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I don’t respond. Instead, I choose to ignore the message, plug my phone into the charger, and close my eyes. However, that husky voice continues to run through my mind.
How the hell did I get so turned on by just a voice? And what on earth is wrong with me that I’m encouraging the attention of a stalker?
A lot. The answer is there’sa lotwrong with me.
* * *
“These are beautiful. Who sent them?”Shar asks, inspecting the vase of blue tulips on my kitchen counter.
“I have no idea,” I tell her, my eyes involuntarily flicking to the flowers.
I need to throw them out. I make a mental note to carry them outside with me today and throw them in the dumpster at the side of the building. I also need to figure out how to block that unknown number. Whoever is the owner of that dreamy voice on the other end seems to think we’re some sort of friends now.
I woke up to a message that read:Good morning, my Little Bee. I hope you managed to have a restful night’s sleep.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard to reply, but then I decided avoidance was the best tactic. I shouldn’t have engaged in the first place. I won’t be making that mistake again. Besides, for all I know, this guy wants to chop me into little pieces and dump me in the ocean. Or on the side of the road. Or in some dark woods where no one will ever find me.
It’s happened.
I wonder if any of Ted Bundy’s victims had that tiny voice in the back of their head screaming all the reasons they should run instead of jumping into his car. If so, did they do what I did last night and ignore all those warnings?
Knowing my luck, I bet my stalker isn’t even half as good looking as Ted Bundy was. Not that I ever plan to find out. I think I’m going to stay with my parents for a while, or maybe I’ll crash with my brother. I would stay with Shar, but she’s the only one that will ask too many questions. Nobody knows me as well as my best friend.
“Wasn’t there a card?” Shar asks.
“There was, just no name.” I pull out the ingredients to make us an omelette, turning my back to her so she can’t see my face.
“What did it say?” she presses.
“I really don’t recall,” I lie, dropping a handful of veggies and cheese on the counter.
Returning to the fridge, I pull out the eggs and milk. Once I have all the ingredients in front of me, I find the mixing bowl and chopping board. After pulling a knife out of the block, I glance up at Shar, who is staring at me with an inquisitive look on her face.
“What?” I ask her.
“What aren’t you telling me? What did the card say, Lucy?” she asks again.
“It was some cryptic message about finding peace or something like that. I don’t know who sent the flowers and, honestly, I’m throwing them in the trash today anyway.”
“Finding peace? Why would someone send you flowers with a message to find peace?” she continues her line of questioning.
“No idea. It doesn’t matter. Make yourself useful and pour us some coffee. I need more caffeine if I’m going to face the rest of today,” I tell her.
“Fine,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Do you think you have an admirer? Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s been crushing on you.”
“Seems that way. But whoever it is obviously has money. Those flowers aren’t cheap and neither’s the vase. It’s probably one of those lame trust fund assholes I keep turning down,” I tell her. And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I’m right.
“You’re probably right,” Shar says as if reading my mind.
And then I remember I let that asshole talk me into making myself come over the phone. What if he recorded me? Oh shit, what if that recording ends up plastered across various media outlets? Fuck, how could I have been so stupid?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up my phone and send a message.
Me:
If you plan on releasing a recording of me from last night, think again. Because if you do, I WILL find you and I WILL make you wish you were never born.
I wait a few minutes with my phone in my hand, but no response comes. The message is unread. So I toss the device to the side and continue making my omelette.
