Page 23 of Desperate People

My breath shakes as I inch toward the island, the tile floor cold under my bare feet.

I don’t see any broken glass.

No open windows.

No sign of forced entry.

Just this mockery of a gift.

A rose.

And a note.

I reach for it with trembling fingers.

The envelope is thick. Expensive.

The handwriting across it is tight. Aggressive.

Just a few words.

For my Diablita.

My blood runs cold.

He’s been here before.

I know it.

This sick stranger has walked through my apartment, my personal space, like he owned it. Like he owned me.

As if I belong to him.

And now, I know one thing for certain.

This isn’t over. Whatever this is, he’s just begun.

Yes, the note is creepy.

No punctuation.

No signature.

And that nickname. Ugh.

My Dad used to call me his Little Devil, and somehow it leaked years ago.

Now that it’s in El Tigre’s lyrics, everyone is calling me Diablita.

It’s not the same as Dad’s pet name for me.

This is impersonal. Based on my looks, not out of love.

It’s kind of nasty, to be honest.

But still, I don’t want this freak to use it.

My hands go cold.

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