Page 21 of XO Karma

“Then who do you think it was?”

“When I figure it out, you’ll be my first call,” he deadpans, walking away without another word. Such a douche.

He’s either a very good actor or I’ve been totally off about this whole thing. Although I do suppose his job requires some level of a poker face.

Guess we’re gambling tonight.

The crime scene run-in was a bust, so here I sit in my car across from Liam’s house, which is much nicer than I expected for a detective’s salary. It’s three stories of beautiful rust-colored brick with large windows overlooking the bay. This type of real estate is nearly impossible to obtain in Cleosville unless you’re loaded or inherit it.

His cruiser and personal car are both parked in the driveway, and I’m waiting for him to leave so I can get an idea of whatever the hell he’s up to.

It’s five in the morning, sleep has eluded me for thirty-three hours, and I may have just seen a unicorn dancing near the front door. If nothing happens by seven a.m., I’ll go home and take a well-deserved rest.

Daydreams take over. One in particular that’s floated around my mind for the past week. The nameless woman with the blonde-and-pink hair that I can’t stop thinking about.

While returning to routine was the right call, I’m still annoyed for not getting her name. I’ve even been doing some late-night cardio hoping for another run-in, but alas, nothing. Instead, I sit here pathetically fantasizing about a beautiful stranger who’s consumed most of my brain space as of late. I’ve almost exhausted my list of made-up meet-cutes when the front porch light flickers on. “Showtime,” I mutter to myself.

A woman steps out the door, and I fly forward in my seat, my nose pressing to the glass of the window as she locks it behind her. Am I hallucinating? She has blonde hair that blends to pink, a tight tank top hugging her everywhere just right, low-rise blue jeans on, and a large tote on her shoulder. She’s absolutely stunning. And she’s also the woman who forced me to break routine the other night when I spotted her hanging from a tree like an adorable suspicious little koala.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and when they open, she’s still there.

Are you real, gorgeous?

She skips down the steps to the driveway and unlocks the old truck. Liam Huxley’s truck.

My mind whirls. Everything I thought I figured out moves to the recycling bin.

Is she stalking me? Was she watching me from the tree when she fell? Was I always her target? Is that why she wouldn’t give me her name?

The truck’s engine roars to life, yanking me out of my spiral, and a moment later, she’s reversing out of the driveway, then speeding off. My brain kicks back on. I start my own vehicle and tail her.

What are you up to?

We drive for five minutes, and it’s only when we make the final turn do I realize we’re on my street. My lips part open as I watch her park in the spot across from my house.

Well, I guess that answers the “who’s been watching me” question.

I’ve never had a stalker before. In fact, I’m rather flattered. More so now that I know they’re a ten out of ten. But I’m still lost on what she wants. Is this personal from our little run-in last week?

There’s a free spot a few houses away from mine, so I pull in and shut off the car.

Maybe Liam sent her to get dirt to shut me up.

Or maybe it’s your past finally coming back to haunt you.

Unfortunately for them, my bodies are buried or ashes, nothing they’d find inside. Although I suppose at first glance, the photo of George Slezake marking the spot could be a bit damning. But considering it’s an article I’m working on for the Solarium, it’s nothing I can be arrested over. It was rather intriguing she left that photo behind yet stole my Reaper portrait. Is it so wrong for a professional journalist to test different lighting and camera angles?

I tiptoe through four neighbors’ backyards to get to mine. After sneaking into my own house, I make my way upstairs in the dark. It’s 5:45 a.m., which means my alarm would be going off in fifteen minutes. If she’s been watching my routine, I don’t want any reason for her to suspect something is out of the ordinary.

So much for that nap.

At 6:43 I walk out the door, trying to keep my eyes off the truck to avoid spooking her. It’ll be easier to uncover her motives if she’s still living under the delusion that her cover hasn’t been blown.

I grab my usual caramel macchiato at Mocha Muse, and by the time I reach the Solarium News building, my back is sweating from the laser beams she’s burning into it. I doubt she’s been following me inside considering our security team is top notch.

Through the doors and hidden from view, I sneak out a side exit, circling around to turn the tables. A large bush gives me proper coverage, and I pretend to read a book while keeping an eye on her. Ten minutes later, she heads leisurely in the direction towards my house. She’s still got that big bag slung over her shoulder, and she bounces between listening to music and stopping to drop money in cups of the homeless. Her generosity kind of pisses me off. Who is she? Mary fucking Poppins?

She slips into a drug store, and after waiting a few paces, I follow behind, ensuring to stay on opposite aisles. It’s not the first time I’ve had to stalk someone. Although my preferred term is “recon.” She strolls to the back of the shop and waits before the pharmacy.