch date for tomorrow. And maybe, if I sell it just right, Peter will agree to join.

  As I pull open the large door to the entrance hall, the black mailboxes catch my eye. For a second, I consider abandoning my cover story. I don’t think Peter would fall for it anyway. He’d just tell me I should have left the mail for him to collect.

  But I’m tired of being told what to do.

  When I get to the mailbox, my internal battle seems to have been for nothing because it’s empty except for one envelope. Rolling my eyes, I grab it and quickly lock up the mailbox again before dashing inside. These past few days of social extraction have clearly increased my mind’s ability to create unnecessary drama. Heather would be proud.

  I pass the elevator, choosing the stairs instead. It feels good to get my heart pumping and work up a sweat, even if it is a small one. This staircase dash will more than justify my popcorn with a side of Netflix later. I smile to myself as I push through the door that opens onto Peter’s floor. It’s nice how some things have stayed the same at least.

  Back inside, I replace Peter’s mailbox key, toss the envelope on the kitchen counter, and grab a water from the fridge. I’m about to go through to the living room to get my phone when my eye catches something.

  That familiar knot of anxiety starts up in my stomach as I stand there, feet planted on the floor, looking at the brown envelope on Peter’s kitchen counter. The envelope with my name scrawled across it in black marker.

  I should probably have called Peter first thing, but before any rational thought can catch up with my actions, I’m on the bed, my shaky hands plugging the unmarked USB into Peter’s laptop. The explorer window pops up almost instantly and my heart jumps into my throat.

  There’s a single video file on it. It’s called simply, Emily.

  I look around, half expecting Trevor to step out from the closet, or the bathroom, or from under the bed. He doesn’t. I’m still all alone.

  I double-click the file.

  All of a sudden, the apartment is far too quiet a backdrop for my internal freak-out. I wish the album I’d chosen earlier was longer. At least with the music on, it felt as though there was some life in here.

  Finally, the video window opens on a blank scene.

  No, not blank. It’s a room with bare, white walls. Only once the masked figure steps into frame and sits down do I notice there was a chair there at all.

  He’s wearing a bottle green hoodie with the hood up and one of those masks made famous by the hacker group, Anonymous. The dead eyes and fixed smile creep the hell out of me.

  Emily, I love you.

  The distorted voice comes so suddenly and so loudly, I jump back against the pillows, kicking the laptop away from me. But it doesn’t stop. I press my hands flat against my ears to drown out the sound. I can still hear it, though. It’s like a looping GIF, playing over and over again.

  I want to make a run for it. To call Peter and tell him the psycho knows where I am. But I can’t move. And I can’t look away from the laptop’s screen either. Stinging with hot, fearful tears, my eyes stay glued to the man there. To the hooded figure sitting down, over and over, staring through me with dead, black eyes.

  Telling me he loves me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Peter

  Emily still hasn’t said a word.

  Not since the phone call. I thought she sounded strange, almost robotic, when she called to tell me to come home, that she needed me.

  I dropped everything, radioed my team to haul ass to m
y place, and left the station immediately. By the time I got to my apartment building, Ross and the guys were already inside. The building, that is.

  When I got off the elevator, they were standing outside my door. Emily wouldn’t let them in. It took a few minutes of coaxing from me before she eventually opened it.

  One look at her, and I knew it was bad.

  After the video, though, all that adrenaline that had been driving me balled up together into this heavy mass of guilt that settled right in my chest. I promised I would keep her safe. I should’ve done better.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Emily’s curled up on the bed in the hotel room, staring off at nothing. The way she’s lying there, with her hair tied up and her legs pulled in, she looks decades younger than she actually is. Small and terrified. She doesn’t answer me.

  I go to check the lock on the door, even though I’ve done so three times already. I cross the floor and tug at the curtains, making sure not even a sliver of what’s outside can make it through. These things I do in an attempt to make me feel safer, so that I can make her feel safe. Because I’ve failed her once and I don’t want it to happen again.

  But safety checks are meaningless, of course. None of it matters. This sicko has been one step ahead of us the whole time, and now he’s starting to flaunt it. That’s why I have my guys on patrol outside, on the lookout for that Mazda anywhere close to the hotel.

  I go to sit on the edge of the bed at her feet. I’ve never felt more alone in my life. And that’s saying something coming from me, the guy who has spent so many years married to his work. Mr. Independent, who enjoys the emptiness of his apartment and his social calendar.

  But now that I’ve found Emily, I can’t imagine not having her in my life. It’s scary as hell, but I know it’s true. I just don’t know if she feels the same way. She’s pulling away from me, I can feel it. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. She blames me. I would, too, if I were her.