Pouring more margarita mix into the blender, I replace the top and turn the mixture on to blitz. It’s a perfect summer’s afternoon, and when Riley arrives, we’re going to sit on the porch and drink margaritas and laugh until the sun goes down.
Happiness blooms in my chest. With The Poet under arrest and my best girlfriend on the way, plus a new job, things are looking pretty dang good. And to top it off, after getting nice and toasted with Riley, I’m going to fall into bed with my man and spend the rest of the night getting lost in mind-blowing sex.
Turning off the blender, I look at my watch.
Riley is due any minute.
I grab a couple of limes from the refrigerator and begin chopping.
When I hear a car pull up, I put the knife on the kitchen counter and go to the front door fully expecting to see Riley’s smiling face.
Only it’s not Riley.
It’s Officer Johnson.
And he’s standing on the wrong side of the screen door.
Fear explodes in my chest as I take a step back. “What are you doing here?”
I’m surprised I have even managed to talk because alarm has lodged itself firmly in my throat.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, looking cagey as he glances over his shoulder. He’s checking the street to see who’s out there.
For witnesses?
I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sand.
“You s-shouldn’t be here,” I stammer.
He takes a hesitant step forward, and I wonder how long it will take me to get to the knife on the kitchen counter.
If I run for it now, would he beat me?
My heart pounds violently against my ribs, so I don’t waste another second. I turn and run. Unfortunately, this ignites him into action, and I hear him right behind me as I run for the kitchen.
“Wait!” he calls out as he comes after me.
And it’s strange because in that minute where the tension is tight, and the fear is monumental, somewhere in my mind I recognize the tone of his voice as non-threatening. But despite this, I reach for the knife and swing around to point it at him.
“You don’t need to do that,” he pants.
The counter stands between us, but it wouldn’t take much for him to get around it.
“You stay the fuck away from me.”
“You don’t understand,” he says.
“Oh, I understand plenty,” I reply shakily. “When I spoke to your police sergeant, she explained everything to me. How you’ve been stalking women. How you’ve been stalking me.”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“It must’ve made you feel real big to torment me and then show up at my house to take the police report.” My emotions do an about-face as anger replaces fear. “Is that what you need to do to get off? Terrify young women. Is that what turns you on?”
“No, listen, you’ve got it wrong—”
“You’re a fucking predator, and if you take one more step toward me, I won’t hesitate to use this.” I jab the knife in his direction.
The thought terrifies me, but I’m praying my survival instincts will take over and do anything they need to do to keep me alive.
Officer Johnson opens his mouth to answer when his eyes suddenly shift to a point behind me. As he goes to speak, I feel something whoosh past my ear. That’s when his eyes widen and without warning, he falls to the floor, a bright red stain spreading across his chest.
He’s been shot.
Swinging around, I take a startled step back.
Riley is standing across the room.
And she’s pointing a gun at me.
JACK
We walk over to my desk and Paw opens his laptop.
“I dug a little deeper into Bronte’s ex-boyfriend, Rhys Peyton-Rutherford.” He punches a few keys. “Went through his high school records and found this.”
He brings up a picture of Rhys he’d found in a high school yearbook. It’s of him and a girl taken at prom. The caption reads, Rhys and Riley, voted the couple most likely to marry.
I read it again.
Wait! Riley is Rhys’ ex-girlfriend?
I look at Paw, who raises an eyebrow. “A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
I don’t believe in coincidences.
“You think Riley blames Bronte for Rhys’ death?” I speak out loud as pieces come together in my brain. “You think she created The Poet to torment Bronte in revenge for stealing her boyfriend?”
“Or for his death.”
“I saw the article. His death was an accident.”
“Yeah, but we’re dealing with an unstable mind here, Jack. Riley might blame Bronte for the accident that killed him.”
I turn back to the picture on the screen while fear weaves through my spine.
Is any of this even possible?
Riley seems like a cool chick. She doesn’t give off any vibes that something is off about her.
But then, psychopaths are good at that.
I look at Paw and realize he wouldn’t have come to me without digging even further into the connection between Riley and Rhys.