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My eyes search the dimly lit space. On the top of the box in front of me is a lanyard from an event Chris attended. An event I went to many times. How many times did I meet the monster who may soon end my life?
They say, statistically, the person most likely to harm you isn’t a stranger. But he’s a stranger to me, even if we’ve met. I don’t remember him, couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup. But he knew everything about me.
The truth of that disgusts me. It makes me physically ill to realize I’ve done this to myself. I’m the one who gave him access to me in a way he’d have all of this information. I’m the one who attended these events. Who chased this dream. Wrote these books. Opened that email. I wish so badly I hadn’t.
I wish I could go back to those early days with Declan and just choose another path—one that might not have been riddled with such pain and loss. Every decision has a ripple effect, after all, doesn’t it? If I could go back, I would do it all so differently.
Without writing, I would’ve been miserable, no doubt. But the end result is still me being miserable now. And better miserable with my family than alone, and soon, dead.
I stare at his name on the nameplate attached to the lanyard, written in scratchy handwriting with permanent marker.
Christian Pierce
Christian, not Christopher, like I’d assumed.
That name scratches something in the back of my brain. It’s so familiar, and yet, I can’t place it. Is it just from being introduced to him so many times? From interacting at signings and online only? Perhaps. It’s a common name, too. I may know it from somewhere else.
But try as I might to justify it or shove the feeling away, something tells me not to let it go. Something tells me it’s bigger than that.
Somehow, I think the name means something to me. I just can’t put a finger on what that could be.
Carefully, I move things around in the box, sifting through the various items he keeps hidden in here. Mostly, the rest of the box seems to be filled with more memories. More book signing photos of us together, more candid photos of me from the book signings, printed-out email conversations, screenshots from videos I’ve posted, more framed comments. Apparently, he’s only displaying his favorites. Or perhaps he rotates them out. At this point, he could make his whole house a shrine to me and still not have wall space for everything in this closet to be displayed.
“Mari! Jesus Christ! Come out now!” His scream from somewhere else inside the house causes me to jump as I realize how close he’s gotten to me. The house is only so big, and there are only so many places to hide. Slowly, he’s figuring out where I’m not, which means soon he’ll be able to narrow down where I am.
I put everything back in the box quietly, trying to silence my rapid breathing.Think. Think. Think. There has to be something else you can do.
Sometimes my inner thoughts sound exactly like Declan’s voice.
When I hear Chris’s heavy footsteps heading in the opposite direction, I decide it’s now or never. I push the boxes to the side and stand again. He’s in the kitchen now. Silverware clatters to the floor, then glasses, plates. With each thing he throws, he growls, curses, or roars.
“I’ll find you, you bitch! Do you hear me? I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you!”
I have no doubts.
There’s a single window in this room next to the bed. As quietly as I can move, I cross the room and pull back the room-darkening curtain. We’re up high enough on the second story that it scares me, but not so high I think I’ll get hurt from the fall. At least, I think my odds are better out there than they would be if I stay here.
After searching for signs of an alarm and failing to find any, I unlatch it from the top and give the wooden frame a hard shove upward.
It gives relatively easily, allowing me access to the screen. It’s a small mercy, but I’ll take it.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
I grab the bottom of the screen by its tiny metal edges and tug up. With some nudging, it comes free, and I push it forward, huffing a breath.
I stare out the window at the ground below, heart racing in my chest. I swallow, clear my head, and force myself to focus on the field in the distance. The tall grass sways in the breeze, so peaceful—for a moment so full of pure panic—I can smell it. If I can just make it there, I’ll be free. I can hide in the grass and move freely as long as I stay low to the ground.
I’ll figure everything else out when I need to.
Don’t think about the fall.
Don’t think about the fall.
I swing a leg over the window, and the wood of the frame groans with my weight with a poppingtick-tick-tiiiiick.My heart plummets.No.The sound in the kitchen stops. I lean forward, easing my other leg, head, and shoulders out the window until I’m sitting firmly on the ledge. Without time to second-guess the decision, I launch myself forward, knees slightly bent, bracing for impact.
