“What are you trying to obtain?”
He chuckles. “Where’s the fun in telling you that?”
Deflating—because of course it wouldn’t be that easy—I watch him walk away.
Chapter Eighteen
?
Good…riddance?
Azalea
I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. All I know is that my stomach hurts because Malcolm is a mystery my brain refuses to ignore.
After he spent four days of his life searching for my tiny emotional-support crystal, it seems rude to kill him. So what if he’s horrible and probably scheming and possibly going to shatter me into a million pieces once I give him whatever it is he wants?
He talked to who knows how many strangers for hours on end over the course of a near-full week to find something I lost while luring him into an alley where he was supposed to be stabbed to death.
Saying my emotions concerning Malcolm have becomecomplicatedwould be humorously trite.
There’s too many to sort through. Too many to decode. Too many to experience.
Which is why, usually, I choose not to experience them at all.
Usually, I settle for the bleak sensation of hollow emptiness.
Unfortunately, that was before I decided to assist in a murder.
Malcolm and I may be black and white, but people rarely are. If killing him is a mistake, I need to figure that out now. Before it’s too late.
So. Here I am. Standing in front of his private elevator doors, holding a bag of home-baked cookies, and mentally preparing myself for whatever might come next.
When the doors silently slip open, I grip my bag and swallow.
Within the jet capsule, Malcolm smiles, and my skin crawls as the knowledge I’m about to enter a home as dark as mine is light invades my brain. I might not survive this. But it’s too late to back down now.
Stepping aside to give me room in the dark pod, Malcolm says, “Did you have a safe trip?”
My jaw locks as I enter. “I’ve had your location for weeks.” Even if I did only notice we occupied the same building a few days ago. “What I’d like to know is if it’s a coincidence, or if you’re creepier than I thought.”
“Creepier? You think I’m creepy?” He closes the doors and sends us up. “I’m hurt.”
I secure myself firmly on the other side of the box—as far away from the creepy man as possible. “Not a coincidence, then. Got it.”
He laughs. “It is a coincidence, actually, but a very happy one. I like knowing you’re near. I like checking for your car in the lot and assuring myself that you’re home safe.”
“Wild. I like not being stalked.”
“I don’t stalk you. I just tend to know where you are. All the time. Considering you’re usually home or at work, it’s not a difficult schedule to memorize.”
Tense, I eye him. “I think I’ve changed my mind about watching a movie with you. I’d like to go back down now, so I can begin looking for a new apartment.”
As the elevator stops at the top floor, he pulls a key free. “Pity.” He presents the silver metal. “You can’t escape without this. So I guess you’re stuck here. With me.”
The wordregretdoes not encompass a single ounce of what I’m experiencing right now. It can’t scratch the surface of my subdued emotions as the doors before me open to present a pit—a deep, endless, oily pit of nothingness.
My mouth dries.
