HART: If you want me to tell you what happened last summer, I can’t. Anything but that. I can’t talk about that.
INVESTIGATOR: That’s all right, Tessa. We have a full account from the direct messages you sent over Twitter last night. I’ve just been reading through them. If you like, I can go ahead and read your messages into the record. All you have to do is listen and confirm whether you want to make them a part of your official statement. Can you manage that?
HART: I think so.
INVESTIGATOR: Let the record show that I’m looking at a series of multiple direct messages sent from the Twitter account @TessaHeartsEric to the Twitter account @EricThornSucks. The first time stamp is December 30 at 11:56 p.m., and the messages continue without interruption until 12:17 a.m. The messages begin, and I quote:
“I’m not completely sure when it started. I think it might have been the first weekend of the program.” End of message.
“It was a summer fine arts program sponsored by the university. Really hard to get into. People came from all around the region for different things. Creative writing, music, painting, filmmaking, photography…” End of message.
“We were all staying in the empty dorms. I didn’t do a lot of sleeping…or creative writing either. It was pretty much partying every night.” End of message.
“We went out a lot that first weekend, club-hopping different places. I think that’s where he first saw me. At one of those clubs.” End of message.
INVESTIGATOR: Tessa, I’m going to break here for a moment. The events you’re describing took place in New Orleans?
HART: Yes.
INVESTIGATOR: Can you remember the name of the club where you first encountered this individual?
HART: I don’t know. There was a bunch of places. I can visualize what it looked like inside, but I don’t know the name.
INVESTIGATOR: To the best of your recollection, was it more of a dance club? Or would you describe it as more like a venue for a music concert?
HART: More like a concert. A bar with a live band.
INVESTIGATOR: OK, thank you. I’m going to continue now with the next message in the thread. The time stamp is 11:59 p.m. And I quote:
“It was super crowded, and I kept feeling this guy creeping up on me.” End of message.
“I shrugged it off at the time, but I started having this weird sensation afterward. Like this nagging feeling that someone was following me.” End of message.
“It went on for the next four weeks. I would walk down the street and feel sure there was someone behind me. But when I turned to look…nothing.” End of message.
“I told myself I was just being paranoid, but it kept getting worse and worse. It started happening in my dorm room too.” End of message.
“I would get this weird feeling like someone was watching me through the window. But when I went to look outside, I didn’t see anyone.” End of message.
“So then I really started to lose it. I started keeping my blinds shut all the time, but it didn’t really help.” End of message.
“I would go to bed and wake up with this feeling that someone had been watching me while I slept.” End of message.
“I started having trouble sleeping. So that’s when I started drinking a lot more. Just to take the edge off.” End of message.
“I guess that was a mistake. The drinking. I still don’t know for sure if it was just the alcohol that night or if he slipped something in my drink.” End of message.
HART: Stop. That’s enough.
INVESTIGATOR: OK, Tessa. We’re almost done. Just a few more messages to go now.
HART: Do you really have to read the rest out loud? We both know what it says.
25
RECALCULATING
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
Eric gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He’d pushed his Ferrari’s engine as fast as it would go, but he eased off the gas slightly as he leaned into the speakerphone.
“Send the police! There’s a girl—a break-in! Someone’s trying to break into a house.”
Not exactly but close enough. He didn’t have time to explain the truth. They’d sort it out once they got there. Right now, he needed to say whatever it took to get the police to Tessa’s door. The text from Maury had just come through moments earlier.
“Three Sycamore Lane,” Eric said into the phone. “Hurry!”
“Sir, did you get a look at the suspect? Could you describe him for me?”
“It’s a girl. A teenage girl!”
“A female? Acting alone?”
“Yeah, but…but she’s armed. Definitely dangerous. I think she might have a gun. Seriously, hurry up!”
“Police are on their way, sir. Anything else you can give me by way of a description?”
“Maybe five foot nine. Green eyes. Dark hair. Skinny legs. Wearing a dark hoodie sweatshirt.”
He clicked to end the call and drove down the deserted road in silence, trying not to think. Failing. At least Tessa had her therapist along for the ride, he reassured himself. She wouldn’t be alone.
Would she? Would Tessa even go along with it, when she saw that it was a girl? Maybe not. Maybe it was all a big false alarm. He was freaking out over nothing. Tessa was way too paranoid to bring some stranger back to her house.
But then why wasn’t she checking DMs or answering her phone? Maury had texted him Tessa’s phone number, but the call went straight to voice mail. Something had to be wrong. Seriously wrong.
Dangerously wrong.
Eric glanced at the clock on his dashboard. Nine minutes had passed since he left the club. He needed to concentrate on driving. He couldn’t afford to dwell on all the horrifying possibilities. Not if he had any hope of getting to Tessa in time. With an effort, he forced himself to focus on the directions coming from his GPS.
In one half mile, take ramp on right…
Proceed on the current route…
Left turn ahead…
Recalculating…
“Shit,” he swore, brakes squealing. He’d missed a turn in the darkness. Hadn’t they ever heard of streetlights around here? He swiveled his head, straining to make out anything that could pass for a sign. Long stretches of black nothingness flanked the poorly lit back road, with a few scattered houses set far back from the curb.
? ? ?
Tessa shrank down in her chair as the unbearable memories crashed over her in surging waves. She’d be neck-deep in the flashback soon. She couldn’t let that happen. Blair was coming back, and she still hadn’t figured out a plan. She needed to stay focused—concentrate on getting out of here and let the terror overtake her afterward. She closed her eyes, and her thoughts drifted back to their usual safe harbor.
Eric. Eric Thorn.
“No,” she moaned inside her head. She couldn’t afford to start projecting now, even if it helped to ease the panic. She didn’t have time for this! But she couldn’t shake the old, familiar image that she saw behind her closed eyelids: Eric’s face, looking over his shoulder, frozen with fear.