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Maybe Mack has a point. My obsession with true crime and horror films is starting to make me paranoid.
I turn off the TV, pet Cookie, chug some wine, and force my focus back on Austin’s message.
Thank you. Dinner sounds good if it’s tacos.
Maybe he’ll make some joke about how we shouldn’t eat spicy food if we want to fuck after, but all he sends is a four-word response.
We can do tacos.
When?
Tomorrow, if you’re free.
I screenshot the conversation and send it to Mack, who immediately calls me. “Um, do you have adatefor tomorrow?”
I grit my teeth. “I hate you for making me do this.”
“You love me,” she singsongs. “But why the hell did you suggest tacos? I thought your goal was to get laid.”
“Because if he turns out to be a total dud, at least I’ll get tacos out of it. And if I shit myself while we’re fucking, I never have to see him again.”
Mack cackles. “I love how insane you are, Briar. Text him that you’re free. I can’t wait to hear all the nasty details.”
As soon as we hang up, I do as she instructs.
I’m free. I can send you the address of a great pub.
Awesome. See you tomorrow.
I still can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m being watched, exacerbated by the silence that’s interrupted only by Cookie’s purring and the hum of the overhead light.
Standing slowly, Cookie mewling in protest, I flick off the light before slinking over to the window. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before I peer outside, scanning my tiny square yard for an intruder.
I know I won’t find anyone the same way I know I won’t find anyone hiding under my bed or behind the shower curtain, but I’m still going to check.
Except when my eyes land on the trunk of the oak tree that separates my property from my neighbor’s, I catch a flash of movement.
A shadowy figure is slouching back against the bark. Most of his body is hidden by the darkness, but I’m certain it’s a man. Are his arms crossed? Like he’s just...hanging out on my property. Watching me.
My heart stops.
Oh my god.
I pry the window open and stick my head out, heart hammering against my ribcage now. “Hey, asshole! This is private property!”
He doesn’t move. I wish I could make out some feature of his face, but all I can see is a hard edge that drifts below his chin.
Something solid and black.
A mask.
This motherfucker is skulking around my property in amask.
“It’s still September, asshole! Not Halloween yet!”
He doesn’t budge, maintaining his casual posture like he couldn’t give less of a shit that I’ve spotted him. That I’m well aware he’s committing a crime.
The kind of man who doesn’t care about getting caught.
