All I can think about is getting home and getting some sleep. My early morning started catching up with me after the lunch crowd passed through. I’ve been dragging my feet ever since. Still, the smile hasn’t left my face all day. It’s a busy day, too, which helps the time pass.

 

There’s no mistaking the relief I feel when I finally walk through my front door. The house might not be big—I don’t need much space—but it’s cozy. One thing I have in common with Michelle is my fondness for homey décor. Well, that and Christopher.

 

The sight of a big, overstuffed sofa is just what my tired eyes need. I sink into it, stretching out once my shoes are off. Oh, sweet relief. I’m not even hungry, just exhausted.

 

I can’t spend all night here, though. I’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff back, wearing the clothes I wore to work. Yuck. I force myself up, rubbing my eyes, running my hands through my thick hair to wake up. I decide to get online for a while, distracting myself from thoughts of sleep until a more reasonable bedtime rolls around. Maybe I’ll order a pizza or something while I’m at it.

 

The first thing my eyes fall upon when I open my social media is an inbox full of messages. This is weird. I usually get my messages via email, not like this. Maybe I was added to a conversation with a bunch of other people and I’m getting all their responses. Ugh. I hate that.

 

But no. The truth is much worse. I have an inbox full of Lucas.

 

I put my hands over my mouth, staring at the screen. There are dozens of messages. It’s like he was holding a one-sided conversation all day long. I’m glad I don’t get notifications on my phone, or I would have been going crazy at the shop.

 

I shouldn’t look at them. I should ignore them, delete them. Get on with my life.

 

But I can’t. Who could? I start reading, my heart sinking lower with each awful message.

 

Who do you think you are, ignoring me? Do you think you can just walk away?

 

You can’t hide from me. I’ll find you anywhere.

 

I told you, I’ll never let you go, bitch.

 

Who are you fucking now, you slut? I hope they’re as bored with you as I was.

 

You’re nothing without me.

 

It goes on, but I’ve had enough. I move the cursor over his screenname, my hand shaking on the mouse, and block his account. At least he’s not online at the moment. I’m not sure I could handle live chat.

 

It’s the same everywhere, on every account. Nasty comments on my photos, which I delete—I hope none of my friends saw them. Nasty messages, which I save in case I ever need to use them. Nasty everything. He’s even gone so far as to create several fake accounts. I block them all, then tighten my security options. Nobody outside my contacts or friends can leave a comment or message, nor can they see any of my activity. I hope this does the trick.

 

The words are no longer on the screen, but they’re burned into my brain. Slut. Bitch. You got fat since you left your boyfriend. You look like shit in this picture. You’re a disgusting pig.

 

Words can’t hurt me. He’s crazy. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

But it does. He’ll go to any lengths to stalk me. He’ll spend endless hours terrorizing me.

 

I don’t have a lot of experience with the police, so I don’t pretend to know more than I know. But thanks to what I’ve seen on TV and in movies, one word keeps coming to mind: escalating. He’s escalating. He’s not begging me to take him back anymore, not telling me he loves me.

 

What will he do next?

 

Later on, in bed, all I can do is stare at the ceiling.

 

###

 

I’m a total mess at the shop. This makes two nights in a row in which sleep was nearly nonexistent. It’s showing, too. Yesterday I could play it off. One sleepless night is bearable. Today I’m screwing up right and left.

 

“I asked for a mocha with three shots, no whipped cream.”

 

“Oh, you did?” I look at Mrs. Sellers, her face slightly blurry. Damn. I screwed up again.

 

“Are you feeling all right, Amanda? You normally know my order before it even comes out of my mouth.”

 

I sigh, frustrated. She’s not upset. I am, though. I throw the drink down the drain behind the counter. That’s three drinks I’ve screwed up this morning. I start on a new one, apologizing even as I curse myself silently. Get it together, girl. I can’t let my customers see me falling apart.

 

Once the morning rush is over, I nearly crumple to the floor in relief. I go to one of the tables, not bothering to clean it off before sinking into a chair. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head there.

 

I hear Carly walking around, cleaning up, humming to herself. She’s stayed miraculously quiet all morning, not commenting on my short temper or inability to keep an order straight. I know this means I’m in for it now. I wait.

 

It doesn’t take long. “I guess I don’t need to point out that this isn’t like you.”

 

“You’re right. You don’t.” I can’t even pick my head up from my arms.

 

“Amanda…”

 

I sigh, unwilling to meet her eyes. I can’t handle a lecture right now. I’m too tired, my nerves too frayed. I don’t trust myself to take it well, and I don’t want to alienate the only true friend I have in town, not to mention a fabulous employee. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping. That’s all. I’m really tired. A good night’s sleep will get me back in the game, coach.”

 

“I’m sure it will.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I have some sleeping pills at home. I’d gladly get them for you.”

 

I pat her arm. “No, thanks. I’ve tried them, but they always leave me feeling hungover until at least noon. I’d still be a zombie either way.”

 

She bites her lip, watching me. “Okay. I just want you to be all right, you know? I’m always here for anything you need. I mean anything.”

 

“I appreciate it—and you.” I give her a hug, wishing I could be totally honest.

 

I know she thinks I’m so wiped out because of Christopher and the club. I want so much to tell her the truth, to clear Christopher’s name, at least a little bit in her eyes if no one else’s. But that would mean sharing the Lucas history. I can’t bring myself to do that. There’s still too much shame wrapped up in it. Mostly shame toward myself that I let myself be his victim for so long.

 

###

 

I stumble into the house, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and never come out. It’s only a little after four o’clock—Carly ordered me to go home while she cleaned up and close the place down. I was in no position to argue. I wondered at the time whether I’d make the drive home without falling asleep.

 

I can’t go to bed yet, or else my entire sleep schedule will be messed up. I can’t keep waking up at two in the morning. It’s not sustainable. I need to make it at least a few more hours.

 

I kick off my shoes, wondering vaguely about an early dinner. I dropped the mail on the kitchen counter, sorting through it without really paying attention to anything. My brain is mush.

 

Among the usual junk mail and a few bills is a plain white envelope. My name and address are written on it in big, block letters. There’s no return address.

 

The postmark is Texas.

 

My hands start shaking so hard I drop the envelope. I highly doubt one of my friends back in Texas suddenly decided to send me a letter. Besides, none of them knew where I’d moved. This was a deliberate choice. I didn’t want to give Lucas a chance to find me.

 

So who had?

 

I deliberate over whether to open the envelope in the first place. It could hold anything. Well, not anything, since it’s only a letter-sized envelope. But any number of things can fit into a small space. I chew my thumbnail distractedly. Should I just throw it away?

 

I can’t stand not knowing if it’s from him, and what it says. To be careful, I put on a pair of kitchen gloves. I’m sure Lucas didn’t get his hands on toxic chemicals. But I wouldn’t put anything past him.

 

I tear open the envelope, my heart pounding. I’m terrified, nauseated. Holding my breath, I peer inside the envelope.

 

The only thing in there is a newspaper clipping. I carefully pull it out, immediately recognizing it as the article which appeared in the local paper when I took over ownership of the coffee shop. There was a picture of me featured there, smiling in front of the shop, a platter of baked goods in my hand. I’d clipped the article myself, actually, feeling intensely proud. It’s hanging in a frame behind the counter at the shop right now.

 

But the one in the shop doesn’t have the words DIE, WHORE scrawled across my face.

 

I lunge for the sink, the contents of my stomach coming up through my mouth before I can think twice. When I finish heaving, I run the water, rinsing my mouth.

 

He found me. I should have known. He always told me I could never get away from him.

 

And now he wants me to die.

 

I scream out loud, the sound startling me. I sound like an animal. A cornered animal. Is he outside, right now, waiting for me? Watching me through the kitchen window? “I hate you!” I scream. “I hate you! Fucking die and leave me alone!” I sink into a chair by the kitchen table, wracked with sobs. He found me; he found me. He wants me to die.

 

Somewhere in the midst of my sobs, I hear my phone ringing. Oh, my God. Is it him? Was he waiting for me to open his sick little message? I should have known I couldn’t run away. Blocking him wasn’t enough.

 

I go to the living room, picking up the phone. I expect to see his name there somehow. But it’s not him. It’s Christopher.

 

“Christopher! Oh, thank God!”

 

“Whoa. Finally answering your phone? And happy to hear my voice?”

 

“Christopher, please…!”

 

“Wait.” He’s serious now. “Are you all right? Jesus, I never thought you might be in trouble.”

 

“There’s trouble! Yes!” I dissolve into tears again.

 

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

 

“I’m at home. Only…oh, Christopher…I got a clipping in the mail just now. Somebody sent it…I don’t know who but I’m pretty sure it was him.”

 

“What’s the clipping of?” There’s danger in his voice.

 

“Me. An announcement that I took over the shop. I don’t know how the hell he got his hands on it.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“It says…over my picture, it says…die, whore.” I’m nearly hysterical now. “Don’t you see? He knows where I live now! How did he find me? What can I do?” I’m doubled over on the couch, rocking back and forth.

 

“Are your doors locked?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

 

“Double check for me. Lock the windows, too. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t let anybody in, don’t investigate any noises, don’t do anything until I get there. Okay?”

 

I’m flooded with relief. He’s coming. He’ll protect me. Thank God.

 

“Amanda? Do you hear me?”

 

“Yes, I hear you. I’ll do what you say.”

 

“It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. I’ll be there soon. Call me if anything else happens.”

 

I heave a sigh of relief. He’s coming.

 

I can’t even bother to wonder right now whether I’m really safe with him.