“Lexi, Lexi,” the shadow coos. A long finger beckons me toward the kitchen. In the other hand, a gleaming knife. My hair stands on end as I dash for the front door, my bare feet picking up glass shards and creating a bloody streak toward my escape.

I fling open the door but the watcher bangs it closed. Collects my tears as I collapse in its arms, the knife at my neck ready to end me for good.

My stalker with all the power.

Even I would’ve never gone this far.

One

Steve said we had to talk.

He wasn’t much of a talker so it couldn’t be good. On our last date at Bocca Felice, Steve seemed anything but a “happy mouth.” He’d been fixing up the house of a woman in Jamaica Estates, a one-point-five million, three-bedroom, three-bath, four-thousand-square-foot colonial with a winding staircase and skylights. Nothing he did pleased her. The marble he chose—wrong. The new floors he put in—disgusting. The claw-foot bathtub he installed looked too much like a womb. He was smoking more and left me twice—twice!—to go outside between courses.

On the way home, I tried to loop my fingers in his but was rejected. It stung a bit. I told myself to give him space. Steve was the kind of guy who’d get pissed off, mope for a while, then get over it. He didn’t hold grudges like I did. We got in the car and he said “we need to talk” in that gruff voice of his. When I pretended not to hear, he turned on Metallica’s “The Unforgiven” and hummed as he drove.

“We can go back to my place,” I said, tickling the inside of his leg. Crawling up with my middle and index finger closer to his dick. No indication of any excitement so I retreated. He didn’t answer but headed toward Sunnyside.

Sammi was waiting for us when I got home. Steve always gave her so much attention, odd for a boyfriend but Steve was that kind of guy. He could be very affectionate when he wanted. He scratched under her chin and dumped some Fancy Feast in her bowl. Lately, she seemed to like him more than me.

Vanderpump Rules was on, one of my favorites, and I’d been thinking about Lala and Sheana’s fight from last episode during dinner. The two were such good friends, but also could get in epic blowouts, usually crazy Kristen being the cause.

“We could watch?” I said, in a cutesy voice.

“This show is ridiculous,” Steve said. “It’s fake.”

“No, it’s not.” My cheeks got red. “They’re all real friends.”

“They’re playing up for the cameras. They’re coworkers.”

Steve always bashed my shows. He liked football, pretty much all he watched, or the occasional action superhero film.