Page 72 of I Will Break You
“Why would he even say something so foreshadowy?” I mutter, my mind scrambling for answers. “Maybe it’s the night before a dangerous mission, where he’s sneaking into a party to murder an entire family?”
Nodding again, I add that to the manuscript. “Yes!”
The next few hours are a frenzy of typing. Words flow from my fingertips like holy water, and I don’t go back to edit. Fixing typos at this stage will only stifle my creativity.
Xero stops trying to get my attention. I hope that’s because he’s worn out his electromagnetic powers. It must be exhausting for a disembodied spirit to hang two people. One in execution, and the other for perversion.
My pussy throbs at the reminder of how he forced me to torture my own nipples while the vibrations on my clit intensified. If I’d known a man was dead or dying on the other side of the door, I probably wouldn’t have cooperated.
At least I’d like to think so.
When my stomach rumbles, I hop off the bed with two of my bottles, making sure not to disturb the salt barrier, and hurry down to the kitchen. It’s about lunchtime, anyway, when the sun is at its strongest, so I have nothing to fear from Xero.
I open the refrigerator, and my shoulders sag.
It’s empty, save for a jar of mayonnaise that has turned yellow. I threw out a bunch of stuff the day after I killed Jake.
Inside the cupboards are the usual herbs, spices, tins of tuna, and other canned goods so old that the labels have fallen away. I run a hand through my curls. Did I have to use up the last of my money on two bottles of vodka?
Yes, because I needed to dull the edges of my dread.
Tonight, Xero will come for me, and the only thing stopping my mind from collapsing into a puddle of terror and guilt is booze.
With a shiver, I open the icebox, finding a loaf of bread. I’ve learned the hard way that the type I like has a short shelf life, and freezing is the only way I can enjoy it without having to pluck out mold.
I pry free a couple of slices and pop them in the toaster. If I didn’t have a manuscript to write, I would take time to defrost them, but instead, I make toast. In minutes, I’ve created a tuna mayo sandwich, which I wash down with a cocktail of holy water and vodka.
Afterward, I walk upstairs, feeling buzzed from lunch, and hop back onto the bed. When I open the laptop, the screen is blank.
“No,” I whisper.
The phone buzzes with a message that makes my heart jumpinto the back of my throat. Ignoring it, I reboot my computer, only to find the file gone. Panic tightens my chest, making my breath come in shallow gasps. Sweat breaks out across my brow as I log into my cloud storage system to check for autosaved versions of the manuscript, but there’s nothing.
My spirits plummets, and any comfort I obtained from the vodka fades into the background. The bastard deleted my ghost story.
The phone buzzes again, and every fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Dread pools in my belly as my mind flickers through a dozen painful scenarios. Will it be a picture of Reverend Tom’s corpse or some man’s body parts? Or a preview of how he plans to attack me after dark?
With a deep breath, I force myself to look at the screen.
Keep ignoring me and I will continue to destroy your work.
My heart pounds as I text back:
What do you want?
Three dots appear on the screen, making my heart beat faster. Is he using spectral hands to type the message or is he possessing some poor bastard with a phone? Finally, the response comes:
Your complete destruction.
My breath catches, and I type back with shaky fingers:
Why?
The next answer is immediate.
Because I crave your pain.
“You’re a sadist,” I whisper to the screen, my voice hoarse.