Page 3 of Stuffing My Obsession
No…something doesn’t feel right. I’mnotcrazy.
By the time I reach my apartment building, my nerves are raw. I stop on the sidewalk, staring up at the familiar brick exterior, the glowing windows above.Home.My safe space. Supposedly. But I hesitate, my gaze flicking to the dark alley that runs alongside it.
Get a grip, Paris.
Before I head upstairs, I push open the glass door of the little café right next-door to my building. The brass sign above it readsMabel’s Corner, the gold paint faded from years of weather and city grime.
The smell of cinnamon and strong coffee hits me the second I step inside. The café is warm, buzzing with the low hum of conversation, clinking mugs, the hiss of the espresso machine. My shoulders loosen just a little, the tension of the day quickly fading.
I love it here—in this little space that feels so far from the crowded world outside.
Captain is standing behind the counter, tall even in his old age, posture straight despite his bad knee. His white hair is cropped close, and his beard is neat, trimmed military-style. His weathered hands move easily, wiping down the counter.
Beside him, his wife Mabel fusses with a tray of pastries. Plump, rosy-cheeked, silver curls pinned in a bun, and eyes that miss nothing. She knows more about the people who live in our building than the landlord does.
“Paris, darling,” Mabel chirps when she sees me. “You look like someone kicked your puppy. What’s wrong?”
I force a smile and slide onto one of the stools at the counter. “It’s nothing, really.”
Captain narrows his sharp gray eyes. “Doesn’t look like it’s nothing.” His voice still carries that crisp authority, the kind that makes you want to stand at attention. “Tell me.”
And just like that, I spill. I tell them all about the eerie feeling I get returning home every night, the roses on my doorstep, the texts and the strange shadow in my room. I tell them how the cops looked at me like I was crazy and said they couldn’t do anything about the situation.
Captain’s jaw tightens, his eyes hardening the more he listens to me. When I finish, he rests both hands on the counter and leans in, lowering his voice. “I know someone who can help.”
Hope rises in my chest. “Really?” I ask, leaning forward eagerly.
“Yeah.” Captain nods. “He lives in our building. His name’s Myles Carter. Ex-Army, like me. Younger, though. He was in the special forces. Did things overseas most men wouldn’t survive once, let alone for years.” He shakes his head slowly, almost with respect. “Now, he works security. High-profile. He knows his onions. Dangerous if he has to be. No one would dare come near you with him around.”
Mabel snorts, setting down a tray with a loud clatter. “Dangerous is right. Paris, sweetheart, you stay away from that one.”
I turn toward her. “You know him?”
“Know him?” She leans on the counter, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Everybody knows of him. Around here, they call him the Grim Reaper. He never smiles, never talks. Alwaysbrooding in the corner like he’s planning someone’s funeral. The young man gives me chills every time I pass him on the stairs.”
“Mabel,” Captain warns, but she waves him off.
“I’m serious. The way he looks at people…cold, like he can see through you. Like he’s deciding if you’re worth the bullet. Mark my words, that man’s trouble.”
A shiver skates down my spine.Grim Reaper.Great. Exactly what I need—another reason not to sleep at night.
I swallow, forcing myself to remain calm. “Why would I ask someone like that for help?”
“Because he can protect you,” Captain says simply. His gaze is steady, certain. “I trust him. More than I’d trust most men in this city. And you need someone who can do more than file paperwork at a precinct. He’s a soldier. He’ll keep you safe.”
I shift uncomfortably, Mabel’s words gnawing at me. The image of a grim reaper lingering in the stairwell, staring with dead eyes, fills my mind, making my skin prickle.
But then I think about the text I received earlier.You really shouldn’t walk alone at night, Angel.
My family is already nervous about me living so far away from home. If I tell my parents about this, they’ll drag me back to Asheville and never let me leave again. And with Thanksgiving coming up, I can’t give them any more reasons to worry.
I sip my coffee, watching the steam curl upward.
Would I rather deal with the Grim Reaper or a stalker?
My choices are limited.
Chapter Two
