Obsessed

Chapter 22

The sun had barely dipped beneath the horizon when Ronnie pulled up to Gale and Marvin’s house, the sky painted in hues of burnt orange and fading gold. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension. Theo sat in the passenger seat, swinging his legs and humming softly to a tune only he could hear, blissfully unaware of the tremor in his sister’s voice earlier, or the tightness in her jaw as they drove.

Gale opened the front door before she even knocked, his apron dusted with flour and his hands slightly powdered. He gave Theo a beaming smile and held out his arms.

“There’s my favorite little man. Come on in, I made brownies!” he cheered.

Theo’s eyes lit up. “With the sprinkles?”

“The very ones.”

Ronnie kissed the top of Theo’s head. “You be good, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“You’ll be okay?” Theo asked, his eyes narrowing as he held her gaze longer than she expected.

She managed a soft smile and brushed a hand over his hair. “I’m just going to check something. I’ll be okay.”

Theo nodded slowly, then followed Gale inside.

Marvin appeared at the door just as Ronnie turned to leave. “You sure you don’t want one of us to come with you?”

“I just want to know what it is,” she said quietly. “I’ll call you later.”

Marvin didn’t argue. He gave her a firm nod and closed the door gently behind her.

By the time Ronnie pulled up to her house, the street was lit by the pulsing red and blue lights of squad cars and the dull yellow wash of overhead lamps. Two bomb squad vans were parked out front, and Mark’s black truck sat at the curb like a sentinel.

Mark stood against it, arms folded, dark eyes scanning the scene until they landed on her. The second he saw her, his expression softened, and he pushed off the truck, walking toward her.

“I thought you were staying with your uncles,” he said.

“I needed to know what it was,” Ronnie answered, arms wrapped around herself, voice small. “I couldn’t wait at their house not knowing.”

Mark stared at her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. “It’s clean. No wires, no explosives. Just a box.” His tone was neutral, but Ronnie could hear the tension beneath it.

“Then I want to see,” she said.

Jackson met them at the porch, nodding grimly. “We were just about to bring it in.”

The three of them walked into the house together, their steps careful, deliberate. The bomb squad had left it just inside the front door, a perfectly taped, unmarked box that seemed almost too ordinary to be terrifying. But Ronnie knew better. She felt the wrongness radiating off it like heat from a flame.

Mark pulled out his pocket knife and slowly slit through the tape, careful and methodical. The flaps unfolded.

No one spoke.

Inside, neatly stacked, were photographs.

Ronnie’s breath hitched.

Mark reached in and pulled out the first batch, his jaw tightening. “Shit.”

There she was—sitting at her desk in the office. Another shot, walking through the parking garage. One with Theo, holding his hand as they crossed the street near the school. At the park. In the grocery store.

Ronnie’s skin prickled with ice.

Then Mark pulled out more—ones clearly taken from a closer angle, through windows. Through curtains.

One of her folding laundry in the living room. One of her brushing her hair in the bathroom mirror.

Then…

Ronnie’s knees nearly buckled.

Photos of her sleeping.

Changing.

Showering.

These ones... Inside the house.

“Oh my God…” she whispered, backing away.

Her vision blurred.

“He was in my house,” she said breathlessly, panic rising with each word. “He was in my house.”

Mark’s eyes scanned the photos, his expression hardening into something lethal. “You have the house set up the same way every day. Same time for everything. Routine. He could’ve learned the pattern. Got in, got out.”

Ronnie stumbled back, her hands trembling violently. “He was in my house, Mark. He was in my room—”

The room tilted.

Her stomach turned.

She sprinted for the kitchen sink and barely made it in time before she threw up.

Mark was behind her in an instant, holding her steady with one arm around her waist and the other keeping her hair out of her face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with her as the fear poured out of her in ragged gasps and bile.

When she finally stopped, her hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles went white.

Her breath came in short, jagged bursts.

“I can’t… I can’t breathe—” she stammered.

“Ronnie,” Mark said softly, his voice low, grounding. She couldn’t hear the words. Couldn’t make them out. Everything was spinning too fast. "Veronica."

Her chest tightened.

Air wouldn’t come in.

The edges of her vision started to darken.

Mark didn’t try to talk anymore.

He just pulled her into his chest and wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly, securely, like an anchor thrown into a storm.

She was stiff at first, trembling like a leaf, but then she caught it—the scent.

That same musky, woody cologne he always wore. The faint note of sweet tobacco, the kind that didn’t sting but soothed. It was his scent.

It surrounded her.

Grounded her.

Ronnie’s hands, shaking, slowly reached up and fisted into the front of his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline. Her body was still trembling, but her breathing began to slow.

One breath. Two.

Mark’s hand gently stroked her hair, his other arm never loosening.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Ronnie let her eyes close, resting her forehead against his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing guide her own. His voice vibrated softly through her, deep and calm.

“I’m going to make sure you’re safe. We’ll have someone watching the house around the clock. And I’ll stay here at night. Inside. No argument.”

She didn’t argue.

She just nodded against his chest, clutching his shirt tighter.

For the first time in hours, she could breathe again.

----------------------

Mark moved through the house with quiet precision, his flashlight cutting through the dimness like a blade. The silence was heavy, the kind that followed panic—uneasy and too still.

He started with the downstairs—windows, doors, sliding panels, everything that could be considered an entry point. All locked. Nothing tampered with.

Still, those photos were taken inside. Someone had been in here before.

Mark’s jaw clenched as he made his way up the stairs, taking them slowly, listening. The wood creaked beneath his boots, the sound oddly comforting in the otherwise hushed house.

He started with Theo’s room. It was untouched, the bed still made, toys neatly placed in bins. The small astronaut lamp on the dresser gave the room a soft, bluish glow.

“Clear,” he muttered to himself, moving on.

Next was Ronnie’s office. Organized. Neat. Her corkboard full of pinned notes, maps, photographs, and sketches. Bookshelves lined with psychology manuals and true crime novels. Her favorite mug still on the desk.

“Clear.”

He checked the upstairs bathroom—also clean. The shower curtain was pulled back, no signs of movement. The medicine cabinet was still ajar from earlier, but nothing had been disturbed.

Finally, he stepped toward the last door—Ronnie’s bedroom.

He pushed it open slowly, the door giving only the faintest creak.

Soft LED lights lined the underside of her bed frame, glowing faintly in hues of lavender and warm rose. It cast a dreamy ambiance over the room, cozy but not too bright.

Ronnie lay curled on her side, one arm draped protectively over Theo, who was nestled against her chest. His small hand clutched her sleeve even in sleep. Both of them were wrapped in a fuzzy gray blanket, their breathing slow and even, the stress of the night finally fading into exhaustion.

Mark stood in the doorway, letting his eyes sweep the room. Corners. Closet. Window locks.

Clear.

He started to back out, gently pulling the door to when a quiet voice broke the silence.

“Mark?” Theo’s small voice called out softly.

Mark froze, hand still on the doorknob.

The boy sat up slightly, rubbing his eyes. “Can you… lay down with us?”

Mark hesitated, glancing at Ronnie who hadn't stirred, still fast asleep. Theo blinked at him, sleep still clinging to his lashes but his voice honest, raw in its simplicity.

“Please?”

Mark let out a slow breath, nodding before he even realized it. “Yeah, kid,” he murmured, stepping back into the room.

He toed off his boots and eased himself onto the other side of the bed, careful not to disturb them. The mattress dipped gently beneath his weight, like a cloud—soft and warm, and her scent hit him almost instantly. Vanilla and amber. Something sweet, something grounding. Something Ronnie.

Theo scooted back toward him and tucked himself right in between them, his small hand finding Mark’s wrist and resting there, like a quiet thank you.

Mark let his head fall back against the pillow. The room was warm. Peaceful. The tension in his shoulders finally began to ease.

The sound of their breathing—the steady rise and fall of Ronnie’s chest, the gentle snuffles from Theo—became a rhythm he hadn’t realized he needed. It lulled him, slowed the racing thoughts in his mind.

He turned his head slightly, eyes drifting to Ronnie’s face in the soft light. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

And safe—for now.

He would keep it that way.

No matter what it took.