No one believes me because my story makes no sense. Hell, even the cops didn’t believe me and that’s before they heard some famous rich guy was involved. That’s what people will think if I accuse him publicly. I feel frantic and powerless, and like I really might be crazy. I can’t get a grip on myself, I don’t know what to do. These questions shout at me from every corner of my mind. Turning him into some supernatural force before which we can only be prey.ĭid the same person snatch me off the street? Was it Cole Blackwell? There is for sure, I’ve seen it in on the news-girls beaten and hacked to bits by the Beast of the Bay, which is a fucking upsetting nickname by the way – like the media itself wants to give him power over us. What about the grant? What about the fact that all my stuff is here now?ĭoes any of that matter? There might be a murderer walking around. I’m pacing back and forth, still strangling my shirt, sometimes lifting it up over the bottom half of my face and breathing into it. That would mean there were two soulless psychopaths in the woods that night. His eyebrows dropped, his pupils contracted, he didn’t hesitate for a second, he bit right back at me, attacking like a snake. I don’t know what to believe.īut the way he reacted when I confronted him. What is happening? The coincidence, the situation, it’s making me feel like my head is splitting apart. I want to burst into tears but I know he’s still somewhere close by, he could hear me. And Cole was there.īits of memory cut at me from all sides, jagged as a shattered mirror. I didn’t see his picture and forget about it. How could I have imagined his face before I ever saw it? He was standing there, staring down at me. I’m breathing hard, clutching the front of my shirt, sweating more than ever. I stumble back to my own studio, closing the door behind me and locking it, leaning back against the cool wood with my heartbeat scattering frantically across my ribs.
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