19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Kayla

"To Kayla!" Michelle exclaims, raising her glass in a toast. The rest of our coworkers seated around a small table follow suit.

Though not as incredibly crowded as the last time I've been here, the Rusty Mug is brimming with life. A band of middle-aged men on the stage is blasting an old AC/DC song, a few inebriated patrons swaying to the rhythm of a very non-dance-y song.

I might be a little tipsy, too, and not just because we're celebrating our victory in court. We proved it was Paula's sister, Patricia, taking the drug tests all along. Now they're both in trouble, and the possibility of Paula ever getting her hands on Saskia again is slim to none.

It's a victory, sure, but it's not the main reason I've helped myself to some liquid courage.

It's the thought of returning home that scares the hell out of me. What will I find there? More flowers? A dead body? A man wanting to have sex with me?

A wave of arousal floods me as I imagine a masked assailant pinning me to the wall and taking whatever he wants from me. It's a pleasant fantasy, but that doesn't mean I want it to become a reality.

For the millionth time today, I consider calling the police. I consider a lot of things. Running away, for example. But what good would it do? He already found me when I left for Kansas City. I can't hide from him.

I could stay at Michelle's place for a few days. Having noticed how strange I was acting today, she reminded me that her offer still stands. But my stalker has already proven himself dangerous. Deadly. Do I really want to draw his attention to Michelle and her family?

If he's fixating on me, he probably won't like me spending time with other people. Other men. And Michelle has a son. Sure, he's gay and in a relationship, but what if the stalker doesn't care? I'd never forgive myself if someone got hurt because of me.

No, I have to solve this alone. Somehow. I have to go home, even though I'm scared to death. But what other options are there?

Clearly, the new locks didn't deter him. Moving away is out of the question. I don't have the funds for it and besides, he'd easily find me again.

Should I get one of those high-tech security systems? Cameras, alarms, gizmos like that? Hire a bodyguard? Get a dog?

I smirk at the thought. I'm not a dog person. Sure, they're all cute when they're puppies, but they're just too much work. And they smell. I can imagine getting a cat, but that would hardly help me with my stalker problem.

I sip from my drink, the alcohol doing little to calm my nerves. The casual conversation around me shifts to local gossip, but I can't bring myself to join it. What if the stalker is here? Watching me? What if I laugh at Jason's joke and tomorrow it will be his photo on my windshield?

My stalker hasn't threatened me yet, but that's how crazy people work, isn't it?

My heart rate picks up as I look around. Several men are looking in the direction of our table. Are they looking at me or admiring Beth's plunging neckline? Is my stalker one of them? Or is he waiting at my house instead?

I can't take it anymore. Finishing my drink, I stand, the world around me swaying a little. "Good night, guys," I say, raising my voice so they can hear me over the music. "I'll head home."

"Already?" Beth asks. "Come on, girlfriend! I thought we'd dance!"

"Maybe another time. I'm exhausted," I say, letting her down as easily as I can. She and Michelle are quickly becoming my friends. Michelle is more the older mentor/motherly type of friend, but Beth is my age and, as she herself said, she sorely lacks single girlfriends to go wild with.

She sighs. "Fine then. Buzzkill. Next week, we'll have some fun together. But you'll wear some proper clothes, not your court attire. And that's an order, girlfriend," she adds, wagging her finger in my face.

I run my palms over my pantsuit jacket. It's not an appropriate outfit for an evening at the bar, that's for sure, but I was too afraid to go home and change into something else. "You got it," I promise with a weak smile. "Have a great weekend, guys. See you on Monday."

Not wanting to wait outside like last time, I call an Uber from the restroom and wait until it's almost here to leave the Rusty Mug. I'll have to call one on Monday to get to work, too, as I left my car in the town hall employee's parking lot.

The driver is mercifully quiet, probably sensing I'm not in the mood for casual conversation. Too soon, we arrive at my house, and I'm forced to leave the relative safety of the car and face whatever is waiting for me at home. Or whoever is waiting for me. Oh my god, what if he really is waiting for me there? Why the fuck didn't I call the police?!

I still could. I could pick up the phone and have a laughing police officer escort me to my house. They'd be thrilled to help me after I told them my proof of breaking and entering is that my dishes are done.

As I rummage through my purse for the keys, I feel like that stupid girl from every horror movie ever. You scream "RUN!" at her and yet, she goes to check the creepy cellar. Alone. And then a monster eats her face because that's what she deserves.

With the can of mace in one hand, I unlock the door and nervously peek into the darkness of my house. "I've already called the police," I call out. "You better not be inside!"

There's no response.

I flip on the light in my tiny entrance hall and aim the pepper spray inside. At least I hope it's aimed away from me. With my luck, I'm just as likely to mace myself.

Nothing moves, the only sound being the soft whirring of the fridge from the kitchen.

"I'm not afraid of you!" I shout, my trembling voice calling out my bullshit. "I'm not," I add like a petulant child, unable to even convince myself.

I turn on the lights in the living room and the kitchen, hiccuping a sob as I notice the vase on the kitchen table. The single bluebell flower has been replaced by a whole fresh bouquet.

He's been here again, now there's no doubt about it. I pull out my phone and enter the emergency number, my finger hesitating over the dial button.

Would they come? They probably have to. But would they believe me? That someone broke into my house just to bring me flowers? Would they think I'm crazy? Send me to a shrink? If Benjamin Adams found out, he'd use it against me, and I'd lose my job for sure.

I can't call them. I'm on my own. Yay me!

Trembling with fear, I muster up the courage to enter the bedroom. The bed is neatly made, and the clothes I left scattered around the room are gone. Did he steal them? Or…

My suspicion turns out to be correct as I open the tiny walk-in closet and find all my clothes there, hanging from the racks. Formal wear on the right, casual clothes on the left, organized better than my closet has ever been. Even the things I haven't unpacked yet are here.

Curious, I slide open a dresser drawer to find my underwear meticulously folded and…sorted by color? Damn, even my socks are folded in the exact same way. What kind of neat freak is this guy?

I should be panicking. And I am, I suppose. Somewhere deep down in my mind, a voice is screaming in terror. But my thoughts are so derailed by the neatly folded socks that I can't do anything but stare and blink.

"What the actual fuck?" I mutter to myself, unable to wrap my head around the fact that someone broke into my house to be my maid.

I leave the bedroom in a daze. A test wobble on the back door doorknob confirms that it's locked. How considerate of the stalker to lock up after himself so I don't get robbed. The thought nearly sends me into a giggling fit. The hysterical kind of giggles, one that can turn into crying or screaming at any moment.

The last place to check is the bathroom. My stalker isn't hiding here either, but there's a box of chocolate on the sink, and the room smells of some citrusy cleaning agent. It sure as hell didn't smell like this when I was leaving this morning.

The bathroom is clean. Spotless. The stalker came over and cleaned it.

Why?

The chocolate gives me the answer. It's what I asked for, isn't it? I literally said I wanted a stalker who brings me chocolate and cleans my bathroom.

I said that. In my kitchen, with nobody around to hear it.

I bite down on my fist to stifle a whimper, a few tears rolling down my cheeks. If he heard that, then…what does it mean? Is he listening to me? Watching me?

"Are you watching me now, you fucking bastard?!" I scream at the spotless shower cubicle. "Why are you doing this?"

My voice echoes off the tiled walls, but there's no answer.

I move back to the kitchen and scowl at the fresh flowers. "I said I didn't like flowers," I mutter. "You can stop bringing them to me."

Great, now I'm talking to him as if he were here. Perhaps he is?

Panicked, I look around but can't see anyone inside, nor any movement past the windows. But how did he hear me talking about chocolate?

Maybe a camera?

I spend the next hour scouring the kitchen and the living room for any signs of a recording or listening device but come up empty-handed.

There's a tiny black spot on the curtain rod that could be a camera in a sci-fi movie, but it's too small to be anything but a screw in reality. Still, I put a piece of tape over it to make myself feel a little better.

Then I sit at the table and watch the box of chocolate. Only a fool would eat it, right? Even though it's one of those really expensive praline sets where each piece tastes different and all are beyond delicious. Still, it's a gift from a very dangerous person. What if he drugged them? Poisoned them? Hell, how can I ever eat or drink anything in this house ever again?

"What am I supposed to do now? What do you want from me? Is this a threat? Are you telling me to leave the house? The town?"

It's certainly an option, but it doesn't feel right. The stalker's messages never felt threatening. I don't think he sadistically craves my fear. If he did, he would have destroyed my clothes instead of putting them away. He would have made a mess in the bathroom instead of spot-cleaning it. He would have gifted me body parts instead of flowers and chocolate. He wouldn't have helped me with my case.

No, he doesn't want me afraid. He wants me to…like him? Is that what this is about? Doing things for me, giving me gifts… It's like a twisted version of courting. He likes me and wants me to like him back. But what am I supposed to do?

With a resigned sigh, I make myself my usual cup of tea and open the chocolate. I no longer think it's poisoned. If the stalker wanted me dead, I would be dead. The ease with which he killed Craig proves that.

"You want me to like you," I state to the empty kitchen. "There are easier ways to go about it, you know? You could have asked me out for a coffee or something."

Maybe he's super shy? Disfigured? Too afraid I'd turn him down?

To be honest, I would have turned him down. After Nick betrayed me, I vowed to stay away from men forever. Well, maybe not forever, but for a long time, at least. I would have turned down anyone, even someone as gorgeous and perfect as Ethan Bennett. And no, I absolutely have not been thinking about Ethan Bennett. Not. At. All.

The chocolate praline melts on my tongue, making me moan in delight. Whoever my stalker is, he has excellent taste. And mad cleaning skills. Who would have thought my bathroom could be this clean?

If he's doing this to make me like him, well…it's working. And that's the scariest part of the whole having a stalker business. I'm having Stockholm syndrome without ever being kidnapped.