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Heart back in my throat, I turn and rush back inside, feeling like Lucifer’s hounds are nipping at my asscheeks. And when I shut and lock the door behind me, I look back to the rocking chair I was sitting in and see the knife lying haphazardly on the floor, next to the footstool.

Oh my God.

I confront a psycho and I drop the knife on the ground instead of bringing it with me.

God, why did you make me the way that I am? Next lifetime, can you not do such a shitty job?

As a reward for finishing my manuscript and sending it off to my editor, I’m treating myself to a nice murder investigation.

Daya sent over more notes that she found from the PD’s database. Emails pour in by the minute with more details. Most of it is handwritten reports by men with atrocious penmanship.

And with the mishandling of the crime scene, we essentially have nothing to go on.

My great-grandfather mentioned in a report that she was acting strangely for several months leading up to her death.

She was distant. Not as talkative. Paranoid. Short-tempered with Nana, and she was late picking her up from school several times with no explanation as to why.

Gigi wouldn’t talk about it with her husband, which led to several arguments between them. In the reports, he admitted their relationship had been declining for the past two years. He had begged Gigi to talk to him about her change in behavior, but she claimed nothing was amiss.

I spend hours dissecting Gigi’s diary entries, looking for hidden meanings in everything she wrote. Searching for the entries where she expresses fear and discomfort.

But whatever scared her, scared her so much that she couldn’t even write it out in words.

Part of me wishes these journals had been found during her investigation. I might’ve never gotten to read them if they had been, but maybe then they might’ve been able to solve her case.

I sigh and run my hands through my thick hair. My shoulders are starting to burn from my hunched-over position and my eyes are growing bleary from all the reading.

A headache blooms in my temples, worsening my vision until I can’t see or think straight anymore.

I sit back in the rocking chair and look out the window.

My strangled scream pierces the air when I see the stalker is back—standing in the same spot as before, puffing on his stupid cigarette. It’s been three days since I confronted him, and I’ve been on high alert ever since. Waiting for him to break in again, and this time, come into my room while I’m sleeping.

My heart lobs around in my chest, pumping erratically. A low heat sparks in the pit of my stomach, my mouth drying as the burn descends between my thighs.

I’m glued to the chair, panting from the heady mix of fear and arousal. My cheeks burn from shame, but the feeling doesn't dissipate. I should close the curtains—do myself a favor and cut us both off from our silent war.

But for some unknown reason, I can’t get myself to move. To pick up the phone and call the police. To do anything that would classify me as intelligent and having common sense.

Those things are nonexistent as I stare out at the man. Whatever ghosts haunt these walls are no longer relevant, not when there’s something much more dangerous haunting the grounds.

As if the ghosts heard me, light footsteps sound from above me. I turn my head and lift my eyes to the ceiling, tracking the phantom footsteps until they fade away.

And when I turn back, my stalker is a few feet closer. As if he’s wondering what I’m staring at. Questioning what could’ve possibly turned my attention away from him.

He’s wondering if it’s another man, I’m sure. Maybe he thinks Greyson is back, occupying the house somewhere. Calling out for me and asking me to join him in my bed, naked and hard for me.

Maybe he even thinks we just fucked, my thighs still slick with another man’s seed.

Does that piss him off?

Of course it does. He mutilated and killed a man for touching me. What would he do to a man for fucking me?

What would he do to me?

Doesn’t matter that it’s the furthest thing from the truth. The fact that those thoughts could be running through his head and driving him crazy brings a small smile to my lips.

Just to fuck with him, I turn my head and pretend to shout something out.