Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
His name, his job, his life—it’s all been a lie. And now, there’s nowhere to go, and I’m painfully aware of how close he is.
I slide my hand into my back pocket, praying that I can unlock my phone without him noticing. My fingers fumble, slick with sweat, as I try to remember which side button to push to call an emergency number. I can’t let him see what I’m doing. I feel like I’m balancing on a cliff. One wrong move, and everything could fall apart.
I take another step back, slipping from the doorway and into my bedroom, trying to create more space between us, but it feels futile. “Why did you lie to me?” My voice cracks on the last word, a mixture of fear and anger laced into it. I need answers, but more than that, I need him to stay back. To give me time.
He takes a step forward instead, closing the distance between us once again. His expression is unnervingly calm as he says, “It’s what you wanted, Petra.”
The audacity of his words hits me like a slap. I can’t help but fume at that response, my fear momentarily drowned out by a flash of rage. “It’s what I wanted?” I repeat, incredulous. “I didn’t even know you existed before you showed up here pretending to be a detective!” My voice rises with each word, frustration bubbling over. “I know nothing happened out on the road that night. You lied about everything, and you told Mari you were here to help me write. How would you even know to say that?” The accusations and questions spill out in a rush, each one more desperate than the last.
He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at me, like he’s weighing how much to tell me. The gesture is chilling, his calm composure making everything feel even more surreal. “Do you not remember your words two nights before I showed up here?” he asks, his voice eerily soft.
My words? What is he talking about? My mind scrambles to make sense of his question, but nothing clicks.
The confusion must be plain on my face, because he takes another step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine, and says, “Your live video.” His tone is deliberate, like he’s explaining something simple to a child. “You said you wished you could experience the things you write about. You said your character was a cop. I brought that to you.”
The words are heavy and disorienting. This makes no sense. I try to process what he’s saying, but the pieces don’t fit together. If he showed up here pretending to be a cop because of the live video . . . that means he knew who I was before he ever walked through my door. He was watching the video as it was live? Two days before I even met him?
Which means . . . he’s been following me? He’s in my private group?
My stomach churns with the sickening realization that this wasn’t some random encounter. He’s been planning this. Watching me for God knows how long. How long has he been following me online? The thought makes my skin crawl.
My hand is still in my back pocket, my fingers desperately trying to figure out how to reach 9-1-1 on my phone without looking at it. I keep talking, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping he won’t focus too much on the arm behind my back. “How long have you been watching me?” I need to keep him talking, need to buy myself time.
“Since the beginning.” His tone is casual, like he’s discussing the weather, but the words send a chill down my spine. “I already told you I’ve seen every one of your live videos. I just left out the fact that I watched them as they happened.”
I cover my gasp with my hand, the horror of what he just said sinking in. He’s been watching me for years, and I thought he just found me. I bring my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but the fear is overwhelming.
“Do you even have a wife?” I ask, my voice small, as if I’m afraid of the answer.
He shakes his head, smirking slightly. “Marriage isn’t really my thing.”
The simplicity of his answer makes me feel so naive, as if I should have been able to tell he wasn’t being honest. The lie about being married, the infertility, that was just another layer to his deception, another way to manipulate me. He’s been building this elaborate facade, and I fell for every bit of it.
I see it the second it happens. His gaze drops to my arm, the arm I’ve been trying so hard to hide behind my back. The moment of realization washes over his face, and my stomach drops. He knows.