Page 10 of Scarred Sins
I’ve been avoiding it for too long, and at this point, my fears aren’t an excuse. No matter how much of a rabbit hole I may end up falling into, it can’t possibly be worse than the things I’ve already experienced.
Everything is perfectly laid out in front of me.
Each box I’ve received is filled with clothes that I haven’t worn. Each little red box is filled with jewelry that I haven’t touched or tried on, every pair of shoes that I got delivered at the restaurant, and every single letter that I haven’t opened.
In total, there are four letters. The first came with the first package, almost too long ago, and the last came the other day. The letters aren’t as consistent as the gifts, but I still can’t bring myself to open them; the unknown contents terrify me to the bone.
However, there’s only one thing that was consistent with every gift. A small audio recorder that can’t possibly be bigger than my thumb. On each recording, it’s nothing but piano music.
The pieces played are different, from soft, soothing sounds that I use to lullaby me to sleep to the aggressive and painfully loud keys that go hand in hand with the pain I’m feeling. They’re perfect – my most cherished possessions.
Still, I’m terrified of being discovered.
Aside fromhim,there’s not a single person to connect Amy to Blair or that knows that Blair survived the massacre. I don’t think he would care enough to constantly send gifts my way, let alone personalized piano music and expensive jewelry.
The thought of someone completely different knowing who I am is enough to paralyze me for a few minutes.
Not even Arson’s soft purring on my lap calms me down. It’s as if the orange ball of fur knows I’m in a state of distress and is trying her best to cheer me up. Taking her home with me was the best decision I ever made.
I found her in the alley behind the restaurant when I took out the trash after closing up late at night. The dumpster was on fire, and Arson was standing right next to it, looking at the fire as if she were admiring a piece of art. She either found the fire rather fascinating or she instigated it.
Either option freaks me out.
I debate internally which gift to open first, and I decide to start with the clothes. They’re all so fucking soft to the touch, and when I look up their price, my eyes almost drop out of their sockets. They’re more expensive than every item I own combined. Selling them isn’t an option. Someone had these precisely purchased in my size.
And that fucking terrifies my mind.
Ever since the bizarre encounters with one of the customers two evenings ago, it feels like I’m constantly being watched. Wherever I go, it feels like eyes are on me; however, the moment I turn around and try to see who is burning holes in the back of my head, I can’t see a thing. As if it’s all in my head.
Chills rarely leave my body, and goosebumps tug on my skin every once in a while, unprovoked.
To the rest of the world, Blair Hawke is dead, and there isn’t anyone who would stalk Amy Marshall. As Amy, I never stood out. I live a quiet life, never go out, and the only people I talk to are my coworkers at the restaurant and customers.
A couple of men did ask me out over the time I’ve spent in Long Grove, but I rejected them all. I know better than to act out, so my rejections are always over-the-top polite, with a smile of gratitude, as if I’m lucky to even be considered as their potential date.
Maybe someone did recognize me.
“No!” I scream out, regretting it immediately.
Arson is startled, jumping off my lap. She lands on all fours and stretches before looking at me with a look of disbelief. She has the audacity to be offended that I woke her up, even though it was an accident.
I take a deep breath.
There’s only one thing that comes to mind as I lie down on the carpeted floor, staring at the ceiling.
A stalker.
The mere thought of having a stalker is enough to send a wave of dread down my body, goosebumps pricking my skin. I swallow a lump that forms in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut, covering them with trembling hands.
“No,’’ I whisper to myself. “It’s not a stalker, Blair. You’re okay. You’re safe.’’
No matter how much I want to deny it, the evidence is right there. No one knows about Amy and Blair’s connection, yet someone’s sending me gifts constantly, the contents aimed for Blair. However, the stalker isn’t violent. Almost as if his goal is to shower me with his affection.
Affection.
What a silly, little word.
I know the general definition of the word, but that’s about it. Perhaps it’s because I never knew what it meant to be showered with affection or love, or perhaps it’s because I’m incapable of feeling it.
