A few days later

I’ve always kept to myself. Not because I’m shy, but because people have always disappointed me. Whether they were my friends, my family … or even my parents—all they did was use me for their own benefit. Give me something good and then take it back again.

No one loved me unconditionally. Not even my parents. So I’ve come to associate people with lies and manipulation … and maybe I’ve even started to believe I should take part in this dirty game myself.

One year ago, my parents convinced me to meet with a wealthy bank manager, the son of the CEO, because he’d approached them about his interest in me. I thought it was a joke, but when I met the man, Max Marino, I saw in his eyes that he was speaking the truth. He wanted me to take part in his wicked game.

I should’ve said no.

But my mind was already agreeing. Why? Because my parents wanted it so badly, and for some reason, I thought if I did this, they’d finally love me.

Silly me.

Of course, the game turned out to be much more than I could handle. Nine girls, all together with three brothers … and we were vying for their attention. Their love. With sex.

It was sick.

To this day, I still regret ever signing his contract.

Luckily, I got out in time before …

I sigh, not wanting to reminisce. The memories float back in my head every time I’m at this desk in the library, and I can’t help but think about it, but I know I shouldn’t. It’s not healthy to linger on the past.

Besides, it’s time for work, and if my supervisor sees me chilling, I know he’ll give me a lecture. One I want to avoid at all cost, considering I got this job through my parents … and … Greg.

Just the thought makes me cringe.

I scroll through the list of books as I finish inventory when my eyes catch something peculiar. A man wearing a long coat is standing near one of the bookshelves close to the exit. I’ve never seen him here before, and I don’t remember seeing him come in.

What is he doing here?

I watch him grab a book from one of the shelves, tentatively flipping the pages one by one.

Until he lifts his head and looks me directly in the eyes.

I freeze, my heart beating in my throat, as I realize he’s the same man who’s been watching me from the bench across the street from my house. The same man I saw from the parking lot the other day. I thought I was losing it … and now, he’s here, right in front of me, in the flesh.

Looking straight at me with those hauntingly blue eyes.

I grip the desk tight, feeling like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.

I swallow away the lump in my throat as he reaches into his pocket and takes out something small. I can’t see what it is, but he places it inside the book and puts it back on the shelf.

After one last glance at me, he turns around and leaves.

I don’t stop staring until he’s left the building and is completely out of sight.

The door is still swinging back and forth, which is exactly how my heart feels right now.

For a while, I stay put, wondering if he’s going to return, but as the people come and go, none of them are him. People hand me their books, and I scan them while vaguely being aware of them standing in front of me. I feel like a ghost. One woman even snaps her fingers at me as if she’s trying to wake me up.

I rush through the line as quickly as I can until the last customer has left with her books. When I finally gather enough courage, I peel myself away from my desk and stroll to the shelf in question. My fingers glide along the familiar books until they find an anomaly. One spine pushed in a little too far.

I grab it and take it out. I touch the front and back to make sure nothing’s changed. It’s a hardcopy of Gone Girl. I flip it open and sift through the pages until I find a thicker bit. There, I find a piece of paper.

Taking it out, I go through all the pages to make sure nothing else is inside and then place the book back on its shelf.

With the paper in my hand, I look around the library to see if anyone’s noticed me. I don’t know what’s written on this paper, but I don’t want to share it with anyone either. For some reason, it feels like this is a secret between us. A silent agreement to keep things hidden. And I don’t want people to know this; least of all at the place I call ‘work.’

So I turn my back against the big hall and unfold the paper.

It’s a typed out message.

* * *

This is a story about a young woman and the man who couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She’s small and fragile like a lonely flower in a field weathering a strong wind. Her black hair tickles the back of her neck. She walks down the steps of her home with apprehension and haste. Something’s bothering her, and I can see from the way she clutches her purse she knows…

I’m watching her.

I know what I’m doing is wrong.

But I can’t stop myself … I want her so badly.

She’s the type of girl no one sees. She can vanish in a crowd, and no one would come looking. No one would know she’s gone missing. No one would care.

But I would.

I’m that man … the man who stalks because he’s afraid of what will happen when he decides to pounce. Because he secretly desires the forbidden. To run his fingers through her smooth, silky hair. To touch her naked skin.

But he also knows … she does not want him.

This man is undesirable, a freak, because he follows and stares, watches and listens … instead of starting a conversation.

This man is not someone you want to be with.

A man who desires a woman he can’t have only wants one thing …

To stop her from being with someone else.

She’s so beautiful … he imagines wrapping his fingers around her neck, one by one, until nothing but his love is left.

* * *

My body feels numb and cold to the bone.

I’m trembling. Not because of the goose bumps scattering over my skin, but because of what this message means.

Is it a threat or a tale of admiration?

I can’t tell … because I don’t know for sure if this is about me.

But who else could it be for?

He looked directly at me, so I must be the girl in the story, right?

However, those last few words … make me imagine fingers squeezing my throat shut. A tight, suffocating hold only committed to robbing me of my life. An attempt previously made by a man I hated from the very first moment I met him.

Gregory Warren.

I wince at the thought and tuck the note into my pocket, realizing what this could mean.

I’m insane for even keeping it—instead of shredding it—but I can’t risk anyone finding this, even in tiny pieces. Not when my safety is at stake.

However … what’s to say this note didn’t come from Greg?

Maybe he got someone else to deliver it to me. Someone who stalks me day in, day out.

It’s odd, you know. To read the words you experienced only months before.

Makes you wonder if your stalker was there to witness the whole ordeal.