Page 137 of Letters From A Stalker

“Fine.” He raises both hands, although the smile remains. “I’m done.”

“You’re terrible at being done.”

“I’m learning.”

I shake my head and return to the screenshots between us, grateful when he lets me change the subject back to work, even if I catch him looking at me twice afterward with enough smug satisfaction that I consider kicking him under the table.

Ghost stays mine. For now, I like it that way.

There is another black envelope waiting when I get home. Seeing it sends a rush through me so immediate that whatever lingering dignity survived Daniel’s interrogation dies somewhere between the driveway and the porch. I pick it up before I even unlock the door.

By the time I step inside, my finger is already beneath the seal.

Little Ember,

I told you I would come back.

Before I do, I want you to have something.

Go to Vesper in the North Loop tonight. Pick the sexiest thing they have, and don’t choose the one you think is sensible or flattering or appropriate. Pick the one that makes you blush when you imagine yourself wearing it.

Everything else is your choice. I want to see what you choose when nobody chooses for you.

Don’t worry about what I intend to do with it. You’ll find out soon enough.

—Ghost

I stare at the address written beneath his signature. Vesper. Of course I know the store. Every woman in Minneapolis with an Instagram account and an unreasonable relationship with expensive underwear probably knows Vesper, even if most of us have never walked through the door. It sits in the North Loop between a boutique that sells sweaters costing more than my electric bill and a jewelry store where nothing in the window has a visible price, which is generally how I know I don’t belong inside.

I read the letter again.

Pick the sexiest thing they have.

My body remembers last night with humiliating efficiency.

I should stay home. Instead, twenty minutes later I am driving toward the North Loop. I have told myself repeatedly that going into a lingerie store is not a binding agreement to do anything beyond shopping. I can browse. I can laugh at the prices. I can decide Ghost has temporarily lost his mind and go home with nothing except a story about the time my stalker sent me underwear shopping. The lie survives until I step inside.

Vesper is beautiful in a way designed to make money feel fictional. Dark wood, brushed brass, soft lighting that somehow makes everybody’s skin look better, and racks spaced far enough apart that nothing feels crowded. Silk, satin and lace hang like tiny works of art rather than underwear. A saleswoman looks up from behind the counter, smiles warmly and asks whether I need help.

“No, thank you. I’m just looking.”

That part is technically true. For approximately thirty seconds. Then I reach the first rack. Ghost’s letter said to pick the sexiest thing they had. He was specific about the store, but everything else he decided to leave up to me. Which, all in itself, was nerve wracking, considering I haven’t worn anything like this in years. No, scratch that. Judging by the tiny pieces of lace hanging off the silk hangers in front of me, I have never worn anything like this. Ever.

I was blushing just by looking at it and the thought of actually putting something like that on was embarrassing, but also strangely arousing. Because Ghost has somehow altered my brain chemistry. On the days he would leave a new one, I was barely functional because. And that was back when I only had his words. But now, after I let him in my home — which I’m still seriously considering bringing up to Kai in therapy — I know exactly what the hands that write those letters can do. The fact that this time Ghost hasn’t described any details of what he plans on doing after he sees me wearing whatever I choose from this… my entire body was vibrating from anticipation.

Will he leave it on me? Will he rip it to shreds? I pick a black laced bra and matching thongs off the rack. It looks so delicate. As if the slightest pull of his fingers could tear it so easily and the mere thought makes me instantly wet.

What is happening to me? Why does my stalker have this control over me? Have I always been this deprived?

I look around the store, almost sure that the sales woman can actually read what I’m thinking off my flustered face but she’s not even looking at me. She’s too busy texting someone who obviously has the same effect on her as my Ghost has on me.

I turn my attention back to the ensemble I chose and head over to where the fitting rooms were. I told myself I was only going to look. That I wouldn’t actually buy anything. But here I am, tethering on the verge of madness, because I want to feel the expensive piece of lace on my naked skin. I want to imagine what it would feel like to stand in front of him wearing this. I just wish his face wasn’t covered all the time because, for some reason, seeing his entire face as I stand in front of him, wearing this… somehow became my biggest wish.

I close the fitting room door behind me and start to strip. My fingers shake as I undress and start putting on the thong and bra I picked, my back turned toward the mirror. I don’t want to see anything until I’m fully clothed, but then I snort inwardly because that’s the last thing I’ll be in this. The doors open at the same time I adjust the bra. I don’t need to look up to see that it’s him. His scent hits me first. That maddening cologne that stays in the atmosphere of my house long after he’s gone. Suddenly the rather sizable fitting room feels small and the air thick enough for me to struggle for a normal breath.

Ghost is standing in front of me, all six-foot-something of him, in his black jeans, black hoodie and same coloured helmet with a tinted visor that prevents me from even seeing his amber eyes. He fills the tiny space like he belongs in it, like the store and the mirrors and the lock on the door were never going to keep him out.

My heart slams so hard I feel it in my throat.