Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Thirty-One: Dogs Aren't Our Only Interruptions

Chapter Thirty-One: "Dogs Aren't Our Only Interruptions."

WE TOOK the job.

Bryce and I both made the decision last week.

We didn't care if it was for us only being used, it was still a way for us to make easy cash, and have some experience for after college.

I felt really iffy about it, given my personal experiences, but I was given a second chance, and I'm going to take it and use it to the best of my ability until Charlie comes back and takes it all away from me.

Again.

Bryce is a genius. He shouldn't feel bad that they're using his computer skills to help with cases. He can solve a lot of crimes with his hacking, he's a natural. The best I can do is make people feel pain and pour their hearts out with my truth serum, and that probably won't be used as much as I would hope for. It makes more sense for him to get an opportunity to work for them, not a. . .  delinquent.

No matter how many times everyone–including myself–tries to convince me that I'm not a bad kid like I used to be, it doesn't last long.

Something wanders in my brain, and reminds me of every bad thing I've done, and it all comes flooding out, making me nearly go insane. I can be showering and have memories of the hotel, which brings me to the game, then to the stalker, then to the warehouse. Everything sets me off, though I'm not scarred, or scared, for that matter.

You'd expect me to have PTSD, right?

"What are you thinking about?"

I pry my eyes away from the theatre room TV screen, and sit up, pulling myself out of Tyler's arms. I purse my lips, and take his hands in mine, avoiding eye contact. I really don't understand why I feel so used and questioning everything I have done. It's never affected me like this before, and suddenly it starts?

"I. . ." I try to say with a shaky voice. Way to keep your cool. I feel Tyler's glaze on my forehead, trying to reach my eyes but my heads too low. I feel him squeeze my hands for comfort. "Why am I not scared?"

It's the question that's been bugging me forever. Why haven't I been fearing for my life? Why haven't I been scared to go into the shower alone or let alone my room? It makes me nervous, but it's not that feeling you get when something falls in your house when you're home alone. You jump, but it's nothing, yet you still get that bone chilling feeling. You're nervous and on-edge for the rest of the night until someone comes home. That's the problem, though. I don't feel that.

I feel fine.

And that scares me.

"Do you have a reason to be?" He asks softly.

I open my mouth, only to close it again. I don't have a real, legitimate answer, but I'd still expect it to be at least having a little effect on me. Why doesn't it? I should have reasons to be scared, I should have reasons to want to be with someone all the time, and I should definitely feel scared when I think about all that's happened. I should be terrified, waiting for Charlie to walk through that damned door and assassinate me right then and there.

But. . . I am, not.

Is this normal?

"Um," I hum. "Not momentarily, no."

"Then what's the problem, sunshine?"

"That is the problem," I tell him, finally looking up. "I should have a reason to be scared, right? Like, when they broke into your house and tried to get me, and when I was home and the incident with being tied down on a bed, or when I was at the hotel. Shouldn't I be not wanting to be alone all the time? Shouldn't I have post-traumatic stress and have nightmares? Shouldn't I be feeling emotion? I'm freaking out about not freaking out. What is happening?"