When I first made the connection, I’d been overcome with guilt and fear. What the fuck was happening? Could I prevent it? I even went to the police that very day, explaining my theory. They only laughed in my face. An older gentleman, and the only police officer worthy of that title, had sat me down and explained that all of the deaths appeared to be done by different perpetrators. He assured me that I had nothing to do with their deaths and it was nothing but a horrible coincidence. I’d believed him…
Until a bomb erupted in the precinct, killing the four officers who had laughed.
Could the stranger who followed me today, the stranger whose presence I feel as keenly as a blade sliding down my neck, be the murderer?
Could he be back?
I continue to sift through the articles—the articles I’ve already memorized—as the water cools around my pruned body. This has been my obsession for years now, since Brett was first killed in such an atrocious manner.
Someone is killing these people, and it’s my job to discover who that person is.
CHAPTER 2
I tap my pencil against the edge of my desk impatiently as Professor Whitmore finishes his speech at the front of the class. As an English major with an emphasis on journalism, the majority of my undergraduate classes consist of reading classic pieces of literature and analyzing them. It’s not horrible work by any means, but it’s definitely not what I want to be doing with myself. Oh no. I’m a writer first and foremost—my happiness comes from being in front of a computer screen and typing out the various voices in my head.
“Don’t forget you have your literary analysis on Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’due by next week’s class,” he says, running his fingers through his wispy, pure white hair. He moves to his briefcase and begins packing up his own papers as the rest of the class hurries out.
“Bye, Em!” my classmate Maddy says with a wave. Justin and Garret both nod in solidarity as they exit as well, and I smile back at them.
“Ms. Lopez, one moment, please.” Professor Whitmore doesn’t bother to look up from the papers he’s shoving haphazardly into his brown leather briefcase. I can’t help but wince at the poor state of those essays.
“Yes, Professor?” I query as the remaining students filter out, leaving us alone.
I’ve never had a problem with Professor Whitmore before. He has a distinct, grandfatherly appearance with his thinning hairline, pudgy belly, and the light gray beard dusting his chin. He’s a damn good professor and demands the best out of each and every one of his students.
“I just finished grading your most recent report on the literary styles of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.” With the pad of his middle finger, he pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses. “Tell me. What was it about her that interested you?”
He nods towards the desk in the front room, and I place my backpack on the ground as I sit. He moves to sit next to me, my graded paper in his hand. Pleasure rushes through me at the bright red A at the top.
“She’s inspiring,” I answer without preamble. “As a woman during her time, it never ceases to astound me the bravery it took to write a story like Frankenstein. It’s a literary masterpiece and one of the novels that shaped modern-day horror.” I shrug my shoulders once as I release a sheepish laugh. “I don’t normally write fiction, but there’s something…inspiring about her words. Something that calls to me.”
Maybe it’s the darkness she depicts—the monsters we can’t help but love. There’s something poetic in that savagery, something I can’t put into words.
Professor Whitmore smiles indulgently as his hand goes to my thigh, clasping down. Immediately, I tense, my spine straightening as his thumb leisurely strokes circles on my skin.
“That’s amazing to hear, Ms. Lopez. You always should find someone who inspires you.” His hand raises, going underneath my skirt, as icy terror steals the remaining warmth from my body.
“Don’t…don’t touch me.” I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t wobble.
Rule number three: Don’t show fear.
“We’re just having a conversation,” he says lightly as his hand climbs higher and higher, lightly caressing my panties. Rage consumes me, coating my vision like a bucket of spilled red paint, and I grip his wrist, wrenching his hand from between my legs. He releases a pained wheeze, eyes widening in horror, as I grip his fingers and twist them to the side. The resonating crack is music to my ears.
“I said…don’t touch me,” I repeat, my voice low and deadly. At that moment, I’m not the sweet college student the rest of the world sees me as. I’m not the friendly, smiling, laughing schoolgirl. I’m a predator, and this man has just become my prey.
When fat tears begin to streak down his cheeks from the pain, I release his hand with a huff of disgust.
“I’m so sorry that you tripped and broke your fingers,” I say with mock sympathy. “It’s a real shame, isn’t it?” His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, eyes continually spewing disbelief and raw, animalistic hatred. “Goodbye, Professor Whitmore. I’ll make sure to have my next essay ready for you by next week.”
Without a word, I get to my feet and storm out of the classroom. My entire body is shaking with adrenaline and anger. It practically thrums through me as if there are thousands of intricate wires expanding the length of my body. I can still feel his disgusting, slimy hand on me, pressing down on my thigh. I can still see the hungry, malicious gleam in his eyes. But I refuse to cow before someone like him, someone who thrives on making others feel weak. I’m a survivor first and foremost.
Him? He’s nothing but a piece of shit who will find himself squashed beneath karma’s damning foot.
The courtyard is miraculously empty as I step
