That frozen moment in time when his fingers touched that skin, a place where I had never had human touch—it snapped me back to the present, to my reality, and I could suddenly feel it coming. The desire to kill. I didn’t want it. I wanted to continue this crazy, hot chemistry that had me wet and panting. I wanted, with every drop of my blood, to be a normal, naked woman locked in a passionate moment with a gorgeous, strong man. But it was there, and it was getting stronger.

He had gone too far—touching her perfect br**sts, squeezing that soft skin. She had gasped, her body stiffening. He pulled back, looked into her eyes. There was passion there, hot heat and need, and then something flipped. A turbulent wave of indecision clouded her eyes, and she closed them tightly, face squeezed in an expression close to torment. Then her eyes snapped open and were filled with panic. She shoved him hard, her eyes flaring. “Go! Now! Get out!” She pushed, skidding with her hands and feet, scrambling out from underneath him, the urgent movements pushing him into action. He stood hastily.

He froze, unsure of what to do. Then came her strangled cry. “GO!” He bolted, throwing open the door and rushing into the empty, lonely hall, feeling a burst of air hit his back. He turned as the door slammed shut behind him. He heard the loud crack of wood on wood as it hit the frame, followed by a loud click and a long, tortured scream that ripped through his body, the sound shaking him to the core. After that there was total silence, a long excruciating pause that stretched on for minutes. He stood there, helpless, facing the door, listening for anything, waiting for something, alone in the empty hall, the damn box at his feet. The door, that closed door that he had stared at for three years, a barrier to her.

Finally he turned and walked to the elevator, pressing the down button with the heavy finger of the damned.

CHAPTER 27: Annie

Annie flew into the living room, running full force until she hit the waiting arms of Uncle Michael. He lifted her into the air, smiling up at her. She squealed with laughter, and he set her down gently, her kicking feet finding the ground early. Her Aunt Becky held out a perfect pink box, tied with a thick white ribbon. “Here,” she said shortly. “We can’t stay long.”

Annie held it tightly, looking at her mother’s pinched face for approval. “Go ahead, honey. You can open it in the dining room.” Annie beamed, grabbing Aunt Becky’s silky hand and tugging on it, skipping alongside her slow walk as they made their way the short distance into the next room.

The gift turned out to be a Paint-By-Numbers set, the price sticker still attached, displaying $4.99 in bright fluorescent orange. She ran her hands excitedly over the plastic-wrapped display, her eyes big and smile excited. She gave them both hugs, and returned immediately to the set, pulling off the plastic and touching the paint pads gently, feeling their texture. She didn’t notice when they said their goodbyes and left, pulling the trailer door tightly shut behind them.

CHAPTER 28: Dr. Derek Vanderbilt

“I met someone today.”

Dr. Vanderbilt—Derek—didn’t respond, obviously waiting for me to say something more. I don’t, and we sit there silently while I watch the digital display of my clock change, moving forward one minute, then two. Finally, he speaks.

“That’s great Deanna. How?”

“I knew him before—through the door, I mean. His name is Jeremy. He delivers my packages.”

“And you invited him in?” His voice is calm, soothing, irritatingly so.

“No. He came in, on his own.”

Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. Then he turned and our eyes met.

“Explain.” Derek’s voice is sharper, though you’d have to know his voice well to catch it.

“I was in bed. I guess I didn’t hear the knock. When I didn’t answer, he opened the door and came in.”

“Do you understand that he overstepped his boundaries by taking that course of action?” Derek’s voice is almost worked up, though he managed to keep its melodious tone.

“That’s a bullshit question you should know better than to ask. I’m not mental, for Christ’s sake. I know normal social protocols. Apparently he knocked a bunch of times, I didn’t answer, so he tried the door and came in.”

“You don’t lock your door?”

I sigh exasperatedly. “No, Daddy, I don’t lock my door. Well, you know … except for at night.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“You just stated that you are, in fact, of normal intelligence and are aware of society’s expectations and safety limitations. You don’t ‘not lock your door’ without a reason. What is the reason?”

“I guess I was hoping that someone might come in.” I stick my chin out defiantly, waiting for what I know is coming next.

“So you could have a friend?” There is a bit of hope in the sentence. The damn man was so anxious for me to have a friend.

“No Derek. So I could kill them. If someone comes into my house, I am allowed to protect myself.”

He makes this weird noise that sounds like a cross between a groan and a sigh. “Do you think that this guy—Jeremy—came in to hurt you?”

He stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, then locking on me.