Page 122 of Obsession

“Can you come to the office?”

“Why don’t you just fire me over the phone and save me the nightmare of leaving my house,” I reply, rubbing my bloodshot, dry eyes.

Lowering my hand by my side, I shake it out. Restless energy courses through me. I can’t stay locked inside, pacing a hole in the woven rug while reporters stalk my house in the hopes of catching a glimpse.

It’s all thanks to my nosy neighbor, Mr. O’Harte, who spied the cops through his curtains and made a few select phone calls. I bet he’s loving the shitshow taking place across the street.

I don’t.

I’m two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

“Come to the office,” he says, his voice softer than what I’m used to.

I pause, frowning.

James continues, “Leaving the house might be the break that you need.”

I scoff, resuming my pacing. “I highly doubt that.”

James is silent on the other end as I walk up to the window and carefully shift the curtain aside.

Bright sunlight assaults me. Reporters litter the lawn, like a scene out of a movie or my excursions with Elliot to The Bridge Killer’s crime scenes.

Now, I’m the subject of media scrutiny, but I can’t stay in the house forever, waiting for the day the reporters grow bored of camping in my front yard.

I let the curtain fall back into place. “I’m on my way.”

“Excellent,” he replies, then hangs up. I stay like that for a few moments longer with the phone pressed to my ear, my heart thumping in my temples. The eerie silence mixes with the muted conversations outside while dust particles float in the air, visible in the streak of sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtain. Somewhere in the house, the grandad clock strikes the hour.

Inhaling a steadying breath, I toss the phone on the counter before rubbing my face and dragging my fingers through my matted hair.

I pause for a few short moments with my nails tangled in the strands. Exhaustion weighs heavily on me.

After moving through a shower, I throw on a pair of jeans and a woolly red jumper. Then I tie my still-damp hair up in a messy bun on the top of my head.

Once I’m back downstairs in the kitchen, ready to leave, I swipe up my car keys from the counter, pocket my phone, and grab my coat from the back of the kitchen chair. I throw it on, sliding my hands through the arms.

My shoes lie discarded in the hallway, one on its side and the other near the door. I put them on, trying not to think about what will greet me when I leave the house or the questions thrown at me.

I pause just as I’m about to reach for the handle, with my hand extended in the air and my heart pounding in my chest.

Then I retreat a step, debating my options. Stay or leave? Hide or face my demons?

“Fuck it,” I whisper, pushing down on the handle. Outside, the reporters all leap into action, moving forward as one, like a swarm of buzzing bees. I keep my head down as I descend the porch steps.

“Do you know where Robbie is?”

“Is it true that you’ve been involved in a secret affair with Robbie Hammond?”

“Did you help him escape?”

“Has he ever hurt you?”

Panic grips my throat in a chokehold. I fight back tears, shouldering my way through the thick crowd. Microphones are shoved at me, and questions bombard me from all angles, raining down like a punishment from a vengeful god.

“When did you fall in love with the devil?”

My world comes to a stop.