I sit on the floor with my back against the door until my tailbone goes numb, then I move to the couch with every light in the apartment blazing. I check the deadbolt. I check the windows. I check the closets, the bathroom, behind the shower curtain. I even check under the bed like a kid afraid of monsters, except my monster was real and he licked my neck and told me he was sent to kill me.
When the moon is almost done with its trek across the night sky, I give up on sleep entirely and take a scalding shower. I scrub my neck where the Masked Man’s tongue was until my skin is raw and pink, but even then, I still feel him there.
Okay. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go to the police. I don’t need to be a crime reporter to see that as the clear next step. This case is open-and-shu
