Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
My breath catches.
It’s him.
The tall man cloaked in black—jacket, gloves, and helmet—leaning against the monstrous gleaming black bike, his legs crossed at the ankles. No part of his face is visible.
But I know that bike.
I’ve seen it near my neighborhood.
Why would he park it across from HAVEN? Why not hide like he always does?
My stomach twists.
This…this is an escalation.
He’s done hiding.
He wants me to know.
I try to remain calm, but my insides war with anxiety and the need to throw up. My fingers instinctively find the small tattoo on my left wrist, and I trace it back and forth, back and forth, willing it to quiet the chaos.
But there’s no calming my thoughts.
Am I…in danger?
“Can you send me the picture?” I ask Laura with a forced smile that she doesn’t see, because she’s zooming in on the man.
“Sure. He looks so hot, right? I’ve got a thing for biker guys in leather.” She chuckles and I laugh along with her even as my fingers tremble when I retrieve my phone.
Laura leaves after she sends me the picture, and I add it to the folder with some other discreet pictures I took from my apartment. Maybe this will be enough for the police to provide me with protection?
Though that’s highly unlikely. Last week, when I showed them some of the ones I’d taken, they dismissed me and said I was being paranoid. Admittedly, the man is hard to make out since he was always in the shadows and never really in full frame like in the one Laura sent me.
This is the first time he’s been standing there in person, and I can’t help but think his actions are becoming dangerous. I can’t get away with ignoring him, but I also know the police won’t help me.
I zoom in on the picture Laura sent me, my wet fingers slipping on the screen.
Is that even him?
He looks…intimidating. All wrapped in black and danger.
I’ll have to try harder with the police because this guy’s presence is starting to mess with my head.
He’s everywhere.
Like air.
And I’ve lived among enough creeps to know he probably won’t be satisfied with just watching. He’ll eventually take action and it’ll end badly for me.
My head is full of macabre thoughts as I quietly finish my shift. It’s around one thirty in the morning by the time I finally leave HAVEN, my back pain killing me and my thoughts swirling in a black pool.
I relax a little when I don’t see the motorcycle or the guy.
The only silver lining is that he’s not there all the time. He probably has a job or something, because his presence has been sporadic over the past few weeks or so.
With a sigh, I pull my hoodie tighter over my head, feeling more at ease now that I’m not dressed in the tight shirt and jeans we have to wear at work. But at least we’re not forced to wear short skirts—I’ve quit many jobs because of that.
In my everyday life, jeans are fine as long as I get to wear baggy hoodies or sweatshirts that don’t outline my body. I even wear light hoodies during the summer.
Thankfully, the apartment I share with my sister is only a twenty-five-minute walk from HAVEN, so I don’t have to spend money on transportation. I pass by a twenty-four-hour fast-food place and go in to buy a few sandwiches, then walk out in the middle of a drunken brawl without even being noticed.
It’s easy for me to be invisible as long as I have my hoodie on, my hair is hidden, and my eyes are covered by the thick-framed nonprescription glasses I’m currently wearing.
“Don’t let me hear you breathing, Violet. If you lay low and shut your trap, you won’t get into trouble.”
Mama’s words have been my mantra since I was a little girl. At twenty-two, I’ve mastered the art of moving around in an invisible cloak.
As long as no one notices me, I’ll be fine.
The neighborhood where Dahlia and I have been living for the past couple of years reeks of desperation, a place where dreams come to die and vices fester like an open wound.
It’s not far from Stantonville’s town center, but it feels like another world entirely—a forgotten pocket where streetlights flicker on their last breath and shadows move with intentions best left undiscovered.
Small-time gangs linger on the corners, dealing drugs for quick cash, their hooded figures blending into the peeling painted brick walls. The sidewalks are littered with cigarette butts, discarded needles, and the occasional broken bottle.
As I walk, the air is thick with the acrid stench of stale beer and burnt rubber, mixing with the faint scent of rotting food from an overflowing dumpster. A couple fights down the street, their voices raw and venomous, laced with anger that comes from years of resentment. The man’s growl is slurred, the woman’s shriek sharp enough to slice through the humid night.