Page 14 of Shadowed Obsession

Okay.Um.

I exhale, reminding myself to breathe. When my phone chirps with an incoming message, I slap my hand over my now racing heart.

Flora

You’re not a bother, Ms. Klarke. Have a good night!

Quickly shoving my phone into my back pocket, I proceed to the fridge and tug on the door. It’s exactlynothow I left it this morning, with everything I once needed staring back at me. Including a fresh milk carton that has a note attached. I angle it toward me to get a closer look:

Sorry you had a rough day.

Groceries are on me.

P.S. I got cherries. ;)

- your secret admirer

What. The. Fuck?

My heart pounds loudly in my chest at the realization that someone was in my home. I’m unsure of who it would be, until my mind shifts back to Darius. Could this be who’s beenfollowing him? He assured he was careful so they wouldn’t trail him to Austin, but what if they did?

And why the fuck would they be running errands for me?

I reach for my phone to call him, but reasons why I shouldn’t flood my mind. I tuck my phone back into my pocket as I charge up the stairs to retrieve my gun. Relieved to find it untouched, I nervously assess my home, room by room, and find no one else here. But my anxiety levels are fucked.

As a Klarke, I have no interest in calling the police, even the ones on our payroll. I consider Regina to be worth a call. But I’m unsure of how I would even explain this to anyone, so I sink to the floor and consider what she would do instead.

I suppose she wouldn’t sleep without her gun. But that’sifI manage to sleep at all tonight. Eventually I trot back downstairs, managing to heat up some leftovers and ignoring the nausea settling in my gut. I force myself to eat at least half of it, before I toss it down the garbage disposal.

Yanking the fridge open, I scour it again looking for clues. That’s when I notice a jar toward the back of the top shelf that appears to be something homemade, labeled “sofrito,” with another note attached.

Sofrito - it’s a cooking base.

Ingredients: onions, garlic, bell peppers, tomato, cilantro & culantro.

Start with 2 TBSP and add as needed.

I rip off this note and the one taped to the milk carton, clutching them as I nervously charge upstairs to analyze. Today was shitty, but I don’t remember telling anyone that. The comment about the cherries has me questioning if I know thisperson. I sift through every text thread from today to see if I’m just trippin’, but I come up empty.

In my thread with Scar today, I mentioned I was surviving, causing me to comb over our entire conversation since he first reached out “accidentally,” a few days back. I find no mention of cherries in our previous conversations.

Somehow I manage to get ready for bed, only to climb in with no intention of sleeping. After fighting off another panic attack from not seeing any footage on my cameras of this person, I begin searching for anything out of place and discover that the spare house key I keep in my home office is missing. And when I look up Scar’s number, it’s linked to an online phone service. So, that’s a dead end.

This stranger I’ve been kind to may be stalking me, could have broken into my home, and I can’t tell my family because I can’t afford to make another mistake. Not again and especially not now. As much as I argue that I can defend myself, I need to prove that now and clean up this mess. The thought makes my stomach churn, but if and when he comes back, I’ll be ready for him.

6/

southern hospitality

César

12:43 a.m. | 1 minute after ‘the incident’

“Who do you work for?” she asks in a stern tone, her pistol aimed at my chest as she nervously chews her bottom lip.

Good evening to you, too, Ms. Klarke.

A weighted silence surrounds us after the gunfire that greeted me moments ago. I gotta say, she’s an entertaining hostess. Never seen a party trick like that one. Must be a New York thing.

---