Page 14 of Shadowface

That missing fragment of a memory I keep replaying in my head but can’t quite grasp. The cause of nightmares I’ve had since I was a child.

I pull up the photos again and stare at them, as if I didn’t stare at them enough last night. There is no question now—the girl in the first photo is me, both pictures were clearly taken the same night.

My hand moves to my breast, to my small and tight nipples. I run my hands over them like he used to, kissing my skin with my fingertips, driving my body crazy.

My body becomes ravished at the memory of him…the longing I can’t get rid of.

Taking a deep breath, I open the text and respond to the unknown number. My head begins to swirl. I should call 911, but my emotions are overriding my better judgment.

Summer: What do you want from me?

My body slumps forward, and I remember that dream. The soft whispers, the deadly aura that surrounded him.

Unknown Number: I missed you, pretty girl.

Pretty girl. My nameless monster used to call me that. He never used my name, it was always, pretty girl.

My hand whips to my mouth. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and it takes a few seconds for me to regain my composure.

My nameless monster is back.

“Fuck me,” I whisper. The sick fuck is real, even though I’ve spent the last two years convincing myself he wasn’t. And now he’s here. Watching me, waiting for something.

Summer: Were you the one messaging me on the class site?

Unknown Number: I was just trying to help you, Summer.

I scramble up and shut my window again, checking to make sure it’s locked. I creep downstairs as goosebumps pebble my exposed flesh and I head into the kitchen.

Tripping over a box, I stub my toe. “Fuck’s sakes,” I grumble as a debilitating pain shoots up my foot, and I kick the box out of the way.

A draft hits my skin and I turn my head to find the drapes flowing over the window. Dani must have left it open. I rush over and shut that, too, before checking the front door, making a note to give her hell for leaving a window open.

I turn the light on, half expecting someone to jump out at me, but our tiny house is vacant. Just Misty’s mess still strewn about and Chinese takeout boxes littering the counter and two empty wineglasses they neglected to wash before bed.

I let out my breath and head upstairs, locking my bedroom door as a precaution before pulling the covers over me entirely.

Not that covers ever stopped him before… And now it seems like my stalker from high school is in my psychology class.

Iwake up in a daze a couple of hours later, my throat dry and lips parched. The sun is streaming into the room now, and it’s like a sauna. I rise and open the window; the sunshine increases my sense of security. He never came to me when the sun was shining, as if he belonged to the night.

I stare at my tiny desk in the corner, and the pile of textbooks beckons me to read. Luckily, my first class doesn’t start until ten today, so I have some time to catch up and do the reading I wasn’t able to last night. My sleep was fitful at best for obvious reasons.

I swallow hard and grab my computer, pulling up my first weekly reflection, which I haven’t been able to start.

My phone is on my nightstand taunting me, but I ignore it. SF never texted me back last night, and I never responded to him, either. But that’s not unusual. The text message was the first time I’ve communicated with him other than with my eyes.

All those nights, while I was in a sleep-induced haze waiting for him, when I tried to say something, his hand caught my mouth, and I couldn’t breathe. The first time I screamed, I thought he might kill me, so I learned to stay quiet.

I open my computer and log onto the class site and stare down at the email address listed for Lincoln Kennedy.

He is the only person left linking me to this place. He knew my father, and I can’t rule out the possibility he’s behind this. What I can’t fathom is why?

He’s so…coveted, accomplished, and brilliant. It’s hard to comprehend his motivations for stalking and tormenting a teenage girl who lives in another town. Why would he threaten everything he’s built here? I can’t, however, ignore the obvious connection to me.

My stomach sinks, remembering the basis of his research. He and my father studied fear, anger, and all the other ickiest emotions, and he would have had easy access to me. Especially since my father was so close to Dr. Garcia, who is his adoptive mother.

An inkling in my stomach tells me I’m missing something. The flashes of familiarity that passed between Lincoln and me. Nothing concrete enough to really remember him, though.