Page 4 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Three

After her shift was over, Franky tailed Ingrid home in the convertible he’d bought ten years ago during a self-described “mid-life thriving.” He gave Ingrid an assuring glance through his open window, letting her know there hadn’t been anyone behind him, and she blew a two-handed kiss to him before turning.

She trudged through her apartment door, throwing herself carelessly into the corner of her couch.

Her blinds were closed, the lights were dim, the TV was off, there was no loud music for distraction, and she even ignored her new book rental, Tragedy of Saints and Sinners: The Thirty Years’ War , Vol.

I, which she’d been so excited to get into.

It sat on the armrest of her couch next to her, untouched and uncracked.

Bookshelves and her own collection would’ve been too much of a commitment for Ingrid, but that exact spot was always occupied by a book, sometimes stacked three high with thick history texts from the library.

She would spend most of her sleepless nights right there on her couch, parked under her curved reading lamp.

It had been one of her many late-night routines over the years, diving into stories long past, stirring her fantasy of living in another time, and enveloping her so deeply that even the waking nightmares were somewhat slowed.

Yet, in that prolonged suspense, waiting for a stranger to send her another veiled threat, she was nearly paralyzed.

Every sound from the street outside and every movement from her nearby neighbors felt aimed directly at her.

She could only sit, barely moving for hours, almost willing the screen of her phone to light up with another message.

But nothing came until the next morning.

As she was leaving for work, she opened her door to a new kind of torment, one that sent a tingle from her hands to the base of her skull. She could almost feel its presence before her eyes drifted down to the welcome mat.

It was a gift. From him. It had to be. No one other than Franky knew where she lived—information like that was withheld from her co-workers and acquaintances for this very reason.

Approaching the package like it was an armed explosive, Ingrid knelt at her front door and examined it.

There was no postage on it. No note. It was just a plain gift bag placed in the very center of her doormat.

Small, and all black. Black handles, black folded paper poking out from the open black bag.

Black, just like the work uniform she donned every night. Black, like her hair that attracted so much attention. Black… her favorite color.

Her first instinct was to leave. To step over it and walk down to the lobby of her complex, call Franky or, begrudgingly, the police.

The simple fact that her stalker had figured out a way inside her gated building was enough for them to look into it.

There were no cameras in the building, but maybe there were fingerprints?

DNA? It would be foolish not to at least report it.

But for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she wanted to look inside first. Wanted to see exactly what kind of person this new admirer was, and just how twisted their fixation might’ve been.

She quickly ran back through her apartment door and fetched a plastic bag to use as a glove. Then, pinching at the black paper like it carried a disease, she pulled it from the bag and peered inside at the contents.

A wave of relief came over her. For all she was looking at, was a book. It was spine down with the cream-colored pages staring back at her. The sight was almost calming, and she nearly reached for it with her bare hand.

Don’t be stupid , she thought. Don’t rush this.

Cautiously, she pulled the book up just far enough over the paper bag to see the title. She held it there a moment, blinking fast as if it would somehow alter what she beheld.

A small part of her, she realized, had been hoping this was a gift from Franky.

Or a simple mistake, a sweet gesture delivered to the wrong door.

But there could be no mistaking it now. The book was familiar.

Everything from the cover art, the size, the font, even most of the title was exactly the same as the one currently sitting on the armrest of her couch.

The only difference was the volume number.

It was the second part of the book she’d checked out at the library just a few days prior.

A book that no one could’ve seen her with… unless they were there when she’d checked it out, or they had been inside her apartment.

Tragedy of Saints and Sinners: The Thirty Years’ War , Vol. II.

She knocked the bag over on its side and placed the book on top of it.

Somehow, she knew there would be more—there was always more.

Her breath caught as she opened the cover.

Inside, written in black ink, was another message.

“For the long, sleepless nights ahead. Stay safe, Ingrid.”

Hours felt like minutes.

In a flash, Ingrid found herself standing next to Franky outside The Boneyard, reporting that morning’s events to a uniformed police officer. She’d refused to go to the station and considering the new developments she felt even less comfortable than usual at home.

The officer, a young but attentive man with a blonde buzzcut and acne along his jawline, took down every bit of information with a nod.

The carefully bagged gift couldn’t be accepted into evidence since there was no actual case being filed, he said, but if she wanted to take further action she could take out a restraining order.

“She doesn’t even know what the fucking guy looks like!” Franky argued.

Ingrid grabbed his arm gently, pulling him back. “I appreciate you coming out here, officer. Thank you,” she said, and with that, the dejected pair walked back inside the restaurant, already discussing what precautions they could take.

Ingrid kept her gun close by and Franky bought a doorbell camera and motion sensors for her apartment. The rest of the staff were asked to keep a close eye on who came in, and to report immediately on any suspicious behavior. Especially if they saw suspect number one: Kyle Twyker.

By the end of the day, word had spread fast (as Ingrid predicted). Instead of dating rumors and feuds between line cooks, the gossip now consisted only of Ingrid and her stalker.

One of the couples that frequented was getting divorced, the owner of the cigar shop next door was in the hospital after his third DUI, and a particularly gruesome murder was in the news that same day—the crime scene not ten minutes from where they ate their dinner—but regulars only stared and speculated in hushed tones, all focus on Ingrid and what she’d been through. What she was still going through.

The telephone effect warped things beyond her imagination, and after a few incident-free days, the finished, cartoonish invention was brought to her attention.

Had she really seen him peering into her window?

Did she really find a dead bird in a gift box at her front door?

Does she watch true crime shows? She might learn what to look for and how to avoid being murdered if she did.

“Idiots.” Franky said it loudly, but cupped his hand over his mouth and leaned over the bar-top so only Ingrid could hear him.

It was a packed Friday night. Any conversation had to be held at a high volume, risking a lull in the chatter.

“All of them. They’re all idiots. And believe me, I say that with love. But we work with complete idiots.”

He peered around the mess of bodies until his eyes found one of the waiters, Jaxon, a tall, handsome man with curly blonde hair bouncing off his forehead as he glided around from table to table.

“Especially that poor ignoramus,” Franky said. “I wonder how he’s made it this far sometimes. If you’re looking for the culprit of that dead bird rumor, it’s probably him.” Franky winced, a surge of protective instincts overcoming him. “Need me to say something to him?”

Ingrid paused mid-shake on the drink she was fixing, glancing inconspicuously over at Jaxon.

He was at the server’s corner now, flirting with a waitress named Kitty.

He was very obviously flexing his forearms as he typed in an order.

As he turned and faked a booming laugh, Ingrid caught the nametag on his uniform black t-shirt: “Jaxon Smith.”

He'd printed and laminated the tag himself, using equipment he bought off the internet.

Ingrid huffed a laugh from her nose. “No, no. It might not be him. And even if it was, it’s fine. He doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body.”

Franky tracked the path of Ingrid’s eyes, giving a second examination of Jaxon, then nodded in slow motion.

“It does have an endearing effect. The nametag. I’ll give it that.

” He paused, considering. “But I still think he made it so he doesn’t forget.

Why else would he add his last name? I mean, look around.

Do you see another Jaxon? That’s right, you don’t.

Because there’s no other Jaxon here. Just him.

The Jaxon that can’t remember his own?—”

Franky froze mid-sentence.

His mouth was pinched, eyes wide as he stared directly over Ingrid’s shoulder.

The uncharacteristic fear evident in his expression felt too foreign for her to fully realize what it might mean, so she didn’t turn at first. In that building, behind that bar, it was difficult to shake her.

This was where she was most comfortable.

Even when one of the hostesses ran up, out of breath and barely making sense as she muttered the warning, Ingrid didn’t shift her position, didn’t so much as blink.

“He’s here,” the hostess repeated.

“Yes,” Franky replied curtly. “We see.” He grunted through clenched teeth to Ingrid, “Go to the back office. Now.”