“I mean, do you blame her?” a third voice chides, but this one at least seems to be more understanding. “She’s been through hell. Cut her some slack.”
“Oh, come on!” the first voice whines, her words dripping with condescension. “You can’t believe her story. It’s all over Twitter that she’s lying.”
“The cops say they have no motive or suspects,” someone else chimes in. “It’s like the dude was a ghost.”
“Or someone she knew,” the first voice adds.
Slowly, I peer around the corner, spying at least six of my classmates huddled together like a high school clique.
“Would it surprise you? She lives in that big house all by herself. No one would know if she’s living a double life. It’s not like she has any real friends.”
They dig and dig until I can’t take it anymore. I step around the corner and face my accusers head-on. Enough is enough. Every one of them look like deers in headlights when they realize I heard every vile word that just came out of their mouths.
“Shit,” the girl who sat next to me this morning gasps when she spots me staring a hole through them.
“Just stop,” I order, throwing up a hand.
“We didn’t mean…” she stammers.
It’s odd that when they thought I couldn’t hear them, gossiping about my situation was fine. But as soon as they’re faced with the person who, until just a few minutes ago was the butt of their jokes, they clam up.
I don’t respond. It’s not like they would listen, anyway. I leave them there to contemplate their decision to verbally beat down someone who can’t go any lower emotionally. I make it down the stairs of the building before hot, wet tears begin running down my face. How can educated people who don’t even know me shove such accusations my way? Especially those who should ethically help people in my situation, not shame them?
“Hey, Blair!” someone calls out from behind me, but I ignore them. I can’t deal with anything else today. Turning to the sidewalk, I start for home.
The farther I get from campus, the streets become quieter, and with the eerie silence, my nerves begin to frazzle. Heavy footsteps approach me from behind at a brisk pace, and my mind pleads with me to run. I turn to face them, only to find a delivery driver jogging off to the house I just passed to drop off a package.
Get a grip on yourself, Blair. Not everyone’s out to get you. Just a psychopath who tried to kill you in your own home, and who knows if he’s even still around?
A few minutes later, home finally comes into view. My instinct is to bolt toward the door, but I keep my head high and my shoulders back, determined to keep my composure. Once I get inside, then I can lose my shit. But not out here.
A shadow moves in the hedges just off my front porch. Screeching to a halt, I duck behind a tree trunk and peer around it, my eyes straining to see more clearly. Please let it be my imagination.
The shadow moves again. Oh, God. I fumble to get my phone out of my pocket, not sure whether I should call the detective or 911, but it doesn’t matter. The battery is dead. Fuck.
I never take my eyes off the shadowy form. What should I do? Do I run? Do I confront him?
The shadow moves away from the hedges, disappearing around the side of the house and out of sight. A passing truck startles me, pulling my attention away from the shadow, and that’s when I spy a motorcycle parked outside the house next to mine. An empty house. Could it be the same motorcycle that keeps making laps around my house at all hours of the night, or just a coincidence?
What the hell do I do? I can continue to be a victim and run away, or I can stand my ground. My heart thunders against my ribs the longer I watch from a safe distance, waiting for the shadow to reappear.
As I wait, my muscles tense, and anger begins to burn a hole deep in the pit of my stomach. No. If the world is going to blame me, I’m not going to be the victim anymore. Nobody is going to protect me, so it’s time I protect myself.
Who does this asshole think he is, anyway? He breaks into my house, assaults me, puts me in the hospital, and haunts every waking moment of my life with the fear of him returning to finish what he’d started, and now he’s here.
Not this time, asshole.
I tiptoe out from behind my hiding spot, my lungs burning from holding my breath. I spy a large branch from a pile of brush my neighbor collected and grab it. At least I’ll have a weapon this time and know it’s coming.
As if in slow motion, I lay my book bag down on the edge of the porch and sneak around to where the man went, careful not to make a sound. At the corner, I press my back against the wall, clutching the heavy branch to my chest. You can do this, Blair.
Leaning forward, I peek my head around, and there he is, just a few feet away, standing in my back yard. He’s looking down at his phone, as if he doesn’t have a goddamn care in the world.
Bastard. Pulling the branch away from my body, I take three giant steps and swing back. The branch comes forward, aimed for his head. A cry escapes my throat the likes of which I’ve never heard before. Just before the branch connects, the man turns, and I see his face for the very first time.
GreenPeace
I don’t even think she’s home.
I peer through the branches of shrubbery and wait a little longer. When I’d first gotten here, there’d been so many damn reporters, all of them looking to score the story of the week. That isn’t going to happen.
Blair needs time to heal. To recover. Not to have a bunch of fucking paparazzi following her around like she’s OJ goddamn Simpson.
All it took was a quick warning and a flash of the club’s patch on my back for them to take me seriously and get lost. After threatening to remove the one guy’s ballsack and feed it to his cameraman, I doubt any of them will be back.
If she’s not home, why am I even here?
I’ve been scouting around quite a bit lately, doing what I can to keep Blair safe from a distance. But skulking outside her house when she’s not even home is getting a bit too stalkerish, even for me.
One peek inside, just in case. After doing a few security sweeps of her yard, I discovered I can see directly into her living room from her back yard. The patio door is wide, and I’ve yet to see the curtains closed. Not something I approve of, but it’s handy to ensure she’s safe when she’s home.
Sticking to the shadows, I make my way to the back yard, just to the left of the patio door. Darkness. No signs of Blair at all. Though her cat’s another story. It’s stretched out in a bright strip of sunlight that shines down onto the floor, its ears flat to its head while it stares at me through the leaves of the bush between us.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Karma: Judge is on a rampage. Come quick.
Fuck. I don’t know what’s been up Judge’s ass lately, but he’s been extra ornery the past couple of weeks. He’s stressed about the Armstrong brothers popping up again and rejuvenating their dog fighting business—hell, all of us are—but he’s been like an angry old bear, fresh out of hibernation, and it’s starting to wear thin on all of us.
A bellowing cry, one that would make any Xena fan proud, assaults my ears from behind, and I turn just before something connects with the side of my head, mashing my ear into my skull.