Page 1 of The Art of Obsession

1

They’re everywhere. Sketches. Hundreds of them. Me. Nude

Chapter Playlist:

“The Phantom of the Opera” – Nightwish Cover – (No judging! He was the original masked stalker!)

“Sweet Sacrifice” – Evanescence

“Lullaby” – the Cure

EVERLEIGH

The nude drawingwas left on my pillow.

I shiver from where I sit at the table, insides cold and trembling as I study the familiar curves and contours of the woman in the drawing. Not completely nude since she’s wearing a dress, but it’s transparent, exhibiting the outline of her breasts and the faint imprint of her nipples, along with the soft triangle leading to a point between her thighs.

The woman in the charcoal sketch isme.

I turn, scanning the hotel room, my breath catching. It’s as if I can feel someone watching me. But that’s impossible since I shuttered the drapes and turned off all the lights, leaving nothing but my cellphone’s glow to see the art.

Yes, art. Because it’s beautiful, flawless. Some dark and twisted part of me admires it, appreciates it even. But the saner, more rational part, the kind that defines me as a logistical analyzer of facts and evidence, is all fear.

Knowing someone broke into my room while I was asleep, left the sketch on my pillow, and disappeared without a trace…sends ice into my very bone marrow.

Daylight peeks through the curtains, and I make a command decision.

I crumple the sketch, throw it in the nearest waste bin, and start packing. There’s an abandoned church in the Appalachians with my name on it.

One of the perks of my role as a historian consultant to the rich and elite: I can come and go as I please and choose my assignments for the most part. Since my client is one of the key shareholders in the Smithsonian, I get to fly first class on his dime.

If some crazy stalker is out there, the last thing I’m going to do is hang around and wait to get a knife handle shoved up my vag. As kinky as it seems in books, I’m not about to try it in real life.

I findthe second sketch taped to my motel bathroom mirror. Only lingerie covers me in this one.

My heart spins off its axis, and dizziness clouds my vision as I peel it off and try not to choke as I read the words at the bottom.

Do not throw this one away, Little Quill.

I drop it. Clutch my throat. When my knees give out, I huddle into the corner of the bathroom, forming myself into aball. Whoever this stalker artist is, he’s tracking me across the country. And he’s been watching me work. It’s antiquated, but I love the aesthetics of writing things down with aquill penin my old leather journal. I’ll hunt antique shops for new ones to add to my collection.

He knows me.

Propping my head between my knees, I take deep breaths and sort out my thoughts, compartmentalizing them when I need to stem an anxiety attack.

He’s been in my room, two rooms at this point. He’s stalked me. But he hasn’t hurt me. Other than these sketches, he hasn’t contacted me.

It’s not like I’ve left a trail of spurned lovers behind me. I’ve had one. One former fiance. And that’s a whole sob story that will literally make me sob and break into a thousand pieces if I so much as remember how he died in a car crash…on the way to our wedding.

I’d take a jilted lover left at the altar any day over exchanging my wedding gown for a black funeral dress.

Before my memories suck me under, I glance up at the sketch again. More sick and twisted admiration ripples heat through me, but frustration and self-loathing curdle my blood. I get to my feet, grab the sketch from the sink, and clench my eyes, forcing myself to look away. But I can’t.

It’s beautiful.

This isn’t some pornified sketch with my boobs inflated from their smaller C-cups. It doesn’t exaggerate my soft curves. And despite the lingerie, the portrayal isn’t slutty. It’s sensual and enchanting. There are even a few rose petals scattered on the bed around my dark curls.

He captured my lines flawlessly.