14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Kayla

"So, how's your friend doing?" Michelle asks, giving me an inquisitive look over her laptop screen.

It's Thursday, my first day back at work after spending three days at Amy's place. Well, two and a half days before she kicked me out, insisting she'd be fine and that she'd hate for me to lose my job because of her problems.

"Conflicted," I sigh, allowing my already scattered attention to drift away. "Craig abused her, but she still loved him, so she's mourning him and celebrating his untimely death at the same time."

Michelle nods, her expression serious. "I can't even imagine that. And you? You look troubled."

Troubled. I suppress a scoff. I'm more than troubled, but not for the reasons Michelle expects. "Well, I'm just glad Craig is gone, and there's no way in hell he could talk Amy into taking him back. But it hurts to see her suffering. I guess I'm conflicted too," I joke weakly.

There's another thing I'm conflicted about, but I've already decided not to tell anyone. It's a terrible decision, and it's probably going to cost me my life, but I made it anyway.

"No wonder. You could have taken more time off to support your friend, you know. Director Smith would understand."

"I just started working here, Michelle. I can't exactly take a month off to binge-watch Friends with Amy while stuffing our faces with Ben & Jerry's. That's what Amy told me, anyway," I add, chuckling. "She flat-out ordered me to go back to work, so here I am, working. How are we doing with Aaron Adam's case?"

Michelle cocks her brow but doesn't object to my change of topic. "Not well. I've done the basic intake, but other than reports from his physician and therapist, there isn't much to go on. And Doctor Adams has been most…unhelpful in facilitating a meeting with Aaron."

"Hmm…" Rubbing my chin, I think about all the praise I've heard on the famous Doctor Adams. "One would think he'd be eager to disprove any abuse allegations as soon as possible. Unless he's hiding something."

"If he is, he's doing it well. Aaron's doctor never mentioned any signs of physical abuse."

I scoff. "Let me guess—the doctor works at the same hospital where Aaron's father is the chief of surgery?"

"Yes," Michelle confirms. "So does Aaron's therapist. Her reports show nothing suspicious either. She claims that everything Aaron is going through is the result of being exposed to his mentally unstable mother."

I pull out Cordelia Adams' file, at least the little we have on her. After she was deemed too dangerous to be around her son anymore, she was shipped off to a mental facility on the other side of the country. By a psychiatrist working in—you guessed it—Bluebell Springs General Hospital. "Why in the world did Adams send his wife so far away? Aren't there sanatoriums closer by so that she could at least see her son when she gets better?"

"He claims it was the best facility to treat her unique condition," Michelle replies, frowning. "We don't have access to her records, so there's no telling what that ‘unique condition' actually is. Adams doesn't talk about it, and nobody dares to ask him too many questions. What we do know is that Aaron got worse after his mother was shipped away, not before."

"His father spends a lot of time at work, so Aaron was probably fixated on her, no matter her condition," I think out loud. "Even abused kids love their parents. To some point. But if she was the cause, he'd be getting better, not worse. It's been," I say, frowning at the therapist's notes, "nine months since she left. Not only has the therapist made no progress with him, but she also admitted the boy's condition is getting worse."

The therapist's report has me scowling. Aaron has always been a troubled child, it seems, but early on, his problems consisted merely of night terrors and mild panic attacks. After his mother was institutionalized, the list grew to monstrous proportions. Bed-wetting, inability to sleep without medication, violent panic attacks, complete decline of verbal skills. He shies away from other children, and being near unfamiliar adults triggers his panic attacks, which is the main reason his father gives when refusing our visit.

"This report says he's afraid of men more than of women," I point out. "It could be a sign of an unhealthy relationship with his father."

Michelle shakes her head. "Most children are afraid of strangers, especially men. I know what you're saying, but this is no proof."

"I know, I know." I sigh. "What's his mother's maiden name?"

"Barnes."

I enter her name into Google along with the town's name. There's no particular reason for me to be doing this, but I just can't help myself. I feel like she's a key piece of the puzzle surrounding Aaron Adams.

The search returns several articles from local newspapers, showing Aaron's mother smiling as she won school debates or performed on the piano. There's a merry glint to her eyes in every photo until the one showing her in a wedding dress next to an elegant man who I assume is Benjamin Adams. Cordelia is smiling, but that spark of true happiness is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like fear. Or perhaps I'm reading too much into it, and Cordelia is just nervous on her wedding day. People get nervous while getting married. Allegedly.

The few photos published after that show Cordelia standing next to her husband at social events. The look in her eyes is almost as haunted as Aaron's on his current case file photo.

Michelle looks over my shoulder as I compare Cordelia from before and after Benjamin Adams. "We need to crack this case," she mutters solemnly.

"We need to talk to Aaron. Or communicate with him somehow if he won't talk."

"Well, his father has done a stellar job hiding him from us so far, but…" A corner of Michelle's mouth quirks up. "Today is Aaron's therapy day at Bluebell Springs General. Want to take a field trip?"

Grabbing my purse, I'm out of my chair before she finishes the sentence. "Count me in."

My heart stutters as we approach the parking lot. I cast a nervous glance toward my car, heaving a sigh of relief when I see the windshield is empty. No flowers. No photos.

"Are you alright, Kayla?" Michelle asks as we get into her car. "I can do this myself if you—"

"I'm fine," I reply, a little harsher than I intended. "Really, Michelle. I'm fine. Let's just go."

"Alright, alright."

As Michelle drives, I rub my forehead. I'm fine. I am. I should have called the police, but it's a little too late for that now. I'll call them next time.

Just the thought that there will be a next time makes my body tense up. But there will be, I'm certain of it. Stalkers don't just give up, do they? They escalate their actions until something terrible happens. Why in the world haven't I called the police?

Maybe it was the thought that they can't help me. After all, the stalker followed me to Kansas City. Three hundred fucking miles from Bluebell Springs and I still found a bluebell on my windshield. This time, it wasn't just the flower, though. There was a tiny card attached to the stem—a photograph.

The photo remains the main reason I haven't called the police. If it had been a picture of me in my underwear or something similarly threatening, I would have called them. I would have called them, and I never would have come back here. But it wasn't a picture of me at all. It was Craig's.

When I first saw Amy's ex-boyfriend staring back at me from the picture, my stomach dropped. I was convinced that, somehow, he was behind it. That he faked his death so he could terrorize Amy and the person he considered his archenemy. Me. But then I realized his face was crossed out with a permanent marker, and the true meaning of the picture dawned on me.

Someone sent me a message to let me know they've taken care of Craig. For me? The thought was crazy, but how else could I interpret a picture attached to a flower? The same flower someone planted in my locked house? God, this is messed up!

My stalker killed someone for me. And that's not even the worst part. The most fucked up part of the whole thing is that—aside from being frightened to death—I actually feel grateful.

Grateful. For a murder.

Grateful to some creep who's been in my house, who somehow figured out where I was going and why, who knew enough about me to find my best friend's ex-boyfriend. Who had the strength to kill a linebacker and the skill to cover their tracks?

My stalker is a dangerous man. He has probably killed before and he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. Then why haven't I called the police? I have the card Detective Brown gave me. I could have dialed her number and told her I have a lead on her case. It was what any reasonable, law-abiding citizen would have done. After all, by hiding the evidence, haven't I just become a murder accessory?

Yet, I did nothing. I didn't even toss the flower into the trash. I wanted to, but it was just too pretty to throw away. Currently, it sits on my table, in the same vase the stalker put the previous flowers. The police finally returned it after not finding any fingerprints on it. No surprise there.

The patrol car is gone, too. I called it away when I left for Kansas City and never called it back. What good would the police do against a seasoned killer who effortlessly found me in a city three hundred miles away?

Besides, and maybe this is the craziest thought of all, I don't think the stalker is actually out to hurt me. He could have killed me a million times already. Even if he didn't want me dead and "only" to kidnap me, he could have done it while I was driving, all alone, stopping at shady gas stations for quick bathroom breaks.

I feel safe, and if that's not a sign I'm losing my mind, I don't know what is.

At this point, I'm actually curious about him. Frightened, too, but mainly intrigued. Why did he pick me? What does he want from me?

Who is he?