Page 5 of Heat Lightning

What did he want? Was he there to scare anyone coming and going through the alley, or had he come for a specific person?

Had he come for me?

Was he still out there, waiting until my shift ended so he could catch me on the way to my car?

That’s ridiculous, I’d reasoned with myself. It just didn’t make any sense. I didn’t have enemies. I was a station chef at a restaurant in small-town Plover Bay, Michigan, for God’s sake. My rent was never late, I didn’t borrow money from shady criminals, and I kept to myself.

Sure, I lived in a run-down apartment in a seedy neighborhood, but I couldn’t afford anywhere nicer. Not if I wanted to save so I could start my own private chef business.

So then, what had this psycho wanted?

If it were just to talk, he would’ve approached me like a normal person. Instead, he acted like the season finale villain of Dateline, creeping around in the shadows.

Goosebumps danced along my arms when I remembered the way he’d looked over his shoulder, just before disappearing into the darkness. He’d pulled a hood over his head, so there was nothing but emptiness where his face should be.

I still smelled him when I walked to my car that night. In fact, his scent had concentrated even more the closer I got, to the point where I was so afraid he was hiding underneath, waiting to slash my Achilles tendons, I peered under with my phone’s flashlight before hastily leaping in and locking the door.

After that first night, he was everywhere. Those pheromones swirled around and around, raising the hair on my neck, and I imagined dark, vaguely-human shapes wherever I went.

It started to fuck with my head. I stopped lingering outside the restaurant after work, hoping to talk to Joey, because I could feel that predatory gaze on the back of my neck. Footsteps echoed mine all the way to my car, heavy and deliberate, sending me scurrying as fast as I could.

But no matter how many times I looked over my shoulder, he was never there. Was I imagining it?

Checking the backseat of my car became my new normal. Hell, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom at home without pulling back the shower curtain first. My front door lock had been broken since I moved in—despite reporting it to maintenance several times—and my homemade locking system was more of a suggestion than a preventative measure.

I never thought through what I’d do if there actually was an intruder lurking in my tub. Scream? Hope he slipped and fell? Slice at him with my razor?

Maybe I had some old body spray from high school lying around that I could use. That shit was strong enough to put down a grizzly.

If I had a close friend in the area, I would’ve asked to stay with them for a few days to clear my head, but I’d moved to the Upper Peninsula from Grand Rapids a few months ago and was still settling in.

I came to Plover Bay to chase the booming service industry. Tourist attractions and accommodations were rife up and down the shore, and most were booked full nine months out of the year. There were also a healthy number of incredibly wealthy people who summered in great big mansions lining Lake Superior, and they all moored their yachts at the Plover Bay marina.

They were the kind of rich that gave fantastic Christmas bonuses without being cannibals. A happy medium.

All in all, it was a great market for a private chefing business, but I needed real kitchen experience first. So, I started a job washing dishes at The Copper Kettle right out of culinary school, hoping to work my way up the chain for a few years and learn the business before breaking off on my own.

Growing up, it was just me and my omega mom, but her health had never been great, and she died right after I graduated high school.

Grief made me an alien to my friends. And I supposed they were aliens to me, too. Going through something like that when everyone else excitedly prepared for college, started jobs, or moved away felt like she’d taken any part of me that could join in the fun with her. I ended up isolating myself.

I think she knew that would happen, though, when she got really sick. She left me some money—more than I ever thought we had—and specifically earmarked it to use for school, establishing a business, or a living.

Her way of telling me to move forward.

So there I was, trying to work my ass off and make something of my life, only to wind up in the crosshairs of a stalker.

After four days, I called the non-emergency police phone number and explained my situation. The lady was sympathetic and encouraged me to come to the station and file a report but cautioned there wasn’t much they could do.

He hadn’t threatened me, or broken into my apartment or even harassed me at work. He was just… there. And stalking laws weren’t nearly strong enough to have a real-life impact.

I didn’t want to deal with the fucking paperwork. Why was every problem in this world met with even more work and burden? Why did I have to go out of my way to do all that when he was the one who should deal with the consequences?

It was exhausting, completely unfair, and I just wanted it to go away.

Hopefully, he’d get bored. Or maybe I’d tell Joey about him, and he’d scare him off. My heart fluttered at the idea of being walked to my car, or maybe he’d even follow me home to make sure I was safe.

Why couldn’t that kind of guy be the one stalking me, and not some creep?