Find Me

24 • Tick-Tock

The next morning is relatively normal, except for the fact Mom hadn't spoken a word to me, barely even acknowledged I was there. Being the type of person I am, I took great offense to it. What had I done to get that reaction out of her?

As I enter my room, I don't notice anything unusual. I comb my thin hair to get rid of the tangles from the night before, and change out of my pajamas and into some more sensible clothes for the day.

Only, when I look into my full-length mirror, I pause. In the reflection, I notice that my window, which had been closed earlier, is wide open. A long stick supports it from slamming back down again. Immediately, I dive for my phone, which is lying on my bedside table.

I have to call Callaway. That's the only thought that races through my mind as I open up my phone. Only, when I am about to go to my calling app, I stop. There's an app open on my phone, and it isn't something I've been on in months; my gallery.

"Oh my god," I mutter as I scroll through image after image. They're all of me sleeping, and it dates back all the way to the night I first moved here. I let out a strangled scream and drop my phone on the floor. I don't know what's more horrifying, my stalker being in my room, or my stalker taking a photo of me sleeping every night.

"Melanie!" I hear Mom say. Her footsteps are loud, which tells me she's running.

Right before she enters the room, I sink to the floor, my eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh my god," I whisper, rocking back and forth gently.

"Mel, what's wrong?" I feel Mom's hand on my shoulder as she sits on her knees next to me. I shake my head, pointing to my phone. "He's...he's been in my room every night...every damn night!"

"Who has?"

"You know!" I cry, ignoring the fact that I'm about to get into another huge fight with her.

The hand drops from my shoulder. "For the last time, Melanie, I don't know who your stalker is."

With tears streaking down my face, I look up at her. I know that it's either now or never, I have to tell her that I know. "I read the damn letters Mom, every one of them. Tell me, who is T?"

She immediately goes pale, her hands beginning to shake. "I--don't know what you're talking about."

A ball of anger rises up inside of me. "You're lying, Mom! Tell me the damn truth!"

Mom stands up, her hands balled into fists, her knuckles white. "I am telling you the truth! Leave it alone, Melanie!"

I stand up as well, all tears gone. "No, I'm not going to just leave it alone. Who is my stalker?"

She throws her hands up in the air. "I told you that I don't know! And what are you talking about? I haven't received any letters since we got here!"

Then, I notice her hand twitch. She only ever does that when she's lying. Why can't she just tell me who he is? Why is it such a big secret?

"Mom, who is he?" I ask again.

She wraps her fingers in her hair and pulls. I know that I have frustrated her, which means I'm close to breaking her. Pursing my lips together, I wait for her to reply. When she doesn't, I ask her the same question once again, but I still get similar results.

"He's not your stalker!"

"Then who is he?" I press, stepping closer to her. "Who is T?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm not discussing this with you!"

"Why not?" I furrow my eyebrows.

"Because," Mom yells, "I can't tell you! Now stop, Melanie!"

"No!"

Mom makes an aggravated noise before stepping back towards the door. "This discussion is finished."

I take a step towards her again. "No, it isn't. Was he someone you used to cheat on with Dad or something? Is that why he left us?"

She doesn't answer.

Then, as Mom reaches for the doorknob, I grab her hand. "You either tell me the truth, or I'll show Callaway and Jenkins the letters."

Trying to seem confused, Mom says, "I told you I don't have any letters!"

As soon as she says this, I walk over to my desk and open the drawer, taking out the single letter I had kept, the most important one in her stash. The first one.

"This right here begs to differ," I say, holding it up for her to see. I notice her scanning the letter carefully and I add, "Tell me who he is, now."

She looks up at me again in disbelief. "Where did you find this?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Under your mattress with all of the others. You need to tell me who he is right now, Mom."

"No."

"Yes!" I argue.

"No, Melanie. I'm not going to tell you!"

"Just tell me! Why is it so freaking hard?" I yell, tired of her dodging the subject. She flinches at my sudden change of tone, but doesn't dare to correct me.

She stands a little taller, her eyes suddenly watering. "Your father didn't leave us."

"What?" I give her a confused look. "What do you mean? What does my father have to do with T?"

Mom shakes her head, trying to hold back tears. She then breaks down completely and sobs a sentence that turns my blood to ice. "He was murdered! Your father was murdered by T. And that date you asked about earlier? That was the day he was killed."

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