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Chapter Forty Two
Blair
Walking back into the living room, I find Asher and Bray playing a game, but they smile at me before looking back at the TV. “Even on mute, your phone is going off.” Bray snorts.
“Weird,” I mutter, hearing the oven switching on as Cyrus begins cooking. I head to my phone where I tossed it and sit as I start to scroll through the notifications. Some are from Faye, some are from some girls at work, and some are from boys about a party. There are some random ones from Instagram, which make me hesitate, so I open them. The guys never said if they figured out who posted those photos, and for some reason as I wait for it to load, I know it’s going to be bad.
When the post loads, I close my eyes for a moment. The guys are still talking happily to each other in the background, but a cold shiver goes through my body. It’s only one post, but there are multiple pictures. I even saw the caption.
Fucking whore, Crew will get what’s coming to them.
Preparing myself, I force my eyes open to look, unable to make a noise or speak to alert the guys. My voice is once again trapped in my throat as my heart begins to race and fear takes root.
The first picture is from the party the other night. I’m laughing as I lean into Bray. The next is of me dancing with Asher, his hands cupping my ass and his lips pressed to my ear with a dangerous smile. My own is wide, so free and happy. The last is what makes my stomach flip though. It’s of Cyrus and me, and his head is between my thighs. Luckily it blocks the view of my pussy, but my head is thrown back in ecstasy. It’s a fucking private moment, a sexy as sin memory that now makes me want to throw up.
I remember the model rushing away. Fuck, she didn’t close the door, which means anyone could have taken this, could have watched us. Something that felt so intimate before now makes me tremble in anger. It feels like they are preying on private moments, on snapshots of my life where I am truly happy, and even though I hate the photos and what they stand for, they show me something—I am finally happy. I can’t let someone ruin that or taint what I have. We have to get to the bottom of this and fast.
I finally found my voice again.
“Guys,” I croak before clearing my throat. “Guys,” I say louder. Usually I would keep this to myself and deal with it, but not anymore. We are a family. We deal with problems together, and that’s what we will do.
Asher instantly turns off the game, but when he sees my face, he frowns. He rushes to his feet and drops before me, cupping my hands on the phone. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
“Cyrus!” Bray yells, and I hear hurried footsteps before they are surrounding me.
“What’s wrong?” Cyrus demands.
Bray plucks the phone out of my hand and swears, scrolling before he hands it to his brothers. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m fucking angry!” I yell, getting to my feet and pacing. “Who the fuck is doing this? Why?”
“We checked, but we couldn’t find out who. The IP address was a dead end. A burner phone is posting it. It’s not an ex, we checked thoroughly,” Cyrus snarls. “Nor do I think gang members would stoop this low. It’s too petty for them, they prefer their fists. It’s like they are a ghost. It’s not just some stupid vendetta against us, it’s more about you. No, this is psychological. It’s someone smart and sneaky who’s willing to cross a lot of fucking lines. It doesn’t seem like something a stupid kid would do.”
As he talks, my blood cools until it turns to ice and I stand before him, my hands fisted at my sides. Terror like never before fills me.
“What?” he asks, noticing the shift in my emotions. “Baby girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Blair?” Bray murmurs. “What is it?”
“It’s him,” I whisper, and even the words make bile rise in my throat. Logically I know it’s impossible, he’s behind bars for a very long time for what he did to me and for killing my friends and boyfriend, but this feels like before. It’s the same methods, the same stalking, the same build up. I can almost taste the anger, possession, and desperation in the posts. Even the angles of the photos are like his. As I think back now, it makes sense—the flowers. Fuck, it’s all his MO. But it can’t be, right? Even the idea… Fuck, I wrap my arms around myself as tears well in my eyes. My past surges up like vomit in my throat, taking over until it squeezes in on me until I can barely breathe.
“Who?” Asher asks, confused.
“It’s him, don’t you see?” I yell, the tears finally brimming over my eyes and falling down my cheeks until I taste them on my lips as I talk. “It’s him, it’s him, it’s my stalker.”
“Blair,” Bray murmurs, sharing a look with the others. “You said yourself he’s in prison—”
“I know what I said!” I scream, sounding crazy. “But this is what he does. He makes me paranoid, makes me second-guess everything. The pictures, the flowers—”
“The drawings,” Asher murmurs. “The missing camera footage.”
“Drawings?” Cyrus questions.
“I’ve been missing a lot, likea lotof my drawings of Blair. They are just gone.”
“But that means he would have been in our house…” Bray muses.
“The camera footage,” Cyrus snaps and looks at me.
“My bed, it was mussed that night. I thought it was Bray,” I whisper. “It’s him, he’s here. He found me and he’s doing it again. But he won’t stop this time until one of us is dead.” I begin to sob, and then I collapse.
They gather around me, but not even their arms or protection can save me from this.
My past is finally coming for me.
He’s coming for me.
