Copyright © 2020 by Emerald O'Brien
Cover designed by Tadpole Designs
Editing by My Brother’s Editor
Original song Scopaesthesia written, performed, and recorded by singer-songwriter Adrienne Ashley
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Don’t miss Emerald O’Brien’s next release!
Acknowledgments
Books by Emerald
About the Author
Dedication
For anyone who identifies with any part of Lynda’s experience.
May you feel less alone, more connected, and seen.
Prologue
Have you ever felt like you were being followed?
Maybe it was footsteps slapping against pavement behind you that tipped you off or the brisk whooshing of material brushing against itself with each stride. Maybe it was a glimpse of a figure in your peripheral vision—a shadow—something you couldn’t quite make out, but you could tell it was something. Someone. Maybe a whiff of cologne or body odor caught your attention in the breeze or surrounded you in a closed-in space, inescapable.
Or maybe, if you’re like me, it’s just a feeling without any proof.
The sheer terror of the unknown hovers ever closer, yet somehow, we feel the need to continue on our path as if it isn’t happening, paralyzed by fear.
I used to feel that way.
It’s like we’re afraid to be seen as paranoid if we glance over our shoulder or cross the street to see if they follow. Like we have more of a chance to get to safety if we don’t look back. If we don’t confront it. Maybe we do.
You could turn around. Maybe nothing’s there. Maybe it was all in your head.
Or maybe, you might get a good look at the person who’s already got you in their sights. Stare them right in the eye. Even speak up.
If you’ve ever felt like you were being followed, you know there’s danger in any course of action we take, and up until tonight, I chose to do nothing.
For the past few days, despite the terrible knot in my stomach and the chilling tingle of knowing on my neck, I picked up my pace to what I hoped was an unnoticeable amount. I rushed home to my mom’s and her boyfriend’s house, to the other side of the door, and locked myself in.
I tried to forget it happened—that it’s been happening since I made the agreement with the band—to ease the fear away. I tried to ignore my own instincts so I could feel some measure of safety while staying here alone since Ron took my mom on a two-week vacation to Maui to “relax and reset.” I told myself they’d be home next week, that I wouldn’t be alone so I wouldn’t be consumed with that same knotted feeling in my stomach, wondering who has been watching me these past two days and why, and if I’d be helpless if something came from it.
And it worked. I didn’t let the fear control me—until tonight.
Tonight, as the feeling crept over me again with home in view, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I forced myself to turn around. I chose the known over the unknown, however dangerous it may be.
I never should have doubted myself, because what I know now has ignited my worst fears.
Chapter 1
ONE WEEK EARLIER
That night, in our home, I met a man.
A cold, dead stare set in his eyes.
He turned and ran,
left my father dying there,
kitchen filled with screams and cries.
Dried orange and yellow leaves crunch beneath my boots as I step out of the car onto the road, and a deep shadow along the inside of the front door stops me; confusion turns to fear. I squint at the door to my mother’s house as the early evening autumn wind whistles, blowing my long, dark hair across my face.
Why is the door open?
The car from my ride app pulls away from the curb, and both my mom’s and her boyfriend’s cars are parked in the driveway, the trunks and doors closed.
Did Ron just get home? Did he just bring something in from the car?
I amble across the boulevard to the paved front path, focused on the open door as it waffles back and forth in the breeze. I take shorter breaths as my chest tightens and a flash of nausea washes over me.
Not again.
It has to be an innocent mistake.
A lump forms in my throat as I climb the two steps to the porch, slowing down.
If it were any other day, I could believe in a simple explanation, but my mom called into work this morning and asked me to shift her appointments to the other dentists or cancel them altogether if I couldn’t. The usual control in her voice was missing, but I dismissed it as part of the sickness she told me she felt, and I didn’t question her. And Ron would be home because it’s Saturday. I knew he’d be taking care of her.
My fingertips touch the cold door—memories flooding back of the same beginning to the worst night of my life, back in my childhood home. I hesitate.
I can’t jump to conclusions. I can’t assume the worst.
I take a deep breath and push the door open, stepping in, and flicking the hallway light on. Back farther down the long hall, bright white light fills the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of Ron’s plaid red button-down by the table. I step to the side and take a few steps across the hardwood floor,
