Sunday, October 18
Today is the fourteenth anniversary of my attempted murder. I had almost forgotten, but my phone screen reminds me. October eighteenth. I remember it mostly as it was referred to in court, the solicitors repeatedly saying, “On the night of October 18…” I will hold no memorial on this day, carry no special reflections. I’ll just try to get through it as I do every other.
I rise from my bed and place my bare feet on the cold floorboards. Light streams around the closed curtains, and I walk over and crack them open an inch. I used to throw them open wide.
It seems at least a foot of snow came down. It certainly won’t bring Manchester to a standstill but will surely slow it to a New England crawl. Brenda is opening the Rose today, and I know she’ll be there because she’s within walking distance. I text her, telling her she can open the shop a little late. Sundays we open late anyway.
Okay, she replies. Will you be in today?
I think on that for a moment, then reply, Not sure yet.
Truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing today. Ideally, curling up in a ball and hiding, or disappearing down some magical tunnel leading me to some other world. My own Chancellor’s Kingdom, where even the scariest things can’t hurt me.
That would be wonderful.
You doing okay? she texts.
I don’t reply.
Back at the window. My car is blanketed by snow. Next to it is Richard’s, behind which fresh tracks indicate he came home from work not too long ago. He’s up there in the Perch, likely sleeping.
Or maybe there’s a little hole in the ceiling, one through which he’s threaded the tiniest of cameras, the kind with the fish-eye lens that can view an entire room. Maybe he’s up there now, laptop open, watching me. He sees me in my loose cotton shirt that barely covers my underwear. Maybe he’s been watching me in my sleep, waiting for me to stir.
I move to the bathroom, where I grab my robe and cinch it tightly around me. Back in the bedroom, I scan the ceiling but see nothing more than smooth white plaster.
Down to the kitchen. The coffeemaker has a fresh pot waiting for me, and I pour a cup and stir my laptop to life. The local news site tells me not to drive unless it’s an emergency. I wonder if a drug dealer named Freddy coming after me counts as an emergency. I’m an easy target at home. Maybe he’ll come knocking on my door this morning, seeing if I have his money, which of course I don’t.
No, he said I had two days. I have until tomorrow.
Why am I taking him at his word?
And what good is another day if I’m not going to give him what he wants? Then what happens? Then he pushes in my door and bursts inside the house. Nice place you got here, Alice. I’ll attack and hope for the best. But it won’t be that easy, will it? He’ll have a gun—
(or a knife)
—and he won’t hesitate. He’ll hurt me before I can hurt him. Because his is a world of violence, and despite all my self-defense, mine is a world of fear. I was able to strike first in the gym because he didn’t expect it. But when he comes back for me, he’ll be prepared.
The sinister book sits on the counter, and I reach for it. I inspect the inscription once again and this time lick my thumb and smudge the ink. It smears. The words are truly handwritten, not printed. I’m convinced my father wrote these words, but when? And, more importantly, why?
An idea hits me. More of an impulse, really. Maybe an act of desperation.
Back to the laptop.
www.mistertender.com
On the screen, the same inscription as in the book, a simple scan of the original. I type in the password and navigate back to the forum, back to the thread titled Alice. No new posts since yesterday.
I find what I’m looking for, a link to register. To become a member. Hell, I’ll become a member. The most famous one of all.
Members can post.
I choose a random username and password, and when I’m told I need to provide an email to complete my registration, I jump over to Yahoo and create a new email account under a false name.
Minutes later, I’m a user on Tendertalk, but all I do is stare at the message board. I have no idea what I’m going to post, but a few things come to mind.
FUCK YOU is one of them. LEAVE ME ALONE is another.
But I don’t actually want anyone knowing who I am. I want to do a bit of trolling myself. Maybe post a comment or question that might reveal a bit about who is watching me. Perhaps I’ll pose as a newbie who has recently became obsessed with Alice Hill. Maybe Mr. Interested will take me under his wing and guide me into his underworld, show me this deep, dark web of stalkers. This is like the goddamn Phantom of the Opera. Christine in the bowels of the Paris Opera House.
But before I type a single thing, a direct message appears in the inbox of this forum. It’s from the master of ceremonies himself, Mr. Interested.
I click to open it. The message only has two words.
Hello, Alice.