My Husband, My Stalker - Jessa Kane Page 0,24

around me, but I start to hear his voice. It comes to me in snippets of past conversations. I think of the first time we met, the first night we spent in bed together and something pops into my memory. Something I haven’t thought of since he said it.

This is where it begins, angel eyes. Listen to me. It begins here. If you ever feel lost, come right back here to the beginning and find me. I’ll always be right here.

I can feel his body moving inside me as he makes that vow.

What did he mean, though? Or was he just saying words in the heat of the moment.

No.

No, that isn’t like Evan.

He’s purposeful and organized and thoughtful.

He built an entire persona so he could make me his.

He planned. A lot. And executed.

I’m standing before I realize it, running out of the storage facility toward my car. I peel out of the parking spot and break the speed limit to get home. I fumble with my phone to get the house lights on and push through the front door, sprinting to the bedroom. I waste no time flipping over the mattress and…

I stumble backwards.

A map has been drawn on the bottom of my mattress in black marker.

On one end, a house has been drawn. On the other end, connected by a long, squiggly line is water, boats, all set to a backdrop of cliffs.

There’s a lighthouse, too. It’s the only part of the drawing with color—red.

Is Evan telling me this is where I’ll find him?

It has to be.

And it’s not lost on me that he’s chosen a beacon of light to await me, to bring me back to him, because he’s always thinking of me and my needs. In this case, my affinity for light at all times. If I needed any further proof that there is so much good in this complicated man, I’ve just gotten it, and I can’t stay away any longer. I want my husband back.

After a quick internet search, I find the lighthouse. And I go. I just go to him.

The beacon is on when I arrive at the red lighthouse.

There doesn’t seem to be any technical need for it, because the moon is full in the gray night sky, not a cloud to block its beams. The ocean spreads out at its feet, empty of boats.

Somehow I know he left it on for me.

Somehow I know it has been on every night for two weeks.

Just like the drawing on the bottom of my mattress, there is a house attached to the lighthouse. It’s modest, rustic and beautiful, surrounded by a rambling garden. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs helps soothe the ripped edges inside of me, but not enough. I’ll never be soothed a moment of my life without him.

It’s a truth I accepted on my hour-long drive to the coast.

This love between me and Evan might have dark shades, might have nuances that people wouldn’t understand. It might even be wrong. But it’s right for us.

This man held me up, reminded me I’m strong, showed me love.

I’m not leaving him deserted.

My gaze is drawn to the very top of the lighthouse and I make out the outline of a man’s body. Not just any man’s body, though. It’s my husband. Tall, powerful…forlorn. I can read the anguish in his stooped shoulders as he looks out at the ocean.

A sob rises up in my throat and I move quickly toward the lighthouse, tears blurring my vision. I have to circle the base to find the entrance. When I do, I pull open the door, letting the ocean wind carry it and climb the spiral staircase, my heart starting slamming against my eardrums.

When I’m a few steps from the top, his voice, a mere scratch of sound, reaches me.

“Who’s there?”

I reach the top. There is a circular railing separating us, an opening in the center where the huge, rotating light is positioned. Evan hasn’t even turned around to see who is coming. His big hands are pressed to the glass, his head bowed forward.

“It’s me,” I manage.

It doesn’t occur to me until that moment, when he doesn’t turn around, that maybe I’ve lost him. I called him a psychopath. He poured his heart out to me and I walked away. Maybe I’ve broken him. Or maybe he’s hardened his heart—

Slowly, he pivots, his expression one of disbelief. “Jolie?”

A miserable sound leaves me at seeing him so haggard. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in