Page 14 of Obsession

Officially in over my head, I rise to my feet and grab the recorder and my bag. I need to get out of here. I need air. I need to figure out what the hell Robbie knows about me, and why he sought me out. Why he lured me here with the promise of exclusive interviews.

I’m shouldering the bag when Robbie rises to his feet too, unfurling like a lazy cat in the sun, reminding me again of how tall and imposing he is, lined with lean muscle and tattoos.

He’s watching me while the guard shackles his wrists, the chains rattling ominously. “I’ll see you next week, Savannah.”

The promise in his drawled statement sends my heart skittering to unhealthy levels.

I don’t respond.

Before I can let the panic take over, I hustle it out of there, rattled by the knowing look in his eyes.

The drive home is a blur.

Charlotte talks to me, but I struggle to focus. She puts it down to tiredness and fusses over me like a mother hen.

When she finally leaves, I sag on the worn couch in the living room. My father is asleep, his stubbly chin touching his collarbone, saliva pooling at the corner of his chapped lips. I don’t wipe it off.

Instead, I reach for my laptop in my bag and fire it up.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I bring up article after article on Robbie, trying to learn as much as I can of the man who sees through me as though I’m a clear windowpane.

There’s very little information about his childhood. Robbie had no friends, and he was relentlessly bullied at school. Few teachers remember him, and it’s sad to think that a young child could slip through the system. Maybe things would have turned out differently had someone made the effort to take Mr. Jones’s concerns seriously. He raised concerns about Robbie back then, but it seems it was never followed up.

No one cared.

I know that feeling too well.

Glancing over at my father, I clench my jaw, listening to his steady breathing and soft snores.

The door creaks open, a slow glide across the laminate floor before it catches on the corner of the rug like it always does. With it, comes a beam of light, which grows longer, traveling across the floorboards, making a direct path for my bed.

Whimpering, I clutch my teddy to my chest.

It’s poker night. Daddy always stumbles into my bedroom when the rowdy laughter dies down. The others have passed out on the couches in the living room, their loud snoring filtering through the thin walls.

“Baby girl,” he croons, hiccupping. “Make room for Daddy.”

The bed dips, and I bite my lip hard when his body curls up behind me.

He grips my hip and pulls me closer to the hard length inside his jeans. “Daddy missed you, sweet girl.”

Wrenching my teddy away, he reaches for the hem of my nightdress. This is it. I have to lock every emotion down.

If I let myself feel, I’ll sink below the waves and drown.

I’ve tried countless times at bath time to end it all, floating below the surface until my lungs burn, encased in completesilence except for the hard thudding of my heart. But sooner or later, I always breach the surface, dragging in gasping breaths.

And I hate myself for it.

I startle awake with a gasp, my neck aching from falling asleep on the couch.

Dad is mumbling incoherently, his T-shirt soaked with drool. I know what he wants. The new medication makes him thirsty. But for once in my life, I pick up my laptop and walk out of the room, leaving him behind to whine. And the satisfaction I get from his garbled cries for water has a cold smile playing on my lips.

7

SAVANNAH

Reaching for my cup of coffee on the littered computer desk, I curse when I put it to my lips.