Page 12 of The Hitch
Phil is following me. Phil broke into my home. Phil stole my panties. It has to be him.
But why would he put food in my kitchen? It doesn't make sense.
With a shuddering sigh, I grab my phone and call 911.
Bored cops mill about in my apartment, casually taking photos of the rose and food. A tall woman, not in uniform, looks down her nose at me. She'd introduced herself as Detective Ella. Nervously, I focus on the blond hair she's slicked back into a lowbun. There isn't a hair out of place. She doesn't have a single flyaway, which is grounds for jealousy, in my opinion.
"So, uh—" She checks her notepad. "—Melody. They only took a pair of underwear? And left you… food? And personal care items?"
My cheeks burn red. "Yes, but they broke in! Someone was in my home, I think it's Phil—"
"Phil who?" Detective Ella interrupts me.
"Phil Pinelli, he's my… step-cousin? He's hated me foryears. I thought he lived in Chicago, but he's here!" I know I sound hysterical, but they're not taking me seriously. The same tears I held back for so long spill out against my will.
"Right… Chicago. He hates you, and you think he's here in Philadelphia, to… give you food, flowers, and soap?" She cocks an eyebrow and scribbles something in her notepad.
"No signs of forced entry. Some paint chips on the windowsill, but it's a fourth-floor walkup. No one broke in through the window unless they had a big-ass ladder," one of the uniformed cops interrupts. I fix my watery glare at him, and he just shrugs.
"Thanks, Dan. We're done here." Detective Ella snaps her notepad shut and digs out a business card from her pocket. "If you see anything else weird, call this number."
I take the card. Detective Rafaella Angelo forces a tight smile at me.
"Wait, seriously? You're just leaving? Someone broke into my apartment and stole from me!" I protest through my tears.
"We'll have a police report for you in a few days, if you want to submit it to your renter's insurance company. But there's really nothing else we can do. Call us back if it happens again, though." Rafaella motions at her cop buddies to follow her, and they leave, slamming my door behind them.
I slump down onto my boot-marked floor. They didn't do anything. They took pictures and ridiculed me. No dusting forprints, nothing. I crumple up the business card and throw it into the corner. Fuck these cops. Fuck this whole situation. I knew they wouldn't help me in the short term, but I had a tiny sliver of hope.
Honestly, I wouldn't put it past them to dump my report in the precinct trash and forget about me. Forget aboutthis. Swiping away my tears, I vow to myself that I'll take care of it. If Phil is really here, and he's really watching me, he'll fucking regret it.
I've killed a man before. I can do it again.
With my hours cut at work, I have some newfound free time. And it seems that I'll need to break into my meager savings for some home defense implements. My raggedy car shakes and sputters as I pull into the superstore parking lot.
"Don't quit on me now," I mumble under my breath and gather my purse. I can only afford a few things, but at the top of my list is agoodchef knife. If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do this the right way.
Charlie's corpse flashes through my mind again. The sound of his screams fill my ears, and I lean back in my seat, ecstasy washing over me. It felt sogoodto ruin him. After all those years of snide comments, shoving me against walls, slamming my head into the floor. I got mine, Charlie. Rot in piss.
My eyes roll back in my head, and I pant out my breaths. Fuck, yes. I adored the way the knife split his skin, spilling out the beautiful crimson. The death rattle when he inhaled. The unadulteratedfearin his eyes as I removed his hands. They simply…poppedaway from his arms, like they were never meant to be there. One slip of a knife, and he could never touch anyone again.
Heat builds in my core and I let out a whine, writhing in my seat. Bliss builds in the back of my mind—I'm at a precipice—and I fuckingjump. Wave after wave of pleasure rocks my body, and I groan loudly. Not a care in the world.
"Fuck you, Charlie," I moan out. "Fuck you."
I remember his last gurgling breath as sweat breaks across my brow, and I come back to my senses. I'm in my car. In the parking lot of a superstore.
Did I just come? Fromthinkingabout murder?
I'm afraid I'm seriously fucked in the head, but life goes on. I breathe in for four seconds, out for seven. My heart rate returns to normal. The sweat dries on my forehead. I blink until my eyes return to focus.
Go time.
Stepping out of the car, I furtively peek around the lot. It's surprisingly empty, but I suppose itisthe middle of a weekday. An elderly woman looks in my direction and smiles politely. I return it and wave to her, striding over to the cart corral. Knife time.
There really should be a study about the effects of fluorescent lights and their correlation with serial killers. My eyes are burning, and I need to getoutof this suburban hellhole. Bored teenagers walk the aisles aimlessly—shouldn't they be in school? Upon second look, they're probably college-aged kids. Adults. Whatever.
I just hope none of them interrupt me while I peruse the kitchenware section. Kitschy mugs line the shelves. Plastic dinnerware boasts prices below a dollar. Eyeing them, I do some calculations in my head. I'm one person, and Idohave all of that food in the house now. Before I can talk myself out of it, I scoop a plate and bowl into my cart.
