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Ask me later when they’re standing over my bed watching me sleep, I’ll feel differently, I’m sure.

“I’ll be fine, Daya. I promise. I’m sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow. I’ll barricade myself in the bedroom if I must. Who even knows if they’ll come back?”

My argument is weak, but I suppose I’m not even really trying at this point. I’m not fucking leaving.

Why is it that being in public places and social settings make me want to light myself on fire, but when someone breaks into my house, I feel brave enough to stay?

It doesn’t make sense in my head, either.

“I don’t feel okay leaving you here. If you die, the rest of my life will be ruined. I’ll live on in misery, plagued by the what if questions.” With all the drama she learned from theater, she looks up to the ceiling and puts a contemplative finger on her chin. “Would she still be alive if I had just dragged the bitch out of the house by her hair?” she wonders aloud in a whimsical voice, mocking her possible future self and me.

I frown. I’d rather not

be dragged out by my hair. It took me a long time to grow it out.

“If they come back, I’ll call the police immediately.”

Exasperatedly, she drops her hand and rolls her eyes, her mannerisms saturated with sass. She’s angry with me.

Understandably so.

“If you die, I’m going to be so pissed at you, Addie.”

I give her a weak smile.

“I’m not going to die.”

I hope.

She growls, grabs my hand roughly, and pulls me into a fierce hug. She’s letting me go, and all I can feel is immense relief tinged with a little regret.

“Call me if they come back.”

“I will,” I lie. She leaves without another word, slamming the door behind her.

I heave out a breath, grab a knife from the drawer, and tiredly make my way into the bathroom. I need a long, hot shower, and if the creep chooses now to interrupt me, I’ll be happy to stab them for it.

Chapter 5

The Manipulator

T he breeze coerces my body forward, as if urging me to jump. To take the leap and plunge to my death.

You won’t regret it.

That little intrusive thought lingers. Somehow, I feel like crashing into sharp rocks would be regrettable, to say the least. What if I don’t die right away? What if I miraculously survive the fall, and I’m forced to lie there, broken and bloody, until my body finally gives out?

Or what if my body refuses to give out and I’m forced to live the rest of my life as a vegetable?

All regrettable.

I’m snapped out of my musings when I hear a throat clear.

“Ma’am?”

I turn my head to see a tall, older man with a softness about him that almost comforts me. His grey, thinning hair is matted to his forehead from sweat, and his clothes are stained with dirt and gunk.

His eyes bounce between me and the edge of the cliff I’m standing on, emanating nervous energy. He thinks I’m going to jump. And as I continue to just stare at him, I realize I’m not giving him any reason to think otherwise.