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No other job out there will pay me what Frontline is paying me to do what I'm doing – which, it galls me to say, some days feels like almost nothing. I'm normally not the type who condones that. I have a strong work ethic and believe in putting in an actual day of work for my pay – but if it gets me closer to my goals, I'm not going to complain too much.
But letting myself be attracted to Aaron is a concern. Especially since I know it's mutual, thanks to my chat with Redwood a few weeks ago. It's a concern I'm not entirely sure what to do with just yet. But as long as we're both able to keep things professional and above board, it's a concern I can keep kicking down the road for a while.
I take the elevator up to my floor and step out as the doors slide open. My head is so wrapped up in my Aaron dilemma that I almost don't see the envelope sitting on the floor just inside my front door. Because it had been slid beneath the door, I assume it's from the building's association, so I don't think anything of it at first.
Closing and locking the door behind me, I flip on the lights as I head for the kitchen. I drop my bag and the mail on the counter and pour myself a glass of wine – my after-work ritual. Taking a sip of my Merlot, I sort through the mail I'd collected on my way up. Bills, bills, credit card offer, and more bills. I never get anything good.
Picking up the envelope that had been slid beneath the door, I turn it over in my hand. My name is scrawled on the front of it, looking like a child had written it. Usually, they have pre-printed stickers, so to see sloppy penmanship is something of a surprise – they're usually a little more professional than that. Especially when it comes time to collect their dues, which I assume this letter is about.
I set my glass down, tear open the envelope, and slide the paper out. There's a photograph inside the folded paper, which strikes me as odd. But when I unfold it and see what the picture is, my eyes grow wide and I start to tremble from head to toe.
It's then I notice the words written on the page in a neat, block script –Watch out, because I'm watching you. My pulse is racing. A fear-fueled terror grips me. The picture is of me and Aaron – from lunch earlier today. We're sitting at the table, and the photo was snapped just after he'd taken my hand toward the end of things. I have to admit we look rather intimate sitting there with our hands intertwined, looking into each other's eyes the way we were.
The photograph and the accompanying message are ominous. Threatening. And I know there's only one person they could have come from – Robert. The fact that he got into the building – to my door – is enough to terrify me. I live in a secure building that requires an access code to get in. How he managed to bypass it and leave his creepygram underneath my door has me fearing for my safety.
I drop the picture and the letter, then grab a large knife from the butcher's block. Very methodically, I go through my condo, room by room, checking every closet, under the beds – anywhere a person can conceivably hide – flipping on every light as I go.
Yeah, I'm sure I present a pretty fearsome picture, holding my big knife in a hand shaking more than a bowl of Jello in an earthquake. I honestly don't know if I'd really be able to stab Robert if I found him hiding in a closet, waiting for me – and I hope I never have to find out if I can or not.
After making sure my place is clear and he's not lurking anywhere, I rush back into the kitchen and pull my phone out of my bag. As I do, it rings. I nearly drop it as I let out a short yelp of fright. I look at the display and see the call is coming from an unknown number. It could be Olivia calling me from one of the phones in the hospital. Or a hundred other people. For some reason, though, a dark and foreboding feeling descends over me. I somehow already know who's on the other end of the line.
The smart thing to do would be to not answer the call. To just ignore it – and him. And even though my mind is screaming at me to stop, I can't seem to keep my body from moving anyway. I punch the button connecting the call and hold it to my ear. At first, I hear nothing but breathing on the other end of the line.
“Robert?” I start, doing my best to keep the tremor out of my voice.
“You belong to me,” he says.
His voice is a little distorted, as if he's trying to muffle or disguise it in some way, but I know in my heart that it's him. That feeling of dread that's wrapped itself around me squeezes me even tighter.
“I don't want you to see him again,” he continues. “You're mine, Emily.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I summon every ounce of courage and strength in me. I know I can't show him fear. That will only encourage him. The only way I will ever be free of Robert is if I stand strong and show him I'm not afraid of him. That was the one thing I was never able to do before. I know he feeds on fear. Know he gets off on it. Back then, I wasn't able to stand strong. And I paid the price for it.
I'm still paying the price for it.
“Robert,” I begin, my voice low, tight, and very much in control. “If you don't stop harassing and stalking me, I'm going to call the police. I have a restraining order out already, they'll throw your ass in jail.”
There's a slow, soft laugh on the other end of the line that's more menacing and terror-inducing than anything I've ever heard before. It's the sound of madness and it scares the hell out of me. He sounds like a man who's unafraid of any consequences to his actions – which means he thinks he can do anything he wants to me without repercussions.
“Final warning,” he says once his laughter fades. “You belong to me, Emily. I see you with another man and there will be consequences.”
The line goes dead in my hand, leaving me standing there staring at my phone like it's a snake, coiled and ready to strike. As my body begins to tremble again, my legs give out and I fall, collapsing on the floor. Tears roll down my cheeks and a stark fear squeezes me tight. He's been stalking me for a long while now, but he usually keeps his distance, watching me from afar.
Ever since I started at Frontline, he's become bolder. More aggressive. He's taken his intimidation tactics to a whole new level, and I feel completely unable to do anything about it. I feel as weak and powerless as I did when I was being abused by him. And I hate myself for feeling this way.
Sniffing loudly, I punch the number for Detective Lundgren and hold the phone to my ear. He's the one who's been working my case since I filed the restraining order.
He picks up on the second ring. “Lundgren.”
His voice is strong, firm, and reassuring. I sniff loudly and scrub away the tears on my cheeks, doing my best to sound strong and in control.
“Detective, it's Emily Hall,” I begin with only a slight tremble in my voice. “I need your help.”
“Emily, are you okay?”
I nod even though I know he can't see me. “I'm okay, but he's harassing me.”
“What did he do?”
