Page 2 of My Masked Stalker (Beautiful Stalkers #1)

EMILY

I pause with my spoonful of cereal halfway to my mouth.

“Are you seeing this, Barbs?” I ask my best friend and coworker over the phone, my eyes glued to the TV news sequence. The reporter is standing outside my building, talking about my neighbor, Mr. Petrov.

“I sure am,” Barbara murmurs. “Can’t believe you heard it go down.”

“I think I heard it go down,” I correct her. “There was a crack, and glass shattered at the same time.”

“Was he really a child molester?” my friend asks, sounding about as sick as I feel. We both work with kids, for heaven’s sake. “They’re saying the police found pics and videos.”

I’m nodding, even though Barb isn’t around to see it, her voice coming from the speaker.

“Maybe he deserved what he got,” I whisper, unsure if I want her to hear me or not.

“What’s that, babe?”

Guess she didn’t hear me. I clear my throat and speak louder: “I said maybe you can move into the building now.”

Barbara snorts, the sound coming through loud and clear.

“Yeah, I’m in a real hurry to move into the apartment where someone just took out a Russian pedophile, Ems.”

“You might get a good price,” I joke. “And it’s not like beggars can be choosers in this economy.”

She doesn’t let me get away with it. “Says the woman with her own place.”

I’m laughing along with her, my late breakfast forgotten. After Chris called and then the shattered window, aka the murder, I barely slept a wink. Thankfully, my phone started working again eventually, or I wouldn’t have Barbara to talk with about the police coming and going all morning.

“Grams would have loved this,” I muse. “She was always up in her neighbors’ business. Bet she’d have pegged Mr. Petrov for a creep as soon as he moved in.” Not that I thought he wasn’t a bit sleezy. I just didn’t instantly think molester .

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Barbara says emphatically. “What if they missed and shot you instead? It’s so easy to mix up windows in a building.”

I’m in the process of loading more cereal onto the spoon and actually eating some of my breakfast when her words register and I drop the spoon with a clank.

“Ems?”

The window! Almost in slow motion, I turn my head to the kitchen window with its lovely view of the building across the street. Then I look at the counter where I was last night, right before the glass shattered. My throat clicks as I swallow.

“Emily!”

I cough, choking on my own spit.

“Sor—sorry, Barb. Cereal got stuck in my throat,” I lie.

I can’t believe I gave some psycho killer a peep show last night.

Freaking Chris, it’s all his fault. First, he cancelled our date, saying something came up, then he called me after midnight, all raring to go.

I shouldn’t have even given in, but it’s been a while, and I couldn’t sleep anyway.

When I lost connection, I was horny enough to want to finish what I started.

And, yeah, maybe I had a quick thought that a neighbor across the street could be peeking through his blinds or something. But I didn’t actually believe it.

“Do you want to stay with me for a while?” Barbara asks quietly. “We’d have to share a bed, but if you don’t feel safe there…”

My friend’s concern for me makes me smile, but I think the only thing I’m in danger of is embarrassment.

“Thanks, babe, I’ll be alright,” I assure her. “This was obviously some sort of revenge killing. Or maybe even a hit.”

Barbara clicks her tongue. “Well, the offer stands if you change your mind.”

“Thanks again. I’ll see you at work tomorrow?”

She groans with feeling. “If someone doesn’t do me the favor of taking me out before then.”

I can’t help but laugh. Barbara’s in a feud with our boss, who’s a grade A biatch and won’t be winning any popularity contests.

Once I say goodbye to my friend, I check to see if Chris bothered to reply. He sent me a few disgruntled messages after our call dropped, but he hasn’t expressed any worry when I said someone was killed next door right after. Typical.

Chris and I have been in a situationship for a couple of years now, though I try to date around in hopes of finding something healthier.

I kind of hate him and his mood swings, but he keeps reeling me back into his bed with his skills in that department.

It’s everywhere else that he’s disappointing.

Feeling annoyed with myself for answering his call last night, I open my dating apps, checking if anyone else is swiping on a Sunday.

No. Pass. Definitely not you .

“Oh, hi, Evan,” I murmur to myself, pausing on a picture of the blonde and blue-eyed all-American guy. One swipe and… it’s a match.

∞∞∞

“Thanks so much for a great night,” I tell a beaming Evan, who turned out to be one of the best dates I’ve had this year. Something must be very wrong with him if I like him—I always seem to be a magnet for narcissists.

“No, thank you , Ellie,” he replies, making my smile twitch. And there it is.

“Emily,” I correct him with a falsely bright voice.

He blinks those baby blues a couple of times. “Sorry?”

“My name? It’s Emily.”

His grin doesn’t falter for a moment.

“That’s what I said,” he snickers.

Right, because I mishear my own name often.

“Never mind,” I say with a wave of my hand. There’s no salvaging this now. I should’ve known better than to let him drive me home, but when he heard I live in the murder building , he insisted. Maybe that was the first red flag I missed.

I turn and reach for the door handle, intending to say good night and get the hell out of this car, when his hand lands on my thigh.

“Aren’t you going to invite me up?” Evan simpers. He probably meant to sound seductive, but the rose-colored glasses have been removed, and I see right through him now. And there isn’t much to see.

I force myself not to frown at his pushy behavior, my smile feeling like it has the structural integrity of a semifreddo. I hate that women always have to de-escalate dangerous situations with false calm.

“It’s been a weird day, and I didn’t sleep well.” That’s about as much as I manage to say before Evan pushes his hand up between my legs, pawing for my panties underneath my skirt.

“Hey!” I scream, my hands coming up to push him away.

“Bet I can change your mind,” he says, his lips slobbering over my neck.

“No!” I say clearly, scrambling for the door handle. Just as I manage to open it a sliver, a bone-deep thud reverberates through the car, followed by the sharp crack of safety glass splintering.

“What the fuck?” Evan yells, blessedly retreating to his side of the car.

I blink away the shock and try to make sense of what happened. There’s a large brick embedded in the cracked windshield, right above the steering wheel. Did it… fall off a building?

“I can’t fucking believe this!” my date fumes. “Do you know how much this is going to cost me?”

“Huh?”

Evan ignores my confusion, his eyes blazing. He runs his hands through his blonde hair, gripping it tightly.

“This is all your fault, you frigid bitch. Get out!”

Not needing to be told twice and feeling like I landed in the middle of a Twilight Zone episode, I clumsily stumble out of the car, slamming the door behind me. The thud causes the glass to crack further around the protruding brick, and I can’t stop the hysterical giggle climbing up my throat.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage, the whoosh-whoosh reverberating in my ears. Was I an inch away from getting killed for the second time in under twenty-four hours? And was this a freak accident, or something far more sinister?

Not sure I want to know the answers, I take one last look at Evan’s car before punching in the door code and running to the elevator.

Mr. Petrov proved you’re not safe in your own apartment, but I’d rather take my chances with an assassin than Evan.

I don’t think I’ve done anything that would warrant a murder for hire.

Wearily, I unlock my door and kick off my heels, before I drop down onto my couch and lean my head back against the backrest. I can’t wait for this weekend to be over.

Spotting my remote, I turn the TV on for some background noise while I check my messages.

I shoot a quick one to Barb, letting her know my date was anything but successful.

I’ll tell her about the brick tomorrow at work.

Something makes me look up at the TV, and when I register the headline and whose picture is being shown, my jaw drops for the second time tonight.

The headline says: Second Saturday Night Sniper Victim Found .

And the picture? Not a stranger. No. That’s Chris.