Page 24 of Guarding the Star

Zoe looks at me from the door and narrows her eyes, as if to say, see what I have to deal with?

“I'm leaving him for two hours, don't get him too wound up or he won't sleep. And no candy,” she warns before leaving, though I doubt Iris hears her because the two of them are already on the living room floor playing.

With the kid, Iris turns into someone else entirely. She tells him a new dragon story, something about a game in the rain where the dragon slips, loses the ball, and thinks about giving up, but the old turtle teacher yells from the sideline to get up and keep fighting.

When Zoe comes back to pick him up, the stuffed octopus stays on the couch. Iris grabs it, smells it, and puts it on her pillow.

At seven, she pads barefoot through the living room and stands at the window.

I want to say something that isn't professional. I would like to have the conversation I promised her we'd have.

“I'm going to check the locks,” I say instead.

She doesn't even turn around.

“Yeah, sure, check everything real good,” she mutters, clicking her tongue.

At ten, I knock on her bedroom door.

She opens it in pajamas. Ponytail half undone, barefoot. Her laptop is open on the bed, some show playing.

“Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”

“I don't need anything. If you're doing more rounds, don't bother knocking,” she grunts, and almost shuts the door in my face.

At 11:43, my phone rings.

Iris.

“Come. Please.”

Short. Precise.

I find her standing in the middle of the room, phone in hand, white as a sheet.

The second I get close, she shoves the screen in my face.

Message from @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal.

“Who is she, Iris? The dark-haired one. Your new pet. She's not like the others who keep you busy for a night or two and disappear. She's been with you for weeks now, and she's still there; living in your house, by your side nonstop. She doesn't love you like I do, you can tell. And when you get tired of playing, I'll be here. Because I'm always here. Always.”

I read the message twice. The second time, slower.

This isn't admiration anymore. This is rage. Possessiveness. A new rung on the ladder. A much more dangerous one, because the next step is usually direct action.

I set the phone on the nightstand and look at her.

She's frozen. Shaking.

Iris Vance, the woman who fills every room with her energy, is standing still. Arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself. It's the first time I've seen her like this.

“It's not like the other ones,” she says through her teeth. “The other messages were creepy. This is different.”

“Yes. It's different,” I confirm. “People like this build a story in their head and anything that doesn't fit, they read as betrayal.”

“He says he's always here.”

“I know.”