The Stalker Chronicles (2 page)

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Authors: Electa Rome Parks

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Crime, #Urban Life, #African American

BOOK: The Stalker Chronicles
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Prologue
It was getting easier and easier now.
She moved quickly and efficiently throughout the spacious three-car garage. She wanted to remove any traces of evidence that she had ever been there. She had always been good at simply disappearing and being invisible. That was easy.
She was definitely more confident, and it showed in her cool, calm, and collected demeanor. She was no longer afraid of being caught, because the urge to punish those who had hurt her was stronger, much more overwhelming, and urgent. She probably couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to—she was operating on pure animal instinct. The need to survive and protect herself by any means necessary overrode anything else. Fight or flight. And she had long been tired of running.
There had been others over the years, more than she could count on one hand. They were mere vague gray memories that occasionally crossed her mind, like one might think of a stray pet one owned as a child, but she dismissed the images just as quickly. She never held on to them for more than a few fleeting moments in time. Denial was her refuge.
Only one had successfully escaped her sharp talons and womanly wiles. Or had he? Maybe she let him get away, just that one time. She hadn't determined which. Sometimes she thought of him, when her mind wasn't a jumble of darkness, discontent, and madness. There were moments... .
She missed him, yearned for his special touch, the touch that only he could deliver with precision and skill. His touch brought heat and desire. His lies brought pain and sorrow. She hated that he escaped her grasp, or that possibly she let him walk away, unscathed. She still considered him her soul mate, the one who made her complete and safe and sound. She yearned to feel complete, because most days she realized she was broken and damaged beyond repair. However, she couldn't think of that one just yet. Not now. That would come later. The strenuous act of positioning this one just right was over. Now she had serious, delicate cleanup work to complete. Within seconds, that one, the one who got away, was pushed to the dark, cold recesses of her mind. Forgotten ... for now.
It was painstakingly slow work because everything had to be absolutely perfect. She had observed and respected what a perfectionist he was. He thrived on it. She softly snickered to herself and had to catch herself before it became an all-out rambunctious laugh. He didn't look too perfect right now, slumped behind the steering wheel of his black BMW like a deflated, tossed-aside bag of rags and bones. Another snicker escaped. She tightly clamped her gloved hand down over her mouth to stop it, to keep it from spilling forth.
When he was discovered—hopefully, within a day or two—she wanted him to appear perfect in death. That was the least she could do, because she honestly felt she owed him that much. With a gloved hand, she carefully took the typewritten note out of his jacket pocket, typed from the personal computer in his home office, and gently placed it next to him on the soft leather passenger seat of his car. Laughter escaped freely and drifted into the still air.
She took one last hopeful look at him and placed a single kiss on his left cheek. She wanted to remember him at peace. Happy. So handsome. She sighed before she carefully closed the driver's side car door. Then she continued to wipe down any surface she might have touched that bore her prints. She was patient as perspiration dotted her forehead. From her experiences, she knew that patience was a virtue.
She dreamily thought, We could have been so deliriously happy together. They always fucked things up. Always. She hadn't met a man yet who didn't. It was never a matter of if, but when. If only he hadn't started to question or doubt her because of that damn movie,
Diary of a Stalker
, which had been released a month earlier and was a blockbuster success. Everyone was talking about it; already there was talk of Oscar nominations for best actress and best actor. She couldn't escape it, no matter where she turned or what it signified for her.
No, you didn't reject me and attempt to walk away, without a backward glance, she thought. How dare he? She didn't do well with rejection. Never had. Never would. She chuckled to herself, thinking the joke was definitely on him. If he were alive, he would probably appreciate the joke as well. She had decided years ago that no one, especially not a man, would ever hurt her again. Never again. So far, she hadn't broken her promise to herself, nor did she have any intentions to going forward.
She exited the beautiful, spacious home that screamed quiet elegance, luxury, and money. She let herself out and quietly disappeared into the night, under the cover of darkness. She craved the darkness for its mystery and power. She whistled a happy tune to herself as she walked away. No worries. No rush. She was lost in her own demented world.
Enter at your own risk
.
She reminisced about a man—a beautiful, tall, dark, and very sexy man with deep dimples and gorgeous teeth, a man she couldn't wait to be reunited with. Her body craved him, and she could hardly contain her excitement and joy at just the mere thought of being in his presence again. It had been too long. As for the one in the garage, with the car engine running and the towel stuffed in the exhaust system, he had already slipped her mind, before his body was even cold and stiff. Her last thoughts of him were that when they found him, she hoped he would look perfect. She knew he would want it that way. After all, that was the least she could do. She hummed a lively tune and strolled off into the darkness.
Chapter 1
Xavier
In retrospect, what could I say? The last couple of years had not been the best moments of my life, definitely nothing to brag or write home about. They had been more like bittersweet years, an odd combination of sweet and sour moments.
Life could send some toxic shit your way that had you hanging on for dear life by a thin thread, hoping and praying that you'd come out on the right end. I sometimes felt like I had almost drowned and needed to be resuscitated, but the fear of going under water, of being helpless, remained with me. I had gone from having it all, at least by my standards, to being reduced to my lowest in only a matter of months.
Pilar was my personal joy stealer. My scab. Yes, let's place a name on it. She definitely received her wish. She was always on my mind, the last person I thought about each night before I closed my eyes and the first person I thought of as I rose each morning. I had gone over it again and again in my mind, breaking it down to its most organic level, but I could honestly say I never saw her coming in a million years, or at least what she had in store for me. Lust and desire blinded me, and that became my eventual downfall.
You see, Pilar was the beautiful, stunningly sexy, and confident woman who stalked me for nearly a year after we had a one-night stand, multiple times. I was in lust, and she was in love. However, I soon learned that rejection and craziness to the ninth degree were a lethal combination. She almost succeeded in making me lose everything dear to me, even my dignity and pride. Pilar brought me to my knees, literally, and made me rethink male/female relationships in general. I now knew to never, ever judge a book by its cover. That was pretty ironic since I was a national bestselling author with seven published novels, one of which had recently been made into a blockbuster movie. However, it was true, looks could be deceiving.
All that glitters is not gold, unless maybe it's fool's gold
. I was definitely the fool. I played right into Pilar's demented hands.
I was trying desperately to get my life back on track but was finding that was easier said than done.
Diary of a Stalker
, the movie, was released a month ago, and the reviews and box office sales were amazing. People all across the nation were embracing my true-to-life account that chronicled how Pilar stalked me and made my life a living hell. Reviewers were raving about how it was the modern-day version
of Fatal Attraction
, a late 1980s film starring Michael Douglas and Glenn Close.
I didn't know about all that, but looking back, I knew I was living in my own private hell, courtesy of Pilar. She was what true nightmares were made of. Not that fake shit we watched in a darkened movie theater for two hours as we snacked on buttery, salted popcorn and watered-down soda. No, Pilar was the real deal. I still woke up in cold sweats, frantically looking around my bedroom for looming shadows, things that go bump in the night, and straining to hear any unknown, unfamiliar sounds. Soon my erratic heartbeat would calm down, and eventually I would fall back to sleep after double-checking the locks on my doors and windows. Even though I had the best security that money could buy, I still checked ... just to make sure.
I was forever mindful that Pilar was still out there, still insane, lurking in the shadows, and that terrified me like nothing else.
Chapter 2
Pilar
What a beautiful day
, I thought as the first rays of sunlight drifted through the partially open mini blinds of my bedroom. I arose bright and early in a wonderful, cheerful mood and ate a hearty breakfast, which was something I rarely did. However, I was starving. I feasted on pancakes dripping in heavy syrup, eggs, and crispy bacon. Later I enjoyed a long, very hot shower. I dressed casually, then headed to my office at one of the top newspapers in L.A. This was something I rarely did, as well, worked from the office. I'd been hired a year ago, when I relocated from Houston to Los Angeles by way of a beautiful tropical island that shielded me from the unwanted media scrutiny.
Michael, my boss, the editor in chief, pretty much assigned me human-interest stories, and I went out, researched, completed the interviews, and e-mailed them into the office. They were mostly fluff stories. It worked for me and allowed me the luxury to work from home. I rented a two-bedroom apartment in downtown Los Angeles, not too far from my place of employment. Initially, I was hired to work in the office as one of the editors, but I soon realized it wasn't for me. I wasn't good at dealing with too many people on a day-to-day basis. I never had been. After Michael and I became intimate, he reassigned me. He was always trying to please me. He knew if I was happy, then he was very happy.
About an hour later, as I casually strolled into the office, I instantly knew something was wrong. The atmosphere was dismal. Many of the reporters and writers were clustered in groups, whispering quietly to one another. The always loud and vibrant office was gloomy and disjointed, with sad faces all around.
“Good morning,” I said to everyone I passed before reaching the temporary cubicle in the corner, the one I used when I came into the office at least once a week.
“Morning,” I heard a few reply halfheartedly. I turned to look in their direction with a scowled brow.
“Wow, it feels like a funeral up in here. What's going on?” I questioned, placing my leather purse down and walking over to the nearest group.
“Oh, my God, you haven't heard, have you?” Debra asked, looking at me in shock, utter disbelief, and amazement as she covered her dainty mouth with her right hand.
“Heard what?” I asked nonchalantly.
The circle of four became suddenly quiet.
“You haven't been watching the news?” the chunky, red-faced sports reporter asked.
“No. Over the weekends, I rarely even turn on my TV.”
They curiously looked from one to the other, then back at me. The sports reporter, I think his name was Frank, dropped his head down and stared at the floor. He seriously looked like he was about to break into tears any minute.
Finally, the receptionist spoke up. “Pilar, I'm sorry to deliver the news.”
“What news?” I asked, as if I had no clue as to what was going on.
She sighed and simply spit it out. “Michael is dead.”
“What?” I cried out, trying not to be overly dramatic, but to have just the right amount of concern etched in my voice.
“He was found early Sunday morning,” she volunteered.
“What? H—how? What h—happened?” I stuttered. In my mind I was thinking how I was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. Look out, Halle Berry. Maybe I should consider acting in the land of wannabe actors and actresses.
“It was an apparent suicide. His mother found him in his car, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. He had stuffed a cloth in the tailpipe so toxic fumes could enter his car and, of course, his lungs.”
“He even left a note.”
I didn't respond, simply willed crocodile tears to form. As I stumbled, the assistant editor caught my arm. I leaned on him for support and comfort.
“Are you okay?” he asked, pulling out the nearest chair so I could sit and catch my breath. My heartbeat was pounding away at a mile a minute.
“Yeah, I guess. This is such a shock.”
“Tell us about it. We were all just saying that, how it is unbelievable,” he added.
“I spoke with Michael on Friday regarding some edits for an article I was putting the finishing touches on. Wow, you never really know people,” I said and shook my head slowly from side to side. “Unbelievable. And his mother found him?”
The female entertainment reporter didn't comment, simply looked at me oddly.
Simple bitch
, I thought. I knew Michael was fucking her, had been for a few weeks. I hoped she enjoyed my sloppy seconds, because I was definitely number one.
“This is so unlike Michael. He wasn't depressed. He wasn't withdrawn. He didn't have any of the classic symptoms of depression. I became close to him over the years, and he simply wasn't the type,” the sports reporter revealed.
“The type?” I asked.
“The type to commit suicide. It just doesn't add up. In fact, he was scheduled to drop by my house on Sunday to watch the game and drink a few beers. Who makes plans when they have no intentions to be around in the next forty-eight hours?”
I nodded in agreement.
“You never know what's really going on in people's lives,” the sports reporter said.
“You never know,” I gushed.
“So true,” the entertainment reporter stated, looking me up and down, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, with her nose scrunched up, making it obvious she didn't like what she saw. She hadn't liked me from day one, and the feeling was mutual.
I glared back at her, met her eyes, and made her look down first. She couldn't step to me, and she knew it. If she didn't know, then she had better learn. I thought,
She won't be getting that dick anymore. Me, either, for that matter
. Michael was good, but I had had much better. A certain bestselling author came to mind, and I couldn't help but smile, but I bit the inside of my lip to turn the smile into a smirk.
All that occurred in the early morning, before lunchtime. Before the day was over, I resigned from my position and boarded a plane for Houston. Everyone would think I was distraught over Michael's apparent suicide. If only they knew. Los Angeles was okay, but I longed for Houston, or at least for a particular resident of that city. I couldn't wait, couldn't wait until he got ahold of me. The time was right for a reunion of sorts.

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