11. Muffin

ELEVEN

I'm in bed with my husband's murderer.

I fucked him, and when we were finished, I curled up next to him as he told me in graphic detail how Will died.

And all because he'd been watching me in Springfield, too, and he decided that he would be the hero I needed. I wanted a clean break from Will Burke, he figured that out for me, and I got it.

I also have the answer to the question I couldn't keep myself from asking: who's crazier? Well, one of us is a possessive stalker who killed my husband, and the other managed to fall asleep for a few blissful hours of dreamless sleep while wrapped up in a killer's arms as if it was the safest place in the world to be.

Oh, and she also routinely talks to the ghost of her dead husband when she isn't fantasizing over a masked man—or thinking about the friendly neighbor who lives across the street from her…

Will is dead. I know how he died now and I… I don't know. I feel better? I guess. Maybe. The Watcher wasn't brutal. Not really. Instead of making Will suffer, he slit his throat. It was a pretty quick death overall.

He doesn't tell me what happened to my husband after that. He makes it clear that no one will ever find him, and explains that the only reason he sent me the bloody ring was so that I knew Will wouldn't be coming back.

I want to believe that. I kind of do. I also think that he liked the idea of including me, letting me know his murderous secret. No one else knows what happened to Will Burke except for us, and it's another way for him to think of me as his.

And after tonight? I am.

There was a promise in the way he fucked me. Even if he didn't tell me that I belonged to him, the possessive way he owned my body made it clear. First, when he was thrusting, then when he spent the next hour or so with his hard dick lodged just in side of me as if he never planned on leaving the warmth of my body.

But he does. Of course he does.

I should've known when he started thrusting into me again. Light strokes, loving strokes, as he gripped my hip, backing me up into him.

I wasn't asleep, and I'm pretty sure he knew that. This wasn't him trying to fuck me while I was unconscious. Oh, no. This is him showing me again that my body—just like the rest of me—belongs to him.

The moment he bucks up into me, filling me up again, I sense a goodbye in the way he slowly withdraws himself from me. Not wanting to face that… not wanting to face him… I close my eyes and pretend like I fell back asleep.

He slides across my mattress, trailing his warm fingers down my spine, over the curve of my ass before rubbing his thumb along the back of my upper thigh. I let him, still pretending to be asleep as he climbs out of my bed. I relax my closed eyes as he stalks around the bed, trying to keep up the illusion that I don't sense him prowling around my room while I'm even more vulnerable than when he joined me in the shower.

I don't know how long he watches me for now. True to his name, I can tell that he's there… just there… naked and masked and hovering at the side of my bed. I refuse to peek, to look, but just when I'm sure my stalker disappeared from my house as easily as he entered it, the floor creaks as his weight shifts.

He drops a kiss to the top of my head. He's still wearing his balaclava, the fabric rustling against my messy hair, but the gentle kiss is so at odds with his casual murder confession, I almost whimper.

Worse, I almost open my eyes, grab his wrist, and beg him not to go.

I don't. Not yet. Maybe if he had taken his mask off, revealing his identity to me, I would've. I can't fall for a mysterious, shadowy figure. I shouldn't be teasing my obsessed stalker at all, especially when I'm already so compromised.

I can't be with the Watcher, and I don't know what's going to happen when he realizes that.

So I stay quiet, my heart pounding in my ears as he walks soundlessly through my house. I can't quite make out his movements. He stalks away like he owns the place, like he takes locked doors as a challenge, and that he's sure of his welcome the next time I tease him.

Because that's what I've been doing, isn't? First, I teased him by showing my naked body off against the window, snagging his attention. Then, whether I meant to do so or not, I threw my budding relationship with Jake in his face.

It was a dinner. One simple dinner. And as much as I enjoyed it, it did exactly what I thought it would.

It forced the Watcher's hand. He thinks my pussy belongs to him? That I belong to him? If he wanted me to believe that, he needed to show me.

And, whoa, did he show me.

What am I going to do about him? What am I going to do about Jake?

"What are you going to do about me?"

My eyes snap open. Even through the dim haze of the dawning sunlight streaming in through my window, I can spy Will leaning up against my dresser, sneering at me.

I grab my blanket, covering up my body as I sit up.

He snorts.

I get it. That was ridiculous for so many reasons. He's not real, I keep imagining him on my own, and even if he was real, he was my husband. He's seen me naked a thousand times. Nothing can change that.

Still, with my stalker's come still dripping out of my pussy again, and his scent clinging to my skin, it doesn't seem right to face his victim without something blocking my tits from my dead husband's narrowed gaze.

I know that face. I've seen that a million times—and it gets the same rise out of me this time as it always does.

"What?" I snap. "What are you looking at?"

"Let's see… how about the whore who slept with my murderer after he confessed to the crime?"

Well. He's not wrong.

I think about it for a moment. "He would've needed the extra large trojans unlike someone else I know. If we used them."

Will's eyes nearly bulge out of his head. "You let him fuck you without a condom? You never let me fuck you bareback?"

Yeah. Because he wouldn't let me go on birth control. I'm just lucky he didn't poke any holes in our condoms or else I might've gotten stuck with his kid. I always wanted to wait until I was at least in my late-twenties, early-thirties before I tried to get pregnant, and while my high school boyfriend would've been happy to see me knocked-up at seventeen, Will agreed we would wait a few more years.

Still, I didn't trust him enough to go without condoms, no matter how much he swore we could do the pull-out method. With the Watcher… the first thing I did when I moved to Merrill Grove was find a GYN to prescribe me birth control. I'd like to think that a man this obsessed with me wouldn't risk my health by fucking me at the same time as he's fucking others—and I really, really hope I'm right or else I'm in even more trouble than I currently am—but even before I knew he was out there, I got on the shot.

And, with a gleeful grin, I tell Will that.

He hisses at me. "Don't you ever listen?—"

I did. For far too long, I listened to him. "Go away, Will."

"Why should I? You did this to me." He moves away from the dresser, stepping into the light. For the first time since he's been haunting me, I see his second smile. A deep gash crosses his throat, the echoes of his dying blood trickling down his pale skin. "You killed me!"

Bile rises up in my throat. The afterglow from the second round of sex seeps away, replaced by nausea as Will gestures at his throat.

I swallow it back.

I knew he was gone. When he never came back to Merrill Grove after he tracked my debit card usage to the town and used my pink car to find me, I knew something had to have happened to him. The wedding ring the Watcher left behind, plus his note, made it obvious. He had something to do with it.

Now I know exactly what.

He slit his throat, but he did it for me.

My tongue darts out, dabbing the corner of my mouth. I refuse to look away, and as I face the ghost of my dead husband, watching him begin to fade as I accept that the only one truly responsible for Will's death is Will… I give him a mocking smile of my own.

"You never should've hit me."

Shufflinginto my kitchen after a few more hours' surprisingly peaceful sleep, I'm not sure what I'm expecting to find—or what I hope to.

The last time he slipped into my house, the Watcher left a rose and a note on my table next to the towel he borrowed. I heard the rustle of his clothing as he gathered them up, the way his shirt whispered against his chest as he pulled it on before stabbing his legs in his jeans.

I'm pretty sure he waited until he was downstairs to tug on his boots since I didn't hear those tapping against my floor. One of the chairs at my table is slightly crooked. He probably sat there to tie up the laces before…

…leaving me a muffin?

That's all that's left behind. I see a muffin resting on a napkin on the edge of the table. A quick sniff tells me that it's blueberry. Surprise, surprise that that's my favorite, and that the Watcher knew that.

I pick it up in one hand, reaching for the napkin in the other. He's trained me. I almost expect him to have left another one of his notes for me, but it's blank.

And it hits me. The fact that there is no message is the message.

Why would he remind me again that I'm his when he spent the last couple of hours proving that?

And if I'm his…

I slept with him. No denying that. He didn't force me to do anything, either. If I'd told him to ‘go', he would've, but I didn't. I willingly climbed into bed with him twice. I wanted it as much as I did.

But what if I do want the Watcher, can I have Jake? If I choose Jake, how will my stalker react?

He killed Will. So he claims he did it for me. That he had a perfectly good reason.

With logic like that, what else can he convince himself that he's justified in doing?

I glance at the muffin again, then set it down on my table without eating it.

My phone's upstairs. Dashing to the second floor to grab it, I see that it's just after nine. If my neighbor's off from the garage, he'll be home. If he isn't, he might still be there since the garage usually opens at ten during the week.

I think about it for a moment, then search for his contact. During our dinner, he gave me his number so that I could contact him anytime, anywhere if something happens to my car. To be fair, I gave him mine, though he hasn't called or texted me since.

And that, I think to myself, is exactly why I have to nip this in the bud before it gets even more complicated.

He answers on the third ring, my stomach going tight at the pure happiness in his voice as he says, "Simone! How are you? I was hoping to hear from you soon."

I'm sure he was.

"I'm good, Jake. But I was wondering… how would you like to get some breakfast?"

I hadevery intention of ending this… whatever… fling I have going on with my neighbor. It was just a little harmless flirting and single dinner. I'll admit that most of my motivation had to do with drawing some kind of a reaction out of my stalker, and since I did…

I like Jake. More than I want to admit to myself. He's been so careful to come across as friendly so, the way I see it, why not tell him that we need to be just friends?

That was my reasoning behind seeing if he was up for breakfast. I could order sandwiches in, pick them up from a deli, meet him at Myrtle's, or even whip up some scrambled eggs. I've always been a big believer that it's best to break bad news over a good meal, and if that's because my dad took the family out to dinner every time he was telling us we were going to move.

Lucky me, but Jake got called into work today. He was actually supposed to be off, but the boss needed him to be in between ten and eleven. He told me he'd see if he could get Frank to let him come in later so we could grab a bite first, but I told him not to get in trouble with his boss. Instead, I'd bring him breakfast and, if he's not too busy, maybe we could have a real quick cast.

If I don't do it now, I'll back out. And I tell myself that as I get in my car, drive to the Merrill Grove bagel shop, and pick up breakfast for us both.

I'm too nervous to eat myself so I order something for Jake, then head over to Frank's garage. I don't see Jake's basic black car parked where the employees usually leave their vehicles. Only a white van and a beat-up dark blue pick-up truck.

A quick look around the front of the garage and the reception reveals that the only one in sight is Brendon.

Where's Jake?

I've got the plastic bag holding a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich plus a bottle of Coke in my hand, ready to ask Brendon where Jake is, if he made it to work yet, when I see it.

At first, it looks like a scrap of black fabric. It couldn't be nothing. It could be anything. Something about it, though, makes my heart nearly stop.

Brendon is underneath a tiny silver car, fiddling with it. He hasn't noticed me yet. Quickly, I tuck the plastic bag behind me, hiding it, before I tiptoe over to the… oh, who am I kidding? That's a ski mask.

A very familiar ski mask.

I poke it with the toe of my tennis shoe. The tip immediately finds the hole that's cut out for the eyes. I suck in a breath right as I bend over, picking it up.

My breath comes out as a shocked gasp loud enough to catch Brendon's attention.

Hearing me, he scoots out from under the silver car he was working on. His features are twisted in a look of annoyance at being disturbed, but he smooths them over the second he sees that it's a pretty blonde standing in his shop.

He doesn't get up, though. Staying on the creeper, he waves a hand at me. "Can I help you?"

Does he remember me or am I simply one in a long line of female customers that he tries to sleep with? I don't know, and I don't care.

I show him the balaclava. "Is this yours?"

It would make sense. The car trouble I had. The way the Watcher was able to break into my car, and my house. If he was a mechanic who knows his way around tools and lock picks… could it be him? Does Brendon own the balaclava and, unaware that I agreed to meet Jake here for breakfast, left it out by accident?

Is he my stalker?

I thought…

Brendon squints as he looks at the mask. "That? Nah. I know who it belongs to, though. Jakey. He works here, too. You?—"

I don't listen to anything else he says after that.

This mask is Jake's.

It's Jake's.

Because Jake is the Watcher.

And everything I just thought about Brendon goes double for Jake McIntyre. Triple, when I think about how he just so happened to move into my neighborhood, conveniently renting the house directly opposite of mine.

Quadruple when I think that?—

"Miss? Hey… you okay?"

Am I okay? The nice guy I'd kind of, sort of been thinking about dating before realizing what a bad idea that would be is actually the mysterious stalker who killed my husband for me. Am I okay?

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine."

I'm fine.

I'm lying.