Page 4 of Sam
Whoever this is has developed an infatuation with me and is playing out all his fantasies.
I wasn’t helpless. Dad had made sure of that. But whoever this is has made me so uneasy that I’m not comfortable in my own home, and that pisses me off.
I’d phoned home straight after the visit from the police this morning when I had to hand over yet another present, this one of red roses with an explicit note of what he’d like to do to me when he got me alone. He’s escalating, and the police think it’s because he knows I’m done with university and will be leaving soon.
Dad had hit the roof when I’d explained what had been happening and that I hadn’t told them sooner. He’d made me feel awful for keeping what had been happening from them. He was right. I should have let him know. I’d disappointed him, and that hurt the most. He was my hero, and I’d forgotten that. When he’d told me he’d be arriving tonight sometime, I hadn’t argued. I was relieved. I’d known he’d come, and I’m sure he wouldn’t be alone.
I felt better when we’d got off the phone, even with his anger and disappointment ringing in my ears. My dad’s coming, and like any daddy’s girl, I have full faith he’ll fix everything. I’ll either end up with a bodyguard or he’ll be taking me home. If I have my way, I’ll be going home. I’ve had enough of being away from my family.
Surveying the café, I look for a spare seat, not surprised when I don’t see one. It’s busy like it is most days, even though the food in here is awful. Not that I was eating; I only stopped in for a coffee. I’m putting off going home. I know that. I feel safer surrounded by people. Getting into the line, I wait for my turn. Ordering my latte to go, I pay and turn to walk away, only to bounce off a chest.
“Shit,” I mutter, holding my coffee away from my body just in case the lid doesn’t hold.
“Sorry,” the guy mutters. Glancing up, I think he looks familiar, but I’m not sure. He has dark hair and isn’t much taller than my own five foot ten; he pulls his hoodie up over his head, hiding his face. I don’t think much of it; a lot of people wear hoodies even on warm days. Shrugging it off, I walk away, out of the café and towards the car park, making sure to stay vigilant, keeping my car keys in my hand. I reach my car with no issues. My dad’s voice is in my head telling me to check my car before getting in. So, I do a quick walk-around and check in the back seat before I unlock it and get in, ensuring that I lock the doors straight away.
Taking a sip of my latte, I start my car and drive out of the car park towards home. I love the little house that Aunt JoJo has lent me. It’s a two-bedroom bungalow on a quiet street with mostly elderly neighbours who I’m sure cringed when I moved in three years ago, probably thinking that I’d be partying all the time. Turning into the driveway, I finish my coffee, using the time to have a look around the neighbourhood, but nothinglooks out of place. Opening my door, I shut it and don’t waste any time entering the house, only relaxing once I’m inside and the doors are locked.
“Fucking arsehole,” I mutter, angry that I’ve been made to feel unsafe in my own home. Setting the alarm, I do my rounds like I’ve done every night when I get home since he escalated his deliveries. All the windows are locked, the back door secure, and the blinds and curtains closed so that nobody can look in the windows.
Hurrying to my bedroom, I close and lock the door, grab a pair of leggings and a hoodie, and hurry into the bathroom, shutting and locking that door too. Getting undressed, I don’t waste any time getting in the shower and washing the day away. Gone are the days when I would take my time.
Once I finish, I get dressed and check my phone. Seeing it’s almost six o’clock, Dad has sent me a message to let me know he’ll be getting in around eight this evening and that he’ll grab a taxi from the airport.
Even though I know I’m alone in the house, I still strap my knives to my forearms and then put a sweatshirt on. The university would shit themselves if they knew how often I was on their premises with various knives strapped to me or in my boots. When Aunt JoJo found out about the boots that the Crow girls were given when they turned eighteen, she had the same ones commissioned for me and Jeannie, and I’m sure she’ll have them made for Emy and any other girls in our family when they turn eighteen.
Other than summer and when I’m home, I wear mine all the time, and I know Jeannie does too. We both feel safer for it.
Opening my bedroom door, I listen, but not hearing anything, I venture out to the kitchen to make something to eat. Once I’vedone that, I settle down on the couch and put a movie on to wait for Dad to arrive.
I had been sleeping poorly, so it was inevitable that I drifted off while waiting, only to be jolted awake shortly after by a noise at the back door. Grabbing my phone from the coffee table, I check the time and see a message from Dad to say that his flight was delayed and would only get in at ten tonight. My phone shows it’s just half past. It’s not Dad at the back door, that’s for certain. He’d have phoned me to be let in.
Standing, I creep toward my bedroom and the door that I know locks; at least from there I’ll be able to get out the window and run to the neighbours.
Finding the detective in charge of my case’s number in my contacts, I press call and wait for the call to connect.
“Detective Brick.”
“Detective, it’s Ally O’Shea,” I whisper.
“Ally, what’s wrong?”
“Somebody’s trying to get in the back door.”
“Can you see who it is?”
“Hang on,” I tell him and pull up the video to the outside.
Taking a screenshot, I send it to the detective.
“Did you get that?”
“Yeah, I did. It looks like him.”
I can hear him moving around and by the sound of it, he’s running while talking to me. “I’m sending a car your way, Ally, and I’ll be five minutes behind it.”
“Okay, my dad is coming tonight. Don’t arrest the wrong man.”
Detective Brick chuckles, “We won’t. Now get somewhere safe, and I’ll be there soon.”
