Page 10 of My Masked Stalker (Beautiful Stalkers #1)

EMILY

W ell, Barbara did it. She dragged me to the Halloween party on Long Island.

Corn husks crunch under my thigh-high boots as I walk near the entrance to the corn maze, sipping on my spiced cider.

I’m not about to get drunk with my coworkers and boss nearby, but I don’t think I can survive this without at least a little liquid courage.

Because I wore the costume Killian sent me.

A costume Barb was absolutely thrilled about, and I had to scramble for excuses when she wanted a link to the store so she could check it out herself.

I ended up telling her one of my neighbors gave it to me after buying it too small.

But here I am, my thick red hooded cloak and tall boots hiding the scandalous pieces of fabric underneath.

I take a deep breath of the misty end-of-October air, the chill biting my lungs with its briskness.

I feel both ridiculous and… sexy. My coworkers talk to me, laugh with me, and none of them know I’m all but naked underneath the Red Riding Hood disguise.

Though I get a little bit nervous when one of my male colleagues squeezes my shoulder when talking to me.

Is Killian watching? Is he plotting poor Tom’s demise?

Will he use that same knife he fucked me with?

Shit. I’m losing the last threads of my sanity over that man. He’s been terrorizing me for two months and yet… Why does he make me feel kind of safe? The tiny, scabbed-over mark under my belly tingles, as if reminding me he’s far from harmless. Or reminding me I’m an idiot.

He hinted he’d be here tonight, the wolf claiming his Little Red. What if this is the end of our cat-and-mouse game?

“Hey, Ems.” Barbara nudges me with her elbow, and I nearly spill what’s left of my apple cider.

“What?” I ask, irritated to be caught off guard when I’ve never needed to look over my shoulder more than I do tonight.

Barb pulls the brim of her moderately sexy pirate costume’s hat low conspiratorially.

“There’s a guy with like a skull wolf’s head costume or something over at the cotton candy stand, and he keeps staring at you. Wonder if it’s because of your outfit?”

This time, I do drop my cider, the plastic cup spilling its contents over the fallen leaves.

“W—where?” I stutter, my head whipping around to look at the stands.

“Jesus, Emily,” Barbara groans. “Why are you so jumpy? No wonder you haven’t dated since Chris. And, let me tell you, I knew something was fishy about that guy as soon as he…”

Barb’s voice fades into a dull drone as every part of me searches for Killian in the crowd.

There’s a queue at the cotton candy stand, but none of the men there are wearing a wolf skull mask, nor are any even remotely big enough to be my stalker.

I scan the crowd again, slower this time, taking in every mask, every man with broad shoulders, every shadow moving between tents.

My cloak sways with the breeze, brushing my thighs, and suddenly I’m too aware of how little I’m wearing beneath it. I shiver, wondering if Killian is here, if he’s watching.

“Em?” Barbara’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just cold.”

Cold. Right. That’s one word for it. Another might be haunted.

“I’m so worried about you, babe,” Barb continues with a weary tone. “You haven’t been yourself since…”

“Since my neighbor and part-time boyfriend got killed in the same way on the same night?” I add dryly, my voice shaking a bit.

Barbara cringes and kicks a stray corn husk. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I understand.”

I sigh, giving up on finding Killian in this sea of Halloween costumes—an impossible task.

If only Barb knew what’s actually been keeping me up at night. I think I might need to tell her soon and deal with the consequences of keeping it from her for this long.

“Let’s do the corn maze,” she suggests with a cheerful voice, obviously trying to distract me.

I groan and resist the urge to stomp my feet like a toddler. “Can’t we just pay for the tickets and stay out here like rational adults?”

My friend levels the sternest look in her arsenal on me. “No,” she clips, her tone brokering no argument.

“Fine,” I mutter, pulling my cloak tighter around me. “But if I get murdered by a guy in a hockey mask, you’re explaining that to my grandmother in the afterlife.”

Barbara just laughs, linking her arm through mine and dragging me toward the ticket stand. We pay the entrance fee and move to the arch marking the maze’s beginning. The carved wood beams creak overhead, strung with plastic cobwebs and fairy lights, but once we step past it, the world shifts.

The carnival sounds—the shrieks from the rides, the pop of kettle corn, even the faint bass from the DJ—fade into a dull hum.

The corn swallows it all, muffling the noise, isolating me.

The stalks rise on either side, taller than a man, their dried leaves brushing together in the wind with a sound like hissing whispers.

“Spooky,” Barb says with delight, her hat feather bobbing as she walks ahead. “I love it already.”

Well, I don’t.

The ground crunches under my boots, corn husks snapping with every step I take in the dirt. My breath mists in the chilly air, and I wrap my arms around myself tighter, my pulse thudding in my throat. I don’t even like being scared. Why the heck am I here?

Something shifts behind me. There’s a single snap of a stalk, and I whirl around, my red cloak flaring.

No one’s there. Nothing but endless walls of corn.

“Emily?” Barbara’s already several feet ahead, her voice echoing weirdly between the rows. “You coming or what?”

I force my feet to move, but the prickling at the back of my neck doesn’t fade. It’s stronger now, undeniable. He’s here, I know he is.

Barbara’s laughter bounces off the stalks as she takes a sharp left turn, tugging me along by the hand. “This way!” she calls.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the right—” My protest cuts off when she yanks me again, and I stumble after her, my cloak snagging on a husk. I curse, tugging on it to get it loose. There’s a loose thread now, and I feel oddly guilty. It was a gift. A very messed-up gift, but still.

The path forks. Barb picks a direction without hesitation, skipping like a little girl, but I hang back, my eyes darting down the darker path, where the light from the overhead strings fades to nothing.

I swear I see movement there and hear the whisper of dry leaves disturbed by something larger than the wind.

“Barbara,” I hiss.

She spins, hands on her hips framing her Penelope Cruz-esque ruffled pirate shirt. “What now?”

I force a laugh, trying to sound less insane than I feel. “Nothing. Just thought I heard something.”

“You and your Netflix murder specials,” she teases, rolling her eyes. “No wonder you’re jumpy. You need a real man, not some imaginary boogeyman.”

Her words hit harder than she could possibly know, and my pulse hammers in my ears. My boogeyman is far from imaginary.

We keep walking, the corn closing in tighter, the path twisting and turning until I’ve lost all sense of direction. My cider buzz is gone, and all that’s left is the sour tang of adrenaline coating my tongue.

There’s another sound behind me. A heavy boot crunch. Definite. Deliberate.

I whip around again, my hood slipping back.

The path is empty—but a single husk sways as if someone brushed against it seconds ago.

Barbara doesn’t notice, though. She’s already ahead, pulling out her phone to take a selfie with the jack-o’-lanterns lining the next fork.

The glow of her screen lights up her grinning face.

But I’m not smiling. Because when I glance past her shoulder, deeper into the stalks, two pale eyes gleam through the mask of shadow. Fixed. On. Me.

My breath catches in my throat, and my fingers clench into fists inside my cloak.

The wolf has entered the maze.