Now that my stalker knows I’m on to them, I find myself curious what course of action they’ll take next.
It doesn’t escapemy notice that the stalking began after the flurry of online searches. After I chased them four days ago, the feeling of being watched disappeared, and I can only assume I scared them off. Or they’ve changed tactics, and I just haven’t caught on yet. I almost miss the steady presence following me, which makes my brows furrow in consternation. Why the fuck would I miss it? Perhaps because their presence never felt malicious but more curious.
It was like they were learning me, or maybe trying to understand me. It’s a foreign concept for me after becoming used to the terror I usually receive from the population. It felt…nice.
No. I can’t have that. Niceness has no place in my life. Torture, fear, blood, revenge, control. Those are what keep me going, what make my blood sing.
So why does my little stalker intrigue me so? Why do my thoughts turn toward them over and over again, especially now they’ve stopped shadowing me?
I’ve stayed away from the docklands, but I find myself drawn toward it. Curiosity makes me want to discover who they are, what they want, what motivates them. It’s not like I can’t dispatch them if they pose a threat to me or Aidan.
Mind made up, I lope up the stairs to my private apartment in Aidan’s compound. It’s not much but has a small bedroom, living room, kitchenette, and bathroom. I’m grateful for the privacy it offers, as not everyone that lives here gets their own room, let alone a whole apartment.
After a quick shower, I dress in all-black tactical gear,including a ski mask and leather gloves. Knives disappear into various pockets, and I strap my pistol into a holster at my side. Once I’m ready, I make my way to the garage and pick out one of Aidan’s many cars. Tonight is not the time to stand out, so I choose the Maybach over the sports cars.
I avoid dwelling on the fact that the silently waiting supercars will soon belong to me. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel at the thought of losing another parental figure. I’d happily give up the cars and money if it meant Aidan living another twenty years.
He isn’t perfect. His hands are as bloody as mine. But he took in a lonely, scared, starving kid and nursed him back to health. Not only that, but gave him the means to enact his revenge, through both education and practice. And for that, I’ll be forever in his debt.
The fifteen-minute drive flies past while I’m deep in thought. I park the car two blocks from my stalker’s warehouse and double-check my weapons before making my way over to it. It’s a good thing Aidan collects information and hordes it like Richard did food. Since I couldn’t use the computers, I found satellite images of Arcadia that Aidan keeps in his personal library, along with the blueprints for that building.
What are the odds they chose a warehouse once belonging to Aidan’s rival? If they knew he owned it now, I doubt they would have chosen that one. Whether they picked it purposefully or it was a coincidence, I’m grateful for it, as it allowed me to memorize its layout.
It may not have any windows for me to spy through, but the roof has a large skylight that covers around a third of it. And even better, it has three access points—one accessed through a stairwell, and two others through hatches above a narrow industrial catwalk that surrounds three sides of the interior.
My dear friend adrenaline comes along for the ride as I once again climb the metal fire escape to the roof, making my blood sing. I walk around the perimeter, mapping it out in my mind by the orange glow of the streetlights. The strong breeze tugs at my clothes, bringing with it the scent of rotting fish. My nostrils twitch, but I ignore it while I investigate.
They locked the door with chains and heavy locks, leaving me with no choice but to use one of the hatches. Hopefully, they don’t know about them and haven’t sealed them up or blocked access to them.
My luck holds. The one on the right side hides beneath a layer of gravel the designers used to cover the roof to protect it from UV rays and hail. When a soft glow lights up the skylight, I peer down into it, my brows lowering when I realize they’ve divided the warehouse into sections.
This is interesting. Smugglers once used the warehouse to store illegal goods and installed pull-out walls to hide merchandise from inspectors—back when Arcadia still had some of her conscience left. Metal tracks run along the floor, and the walls can be positioned in a multitude of configurations.
My little stalker has positioned them so they divide the building into three. Well, to be more precise—seven. A small foyer-type area near the front door, followed by a larger area split into four rooms, and another smaller area in the back, housing the overseer’s office and bathrooms.
The four-room split resembles a home with a kitchen, bedroom, living room, and bathroom. Since there’s no plumbing, the kitchen and bathroom aren’t usable—so this is for show. But why? My head cants to the left, and I realize what’s nagging at me.
Without ceilings, it resembles a dollhouse.
Curiosity piqued, I head over to the hatch, swipe awaythe gravel, and pry it open. I gently lower myself down onto the metal catwalk so as not to alert them of my presence. I can get a better view of the layout from here, safe in the knowledge that I’m hidden in the shadows.
Just as I settle down and cross my legs, a young woman appears from behind the far back wall panel. She wears a flowy light-blue dress decorated with pink flowers, knee-high socks, and girlish shoes. Why is she dressed like a child? Unease pierces my chest as she closes the panel and skips through the dollhouse to the foyer.
The lights dim as three loud knocks boom through the building. She runs a hand down her dress, straightens her shoulders, and pulls the door open. If she speaks, I’m unable to hear it, but she appears to welcome a man inside. She takes his coat before leading him to the living room, and my fists clench when he grabs her ass.
She spins around and shakes her finger at him while her other hand covers her mouth in pretend shock. It’s…like a play. She dances around him while he watches her with his hand covering his dick. What the fuck?
I pull out a pair of opera glasses from one of my pockets. They may be an odd choice, but they’re less conspicuous than binoculars. My breath catches in my throat when I zero in on the man—Evan Hopper, one of the men that took Wren. My fingers tighten around the glasses, and I have to hold back the tide of anger threatening to take over.
A loud crash rings out, focusing my attention. The woman dashes away from the couch and disappears. The lights briefly go out before blue ones switch on, revealing painted words etched on the walls. I freeze as each one seems to punch me in the gut.
Murderer. Rapist. Abuser. Pedo. Liar. Thief. Adulterer. Bigot. Racist.
An eerily beautiful voice rises to the rafters, the words sending a shiver down my spine. Evan pulls himself off the couch, clutching his head as he hobbles away. Instead of heading toward the door, he stumbles into the bathroom and trips over the toilet.
“Ring around the rosie…”The woman seems to melt out of the wall, and it’s then I notice just how thick they are. There must be passageways inside them. Clever girl.“A pocket full of posies…”Evan scrambles to his feet and veers into the kitchen. My little stalker enters from the opposite side, swinging a bat.
“No, please!” Evan shouts, raising his hands and backing away.
