Page 16 of The Hitch
Realization dawns on her beautiful face but is quickly replaced by a very confusing rage. She clenches her fists and power walks down the cemetery path, huffing out infuriated breaths. It's adorable, and I follow.
After a few moments pacing through the verdant greenery and weathered headstones, she turns off the gravel path and slumps against a gnarled tree.
"How did you find me?"
Melody
Istare up at the dark green canopy of the cemetery tree, my heart pounding in frantic palpitations. They found me. He'snotPhil, though. He has to work for Phil. Or with him. Do semantics like this even matter? He's going to kill me for what I did. He's going to kill me over that rat shit corpseCharlie. I huff out a breath and steal a look at the imposing man.
The black cotton fabric of my panties pokes out of his stupid suit pocket. Mocking me. Taunting me. The faded fabric nearly matches the black tattooed tendrils on his throat, peeking outfrom under his Oxford collar. His left hand rests casually in his pocket, but his right fiddles with the hem of his suit jacket. Another tattoo covers his fingers and stretches up underneath the sleeves of his pale lavender dress shirt. It looks like every one of the bones in his hand has been outlined, and the spaces between are blacked out.
I can't tear my gaze away from the skeletal tattoo on his hand. I can't tell if the rest of his arm is like that, too. But why am I even thinking abouthisskeleton tattoos? He's going to turnmeinto a skeleton.
All over that waste of breath, Charlie.
"How did you find me?" I manage to force out, but I'm still not able to look him in the face.
He's silent for a moment. I can feel his gaze raking up and down my body. His tattooed hand releases the suit hem and cracks a knuckle.
"When one has as many resources at their disposal as I do, finding people is rarely a difficult ordeal. You, however, managed to escape me." He chuckles. "Until now."
Finally able to move my eyes, I glare at him. Shit, he's tall. I have to crane my neck to look into his emerald green eyes.
"Until now," I whisper. He seems slightly perplexed by my glare and just flashes his teeth at me in a menacing smile. Silence hangs between us, only broken by the soft cooing of a pigeon. I will not be the first to break.
He averts his gaze and stares down at the headstone in front of us. I chew on my lip and follow his line of sight. This part of the country really is old—well, by American standards. We're standing above the remains of a boy who died in the Revolutionary War. He wasn't even thirty. I am older than that boy got to be.
And it feels weird. Though it seems I'll be following him soon, anyway.
"Who are you, really?" I ask. "I mean, did Phil send you?"
He scoffs. "No, a sniveling little shit like Phil didnotsend me."
"Well, you've obviously been stalking me! Why? What do you want? Who the fuckareyou?" I retort.
"Dante Lyons. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, you angry little thing." He holds out his hand like he wants to shake, but I just stare at it. The skeletal tattoos don't extend onto his palm.
"Why are you following me?" I ask, still staring at his hand. He retracts it and shoves it into his pants pocket, looking irritated.
"I'm an interested party. But you're clearly not in any mood to speak rationally." He sniffs. "We'll be in touch, MelodyGutierrez."
He straightens his suit and flashes me another menacing smile before calmly walking away. Like he didn't just imply he knows who I really am. Like he hasn't broken into my apartment. Like he doesn't know exactly where I am at all times.
How much about me does he really know? I stand stock-still, thoughts racing through my mind. How thefuckam I going to go back to work like this?
My home hasn't felt truly safe since that bastard—Dante—started leaving flowers on my counter. On my bed. In my bathroom. He's been everywhere, and now I have a real face to pit against the groggy memory of the intruder who slept next to me in my bed.
Dante. Dante Lyons.
Crashing through my front door, I scurry to my bedroom and dig through my disheveled piles of clothing. I need Detective Ella's card—I need to tell her. I need to call her. It's not Phil. It's… this guy.
Her card managed to jam itself into the far recesses of my nightstand drawer, slightly crumped, but still legible. With shaking hands I dial the number and wait.
It rings. Once, twice, thrice. After the fifth ring, I'm sent to her voicemail. Or maybe her voicemail—it's the generic default that reads out her phone number in a robotic voice. I inhale a shuddering breath and wait for my chance to speak.
"Hi Detective Ella, it's Melody—from the Ridgeway Arms? You were here about a month ago for a break-in… I know who did it. He's stalking me, and he found me at my job, and his name is Dante." I pause. "I don't know what he wants with me. But he's made itveryclear that he can find me, no matter where I go. Please, call me back."Beep.
Tossing my phone to the side, I flop down in my bed and stare at the ceiling. The texture of the drop tiles stares back at me. I know there's a name for it, seeing faces in random patterns, but I can't for the life of me remember what it's called. After a few moments, my phone vibrates, and Detective Ella's number flashes across the screen. I reach for it frantically and fumble with the screen.
