The conversation with Mr. Wolburn leaves me on edge. Since this all started, nothing's comfortable anymore.

I won't go outside. It's too scary knowing someone could follow me. The roses, the drawing, and the creepy phone calls don't help because they remind me that even home isn't safe. I can't sit on the balcony anymore and the kitchen is too exposed with its clear view out and curtainless windows in.

Is this person out there—always watching? Even school feels worse than before. The drawing was placed on my car windshield while it sat in the parking lot behind Everest.

Where will I find the next one?

I don't end up having to wait long for that question to be answered.

Maybe it was there in the morning when I got to school and I missed it in my rush not to be late for English since Ms. Perkins sends you to the office even if you miss the bell by thirty seconds.

But I spot it when I go back to my locker to get my math textbook. I pull out my binder from the upper shelf and the folded gray page floats slowly down like a badly constructed paper airplane, down to eye level, the scent of roses strong as it passes my nose to make its final descent to the floor. 

I bend down to pick it up, already knowing it will be another drawing. The halls are emptying as the last of the stragglers come into their classrooms. My hand trembles slightly as I unfold it, smudging gray charcoal onto my fingertips from the border of black swirls, which are identical to the other drawing.

My blood goes cold at what the image lays out before me. It's me and Cassie again, only it's so much worse. I sit under the bleachers like I did the first few days of school before I found the note on my windshield. The level of detail is crazy. The artist drew my knapsack beside me, on the leafy ground, open, with my book on top. But instead of me in my hoodie and jeans, he's drawn me in the tight Hello Kitty t-shirt and shorts again. Thick ropes bind my wrists and feet, tied so tight they bruise my skin, while a taut red rag tied around my mouth cuts into the edges of my lips. On the periphery, Cassie stands by, dressed in her nurse's scrubs, staring somewhere off the page, as if what's happening to me holds no interest to her.

The whole thing is horrible, but what sticks with me most is that whoever is doing this knew where I went at lunch and while I thought I was alone, he was out there with me.

From down the hall, the sound of voices distracts me, and my gaze darts that way. I refold the paper and hold it behind me, but when, a moment later, no one appears, I unfold it and smooth it out again. 

I stare at the drawing of myself.

Who's doing this, and why? A wave of fear passes over me, so strong, I drop onto my knees and hold my head in my hands. My heart pounds like it's about to burst. A small whimper escapes my throat.

The last time I felt this, I was in Eyre. Mom left, and I was alone in the house when Paul came into my room—my bedroom — with no lock on the door. I sat curled up, my knees tight against my chest, in my closet, under a blanket, with my eyes clamped shut, hoping he would believe I wasn't home too. 

But he knew.

I breathe in deep, as I wait for the memories to subside, and the tightness in my stomach to loosen. Only when it does, I don't go to class. I don't go to the office to sign out. I go home and lock myself in my room.

The attack—what else can I call the thing that steals over me—sends me into bed, curled up in a ball, terrified of an immediate danger that doesn't exist.

It takes several hours before I'm able to function again. It's like my brain conjures up a monster and my body goes into full paralysis mode, only there's no bogeyman standing over my bed. Not a flesh and blood one anyway, that I can battle.

I don't take any chances. As soon as I'm myself again, I text Dad, telling him I have my period and my cramps are so bad I have to leave school early. 

I half hold my breath, afraid that his response will be to send a car to get me. I spend the whole time waiting by the window for a black car to pull up. But when his response comes, it's an emailed prescription for a strong painkiller.

My phone pings with a text from him: "Take one pill every six hours, or as needed, and get back to school tomorrow." I picture him entering this in his calendar app, documenting when my cycle begins, so I can't fool him if I try this excuse another time.

Later I show Cassie the drawing and she's so disgusted, so furious, I have to stop her from tearing it into pieces. 

"Was the other one like this?"

I shake my head. "No, just us sitting on the balcony."

Cassie grimaces. "It's so sick. What kind of imagination comes up with something like this."

She thinks it's out of the artist's deranged imagination. She doesn't know I hid outside and in that drawing, fiction has merged with reality. 

It's like a light bulb turns on in my head. I now understand what was nagging at me earlier. If someone was watching us from the woods and wanted us to know, why not just take a photo? Why go through the trouble of drawing us in all that detail? 

I know the answer to the question now. 

You can't create the scene he's drawn with a camera. It takes a sick mind and an artist's skills to put it together in the way he has.

"Should we go to the police?" It's something I thought of over and over as I laid upstairs in bed waiting for Cassie to come home. 

Her eyes cloud over as she shakes her head. The trouble we went through when Dad went about charging and getting Paul convicted has left her with a dread of the legal system. 

I get it. I was the victim, but she was almost an adult and got grilled on the witness stand, asked repeatedly why she didn't see anything if it was all happening the way I said it was.

"What can they do?" she finally says. "They're useless."

In the end, she wears me down and I agree to wait to see if we get another one.

She takes the drawing from me, holding it by the edge as if it's a dead rat she's caught by the tail, and slips it into a manila envelope to be stored in the bottom drawer of the desk in her room. 

I'm glad to have it taken away. The smell of roses was making me nauseous. Since that box of roses arrived weeks ago, I don't think I'll ever be able to enjoy the scent again. 

[Author's Note:

Thanks for continuing to read. Next installment will be out on  Thursday. Let me know what you think of it.]