By midday I’m standing in the backyard with my third cup of extra-strength coffee. Auggie is busy doing his thing. And the sun is horribly, insistently bright. Just this big ball of fire in the sky. I should have worn my sunglasses.
“I’m going inside,” I tell the dog. “You don’t need me to watch while you do your thing. Scratch at the door when you’re ready to come back in.”
He seems vaguely disappointed. Like how dare I not want to stand there and watch the marvel that is him peeing. But soon enough, he returns to sniffing at something in the corner of the yard.
I head inside, through the kitchen and into the dining room. It takes a while to adjust to the dim light inside the house. And another moment to notice the thing sitting in the living room in the black leather and chrome armchair. What was once Grandma’s favorite seat for watching TV.
Long blonde hair falls over unmoving shoulders and blank blood-red eyes stare straight ahead. There’s no doubting she’s dead. Maggie Young, the corrections officer, doesn’t seem as calm and competent now. Just awfully, unnaturally still. And the marks on her throat are horrific and all too familiar. Suddenly, I’m locked inside my body. The terror is so intense I can’t move.
Ryan smiles at me from where he sits at his ease on the sofa. “Hi, Sidney.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My ex was always a golden god. Muscular, with a classically handsome face. People would watch as he walked by. He just exuded confidence and swagger. His short hair isn’t as blonde as it used to be. Guess he’s been seeing less of the sun these days. And his muscle mass has gone from lean and mean to overboard. Working out was apparently right up there with therapy and finding religion while he was incarcerated. What a reach it was to hope he’d take up a craft. Watercolors, or something low-key.
His prison uniform has been swapped for a pair of jeans and a striped henley with a pair of designer tennis shoes. He always loved brand names. A gray ball cap sits on the coffee table. There’s a fresh scratch on his cheek, along with a sheen of sweat on his face. Strangling someone to death takes a good amount of effort.
“It’s good to see you,” he says. “How have you been?”
“Fine. You know…a few ups and downs.”
“Can’t believe you used the date of your mom’s passing as your security code. And they say I am obsessed with dead things.”
“That was a mistake,” I agree. “Are we just going to ignore your latest victim here?”
He sets his ankle on the opposite knee. Great that he’s so comfortable. “She served her purpose. It was time for her to go.”
Watching Dianne die had left me numb. She had just attempted to kill me, after all, in the name of a man I truly, deeply hated. But having this woman’s body displayed in my living room is making my skin crawl. That could of course also be due to the company I’m keeping. This is my home. My safe space. And he has invaded and contaminated it.
“She thought you loved her, didn’t she?” I ask. “Her husband’s going to be heartbroken.”
He just grunts. And the disinterest is wild.
“So, where’s Laura?”
“Sidney,” he chides. “There’s no need for you to be jealous. Just think of Laura as my PR person. Lots of money in death these days.”
I don’t know what to say.
“This is nice. Just you and me. A relief to finally be able to talk to you without worrying about anyone listening or reading what I wrote,” he says with a happy sigh. “I had to be so fucking careful while I was in there.”
“Don’t worry. I understood all of your implied threats to me over the years just fine.”
He laughs. But same as always, the mirth doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s a stone statue going through the motions and pretending to be human.
This situation is chillingly similar to my recurring nightmare. Stuck in the house with him, and there’s no way to escape. Even with my self-defense training, his size and strength pose a challenge, not to mention his penchant for psychotic rage. Though he hasn’t started hunting me…not yet. Nothing within my reach would be helpful protection. Of all the times for the dining room table to be clean. My short baseball bat is on the other side of the room by the door. And there are knives in the kitchen. Eight or nine feet from me. How far could I get before he’d be on me? Judging by the way he’s watching me I doubt I’d get far.
My heart is beating double time. I try to slow my breathing and keep a clear head so I can remember my training. But my brain flashes back to him strangling me, and I can’t quite shove down by body’s panicked response.
Having him here is strange, though I can’t say that I’m shocked to see him. There was a certain sense of inevitability to all of this. He and I facing off after all these years. The detective was right to think I might lure him in. He never could stay out of my life.
Months would go by with no word. No sign that he gave me a thought. Then, when I believed I might finally be free of him, a letter would arrive to remind me. He was still watching, still paying attention.
I am a toy he picks up and plays with now and then. And Ryan doesn’t like to share his toys. But he sure does enjoy breaking them.
“Tell me about your boyfriend,” he says. “Who is this Noah Allard I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“How do you know his name?”
