Page 30 of Desperate People

The lights are on.

Nothing broken.

No sign of forced entry.

“Y-you came,” she whispers.

And that right there?

That’s my undoing. I reach for her.

“Balor,” she whimpers, clinging to me.

“I got you. You’re okay,” I tell her, meaning it more than she will ever know.

I turn with her still flush against me, and we exit the bathroom.

Then, I see it.

The kitchen. The trash can.

Inside it—uncovered and glaring like the thing in one of those Sesame Street games where you’re supposed to find what doesn’t belong—is the rose.

Just one single rose.

Tied with a red ribbon.

And a card.

Lucy sniffs and pulls out of my embrace. And I hate that. But it lets me walk forward, towards that garbage can.

I pull out the note. Rage is slamming into my chest like a freight train.

For my Diablita.

Little Devil.

I know her nickname.

I know that fucker used it in his song, too.

So yeah, I know what this is—some fucking stalker with more skills than any of the others.

A crazed fan? Or not.

Someone closer to her than I know.

Someone with access.

My vision goes red.

“You have shoes?” I ask, voice tight, barely leashed.

She nods, eyes wide, and reaches for the heels she must’ve kicked off when she got home.

She slides them on with trembling fingers, and the sight of that alone—her trying to act normal while standing in the ruins of her own home—kills me.

“Let’s get out of here.”

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