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“Goddammit!”
I shove my working hand into my pocket. There’s a string of messages on my phone, one after the other in an aggressive chain.
?: You’re not a real mother.
?: You couldn’t even have your own baby.
?: But that’s okay. We’re looking out for you.
Then, dozens of pictures flood the chain of messages. Images that I begin to recognize from weeks ago—months, even—of me and Violet. At the park, going to the store, visiting my mother. There are even lunches with Quinn and dates I’d gone on with Reese.
What really freaks me out, however, are the last batch of pictures that come in. They’re all from this afternoon when I took Violet to the park. Me pushing her on the swings, walking her around the track. There are even pictures taken of me talking to that strange man.
?: You look like you had fun today. Enjoy it while it lasts ;)
Hot tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. I can’t hold them in this time. Something is seriously, seriously wrong. The paparazzi are one thing; this is stalking.
Without another thought, I go to the front door. Frantic, my hands run over all the locks, just to triple-check that they’re fastened and secure. Then I rush to every window in the house and shut the blinds, yanking the blackout curtains shut right along with them.
Are they outside now?
Can they see what I’m doing?
Can they smell my fear?
I take the stairs two at a time and bolt into Violet’s room. She has no idea what’s going on. She’s fast asleep in her crib, her favorite elephant plushie loosely clutched against her chest. I wish that I could be like her. Sleeping away in bliss, completely unaware of the threat that this malicious question mark freak just air-dropped to us.
And then someone bangs on the door.
26
REESE
My key is slotted into the lock, but the front door won’t open. My brows furrow.
Weird.
Olivia doesn’t usually do the lock-plus-deadbolt combo. The community is safe. We only ever do it at night and that’s mostly because the world now knows that Violet exists. Precautions and all that.
But standing here now, unable to get into my own home after a long ass day and the misfortune of dealing with Holly, I’m on edge. I pull out my phone and check the tracking app connected to Olivia’s phone.
A mini-map pulls up on my phone screen. It’s an aerial view of the neighborhood and there’s a little green dot indicating Olivia’s phone is inside the house.
Doesn’t mean nothing’s happened, though.
My nostrils flare and I bang on the door so hard the hinges rattle. “Olivia! Olivia, open up!”
If anyone saw from the street, they’d probably think there was some silly domestic dispute going on. Maybe I was locked out for some kind of infidelity. Shit’s never that simple in this neck of the woods.
My knocks get louder and louder, as does my voice. “Olivia?—”
Suddenly, the door rips inward. I almost feel relief—until I see the look on her face.
Her eyes are wild. Wide and red-rimmed like she’s been crying. On top of that, she’s got streaks of crimson on her shirt and hand.
Blood.
I push into the house and drag her with me, snapping the door shut and throwing the bolt home again. “What happened?” I take her hand and turn it over, seeing a deep slice on her finger. “What the hell happened? Is Violet?—”
