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“Any regular customers? Or maybe people who come in and just browse every time and don’t actually buy anything?”
Shaking my head once, I told him, “Not that I can remember.” I knew he was only trying to narrow down the whole stalker thing, but if it was that easy, I wouldn’t need his help. No one had approached me in real life—recent midnight visit notwithstanding. I didn’t see anyone watching me from afar, though I did sometimes feel eyes on me when I was walking from class to class… although that could just be in my head.
The sketch and open window, on the other hand, were definitely not in my imagination.
Brett let out an annoyed breath. “You’re sure not making this easy. Can you at least show me the messages this stalker of yours left you?”
“Uh, can I do that while they’re still blocked?” I didn’t know how many accounts I’d blocked over this, but it seemed he stayed away for a while and then came back with a new account, trying to follow me and message me again, like it was his only purpose.
All he did to that was groan.
We arrived at the house soon enough. I led Brett inside through the garage after opening it, and in we went. Thankfully my parents weren’t the type of people who needed those doorbell cameras or those motion-sensing lights with cameras attached, so they wouldn’t see me bring a stranger into the house.
I gave Brett a quick tour of the downstairs, telling him he could eat whatever from the kitchen, but he had to clean up after himself. He could also watch whatever he wanted on the TV in the living room, but he’d have to switch the channel back to whatever channel it had been on before he’d flipped it.
Hey, I didn’t know what weird shit he liked to watch, and the last thing I wanted to do was try to explain to my parents why my tastes in TV shows had suddenly changed.
I took him upstairs after that, showed him the bathroom. “Since we share a bathroom, you’ll have to take your towel with you when you go back to the treehouse,” I informed him. “Same with your toothbrush.” I’d gotten him a new cheap towel and toothbrush; they were in the treehouse, waiting for him, with all the other stuff I’d brought for him.
Brett stepped around me, moving toward the shower. His arm reached out, and he picked up a bottle of soap from the surround’s shelf. “Am I going to have to use your fruity soap too?” His voice sounded dry, like he really hated the thought of smelling like citrus.
“Yeah, sorry.” I could’ve bought him cheap body wash and shampoo, but I’d already spent a lot on the guy so far. He could handle sharing it with me. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.
“Yay,” he muttered, anything but enthused as he set the bottle down. “Can’t wait for that.” He turned toward me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Let’s see your room next.”
I immediately wanted to tell him that he was not allowed in my room, especially when I was gone—the last thing I needed was him snooping around, thinking he’d find shit.
Oh, he’d find something alright, but it wouldn’t be what he was looking for.
But I couldn’t, because he needed to know where my room was, so he could watch over it at night, in case my not-so-lovely stalker decided to pay me another midnight visit.
I left the bathroom, leading Brett across the hall, to my room, though I did point and say, “My parents’ room is down there, and the guest room. Used to be my sister’s, but since she moved out, it’s basically just a room no one ever uses.” My parents thought we’d get visitors or something, so that room always had to stay clean and untouched.
I walked into my room, turning to watch Brett as he strolled over the threshold, and the moment he entered, he looked all around. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe he wasn’t impressed, or maybe he was expecting something different.
It was a rather small room. It fit a twin-sized bed on the hallway wall near the door, and a dresser, alone with a closet. I had a small desk near the window, an old thing that was a hand-me-down from my sister, the wood all scratched and dented from so much use. It was where my stalker had left me the sketch. The walls were painted a light pink color, so light you had to get really close to the wall to see that it wasn’t an off-shade of white. I didn’t have anything hanging, mostly because I’d outgrown all the pictures my parents had hung for me when I was a child, and I didn’t care enough to find other things to hang in their place.
A boring room. A small, boring room, nothing impressive about it at all.
“Huh” was all Brett said as he walked around, studying everything. He wandered to the window and opened it to see there was no screen. “You said he got inside through the window? Don’t you keep your window locked at night?”
“I do keep it locked,” I said, slowly moving beside him and watching as he shut the window, locked it, and tried to jiggle it open. The window itself rattled, making way too much noise… and it stayed locked.
Huh.
“You’re one hundred percent sure it was locked?” When I nodded, Brett said, “I don’t see how he got in this way. I assume if it made this much noise while you were sleeping, you would’ve woken up.” That near emotionless smirk crossed his face, the one I’d previously told him didn’t reach his eyes. “Unless you’re a heavy sleeper. Are you, Charlie?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, my dad used to wake me up for school just by opening my door. I definitely would wake up if someone was moving my window like that.”
Brett leaned closer to the window, taking in the seal around the lower pane. “Hmm. Then I can’t see him coming in this way if your window was locked that night.” When he pulled away from the window, he stood less than a foot away from me—close, but I was too engrossed in what he’d said to move away and put more distance between us.
“You’re saying…”
“I’m betting he came in downstairs, crept up here, did what he did, and then he left through the window. Or, hell, maybe he opened your window and left the way he came to throw you off. From what you’ve said, it sounds like he enjoys playing games with you, giving you just enough to freak you out and make him always on your mind. You still have the picture he drew?”
Shaking my head, I whispered, “No, I threw it out when I got home, after…” I trailed off. That was the night I’d left the house and hit Brett with my car. Seemed like an eternity ago.
“Right, after trying to run me down,” Brett mused, pushing past me and wandering over to my bed, which he then sat on. “I guess I was lucky you had a shitty little car, because it could’ve been a lot worse—”
