Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
We’ve been doing this dance for months now. He watches, I pretend not to see him, we both act like this is totally normal behavior. But last month, the dynamic shifted. He started showing up at Sloane’s studio more often, the jewelry studio where I work as her assistant. Security checks, he’d call them. But the way his eyes found me every time told a different story. Lingering longer. Finding excuses to talk to me. Last week, he’d asked me about the book I was reading, and even started asking me about the jewelry I was working on.
Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve taken the scenic route home. I do this at least once a week now—walk through Bryant Park, past the holiday windows, down streets lit up with Christmas decorations. It’s like the world’s most romantic date, except we never acknowledge we’re on one.
Hallmark Meets Stalker: A Love Story.
It’s fucked up and addictive, and I can’t get enough of it.
The temperature has dropped in the last hour, that particular brand of cold that happens only in New York in December. The bitter air cuts through my coat and makes my teeth ache. Around me, people are bundled in layers, scarves wrapped to their noses, hands shoved deep in pockets. Steam rises from grates in the sidewalk, and the windows of surrounding buildings glow warm against the dark sky.
Behind me, Knox’s footsteps match my pace. We’re in sync now, this weird choreography we’ve developed over months of surveillance and countersurveillance. I know exactly where he is without looking. Third position, right side, maintaining civilian spacing but ready to close the distance if needed.
Does he know I’ve clocked him? Sometimes I wonder. He’s too smart not to pick up on the fact that I never startle, never look nervous, never do any of the things someone being stalked should do. Maybe he thinks I’m oblivious. Or maybe he thinks I’m playing along.
If only he knew how right that second guess is.
I head east toward the library with its stone lions wearing Christmas wreaths, past the holiday window displays that draw crowds three-deep on the sidewalk. Macy’s has outdone themselves this year with animated scenes of winter landscapes and dancing snowflakes. The light from the windows spills onto the sidewalk, turning the slush into something that almost looks magical.
New York in December is chaos wrapped in tinsel and fairy lights. I love it.
The crowds thin as I make my way toward the subway at Grand Central. I descend into the station, hit immediately by the change in temperature. It’s warmer down here, that particular subway warmth that comes from too many bodies and the heat of trains rushing through tunnels. A busker plays saxophone near the entrance, the music echoing off the tile walls.
I lose sight of Knox in the crowd but I know he’s there. Probably near the stairs, keeping the exit in view. Watching. Protecting. Always protecting.
The F train pulls in with a screech of brakes and a rush of stale air. I squeeze on with everyone else, grabbing a pole near the door. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Knox on the platform, watching my car disappear into the tunnel. Those battle-hardened eyes tracking me until the darkness swallows the train whole. He won’t get on the train. Too confined, too easy for me to spot him.
But he’ll be there when I get off. He always is.
Predictable. But also sweet in a deeply disturbed way.
I pull out my phone and scroll through messages. There’s one from Sloane.
SOS. Need you early tomorrow. Cole set up a client meeting and these pieces are NOT cooperating. They’re staging a rebellion.
I grin and type back.
How early are we talking?
Like before I’ve had coffee early. Which means 8am. I know. I’m a monster.
I’ll bring the coffee.
Fair warning: I might cry on you. These earrings are personally attacking me.
Your earrings can’t hurt you. They’re earrings.
YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.
I laugh and pocket my phone.
Working for Sloane and Cole has been good for me. Legitimate work, legitimate income. A life I’m actually proud of.
The train takes me into Brooklyn and I emerge at Bergen Street into the cold night air. Cobble Hill is quieter, residential streets lined with brownstones decorated for Christmas.
A guy outside a bar on Smith Street whistles as I pass. I flip him off without breaking stride.
“Yo, fuck you too!” he yells after me, but his friends are already pulling him back inside.
New York. Gotta love it.
I wonder if Knox saw that. If he’s filing away the guy’s face, running threat assessments in his head.
Obsessive stalking has its perks.
I spot the rose before I even reach my building. A single red bloom, placed carefully on my doorstep like an offering. The petals are perfect despite the cold, closed tight against the winter air.