I snap my head and look out the kitchen window, convinced Mr. Interested has a pair of binoculars trained on me. I see nothing, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling all blinds closed. The kitchen falls into a soft darkness, and I flip on the lights, then sit back down at my laptop.
Who are you? I type.
Seconds later:
I’m an observer.
An observer of what?
Of your struggles.
An instant queasiness overtakes me. Ice filling my guts.
I just want to be left alone.
I don’t think that’s really true. None of us really wants to be alone, Alice. We all need each other. We all need help.
I don’t need help.
Yes, Alice, I think you do. How are you going to pay Freddy Starks his money?
I don’t know who that is.
Yes, you do. Your visitor from Boston.
Are you him?
No, but I know he was looking for you. Could be, perhaps, I led him to Jimmy. And then to you.
I stand and push the chair back. Race to the front door and make sure it’s locked. It is. Check the alarm, which is still set to Stay. Any door or window that opens will trigger it.
Back to the computer.
Are you watching me right now?
No.
How did you know it was me on the message board?
This time, his reply takes nearly a minute to come.
I know the range of IP addresses used by your computer. An address within that range was associated with your registration. An educated guess, call it.
Breathe in, count to four. But I can’t do it. My heart is racing too fast. I get to three before I have to gasp for air.
What do you really want?
I want to take care of you.
But you sent that man to find me. Why?
It doesn’t matter now, Alice. He’s here. So what are you going to do about it?
I pause a moment. Then:
I’m not going to pay him.
In an instant, he replies.
Then you have to kill him.
I’m very close to shutting off the computer, but I don’t. His last words seem to pulse on the screen, and though I don’t respond to him, I keep looking at the chat, wondering if he will write more.
Moments later, he does.
He’s coming for you, Alice, and he won’t go away until he gets what he wants. You should see what he did to Jimmy.
Oh God.
Is Jimmy dead?
No, but he probably wishes he were.
How do you know all this?
I follow things that interest me.
Then he posts a link to a page within the Boston Globe website. I click on it, and it takes me to a brief article, dated one week ago, about a man found beaten outside a bar in the North End. There’s very little detail, but the man was identified as James Haskill, 29, of Boston.
How do you even know about Jimmy and me?
Because I’ve been watching you for a long time, Alice. I know you better than anyone. Which is why you won’t go to the police. You know if you do, I’ll make sure they know about what you and Jimmy did three years ago. The murder you committed.
I had nothing to do with that.
I suspect Jimmy would be happy to blame it all on you.
I pound the keys.
I don’t know what you want from me. I just want to be left alone.
Mr. Interested ignores this.
Check the planter box just outside your front door. Dig a few inches down, and you’ll find a plastic bag with a gun in it. The gun cannot be traced. When Freddy comes for you, shoot him. Tell the police it was self-defense and that you took his gun off him.
What the hell?
There are so many things to ask, but I before I can type another word, someone knocks on my front door.