The Man Behind the Mask

FREYA

“Freeze!” boomed a man’s voice from across the room. My eyes popped open in shock. “Drop your weapon!”

Standing across the massive warehouse interior with a gun in his hands, pointed directly at my stalker, was a police officer.

~I must be hallucinating.~

~No one knows I’m here.~

~No one knows to save me.~

Yet standing there, with a gun in his hands fixed on the stalker—looking particularly young, but ~real~—was a cop.

My abductor stalled, his eyes widening in shock as he glanced from the cop to me, then back to the cop.

“Drop your weapon and step away from her,” the officer demanded, taking a step toward us.

The man remained frozen in place, like he hadn’t heard the cop at all.

From the look on his face, I could tell he was contemplating his next move.

Before he had a chance to make up his mind, three police officers rounded the corner of the far doorway, their guns also drawn and aimed at my attacker.

The door on the far side of the room then burst open, and three more cops stepped through.

“Drop your weapon and step AWAY FROM HER!” the first cop screamed, and my stalker seemed to suddenly come to.

The knife clattered against the cement floor beside me.

“Hands where I can see them,” the cop instructed.

The stalker took several steps backward, raising his hands over his head.

As two of the officers rushed in to restrain him, the first cop flew to my side.

“Are you alright, ma’am? Did he hurt you?”

His eyes widened, then narrowed in anger when he caught sight of the bruises on my neck.

“I—I’m okay,” I replied, though the sound that escaped from my swollen, sandpaper throat didn’t resemble anything close to actual words.

“We need a medic in here,” the young cop muttered into his walkie.

All of the borrowed energy from my near escape was starting to catch up with me.

After the police officer helped me into the back of his cruiser, gently closing the door behind me, I slumped my head against the back of the seat.

Dazed, I stared out the window at the flashing red and blue lights.

My abductor was being loaded into the back of another car, his hands cuffed behind his back and his head drooping.

The limo driver was sitting in the back of another police car right next to it.

I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the events of the last couple months, or how my life had taken such a dismal turn.

I ~was~ certain of one thing, though.

As much as I wished Liam could have been there to hold me, to tell me that it was all over, I was thankful that he wasn’t.

I needed to learn to live without him.

***

After hours of tests and having invasive photos of my injuries taken at the hospital, it was time for me to go to the police station.

One of the cops who’d been on the scene escorted me personally.

“They’re just going to ask a few questions and then you’ll be able to go home and rest,” he said reassuringly.

I nodded. “Thank you,” I whispered. My voice was still a work in progress.

The officer led me into the precinct. The station was abuzz with activity.

Phones rang incessantly, their shrill cries mixing with the hum of the fluorescent bulbs, which bathed the room in a harsh, artificial light.

The officer dropped me off at a chair beside an empty desk and ensured me that someone would come to get me soon.

I watched as they took my stalker—whose name, it turned out, was George Dayton—past me in handcuffs and into an interrogation room.

After a little under an hour, one of his questioners exited the room, making her way toward me.

She was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, with graying hair that was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head.

“Freya Coleman?” she asked, stopping at the desk. “My name is Detective Morrison. I’ll be handling your case.”

I nodded, trying to save my vocal cords.

“Would you follow me, please?”

Detective Morrison led me to another tiny meeting room that was surrounded on each side by glass. The walls did little to stifle the noise outside, but I was thankful for the slightest bit of privacy.

“Before we have a chat about what we know so far, is there anyone you’d like to call, to let them know you’re safe?” she asked, sliding an old-school landline phone across the table to me.

“Um…”

~Is there?~

Who would I tell?

Mason?

~Definitely not Liam.~

It was humbling and slightly depressing to realize that I had no one to call.

For a brief instant, my thoughts flew to Lucinda, then to Ryan and Anthony.

I supposed they were my friends, but in light of my recent split from Liam, I wondered whether they would feel pressured to pick a side.

There was no way I would do that to them.

~I should probably call Mason.~

~He might be passed out somewhere, sleeping off a hangover, but he’s still my brother.~

~He cares.~

To my complete shock, Mason answered on the first ring.

“Mase?” My voice was painful—raspy—but faintly manageable.

“Freya?” His voice was much clearer than I’d expected, and he sounded both shocked and relieved. “Where are you?”

“Mason,” I rasped. “I’m at a police station in Queens, I think. Something happened.”

“What did he do to you?” he demanded.

“Mase,” I said, cutting him off. “It wasn’t Liam.”

“What happened to your voice?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll explain everything when you get here,” I replied. “I mean, ~if~ you get here. I—they gave me a painkiller at the hospital, and I don’t really want to…”

I trailed off. In truth, I just didn’t want to be alone. The thought terrified me.

“Of course I’ll come get you,” Mason said. “Can you text me the address?”

“My phone’s in evidence,” I replied. “But I’ll have someone send it to you.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hung up, sliding the phone back to Detective Morrison. “Thank you.”

She smiled, nodding.

“After questioning the man in custody, we’ve come to believe that he was hired several weeks ago to play the role of a stalker, as a means of intimidating you.”

I’d gathered as much.

“He claims that your life was never in any actual danger—that he only meant to make you ~believe~ this as a means of getting your compliance.”

~Well, it was pretty damn convincing,~ I thought, bringing my hand to my throat.

“Of course,” said the detective, “we have no way of confirming his intentions.”

“Do you know who hired him?” I asked.

“Believe it or not, this so-called ‘stalker’ of yours gave up his employer with very little prodding...

“Officer Fillmore—the first one on the scene—left the station to apprehend her straight away,” Detective Morrison said.

~Her?~

Everything started to make sense.

The timing of it all.

The demands.

~All along, the stalker had been employed by—~

At that precise moment, the raucous shrieks of a woman being led through the double doors by two officers effectively silenced the station.

“You can’t prove anything!” screeched Jazelle Ericson, struggling to pull her cuffed hands free from the cops’ grasp.

The officers led her across the floor, and as they passed the tiny room in which I was holed, Jazelle caught sight of me.

“YOU!” she screamed.

Jamming an elbow into the officer’s gut, she sprang free, lurching toward me.

Jazelle slammed her body furiously against the glass divider, mere feet away, screaming profanities.

I sank into my seat, unable to break eye contact from her scornful gaze.

Her metal cuffs clanked ardently against the glass, and with such intensity that I worried she might actually break it.

And then four hands pulled her back into a restraint and pushed her to the ground.

All the while, Jazelle’s eyes remained fixed on me.

It was unsettling; her gaze was distinctly hollow. The eyes of a girl who had grown up in the spotlight and never developed an identity beyond her public persona.

Who had no empathy.

No sense of consequence.

“So she did it out of revenge?” I asked. It was almost a whisper.

Detective Morrison tapped her pen against the table. “Perhaps. Or self-preservation. We won’t really know until we talk to her.”

It was true that following Jazelle’s split from Liam, her public image began to plummet.

She blamed Liam.

Well, Liam and ~me~.

Her fraudulent claims that Liam had been abusive—a desperate attempt to regain her standing—had done little.

She needed another one of Liam’s girls to substantiate it.

To substantiate ~her~.

I couldn’t imagine the kind of life or the level of pressure that would drive someone to such lengths, but in my short time with Liam, I ~had~ begun to understand the weight of fame.

A tiny part of me almost felt sorry for her.

“Alright,” said Detective Morrison, breaking my train of thought. “We have your statement and the evidence in our possession. As soon as we learn anything new, we will contact you.”

The detective rose, placing several papers back into her folder.

“Does that mean I get my phone back?” I asked hopefully, following her.

“Not just yet,” she replied.

~Ugh.~

One way or another, I was sure Liam would find out what happened.

And then he would be calling me frantically and I wouldn’t be able to tell him that I was safe.

That it was over.

I made a mental note to borrow Mason’s phone whenever he arrived to call Lucinda.

It was probably best I didn’t talk to Liam, anyway.

I wasn’t ready to face him.

I wasn’t sure if I ever would be.

***

My left foot tapped erratically against the tile floor in apprehension.

I hadn’t seen my brother since the concussion ordeal in the hospital, which hadn’t exactly been the warmest of exchanges, and I wondered what state I would find him in now.

I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d seen my brother sober.

The automatic doors to the lobby slid open as a familiar camel peacoat and slick of red hair whisked through them.

“Frey!” Mason’s eyes widened when they landed on me.

~I must look like hell.~

Mason wrapped his arms around me in relief, holding me tightly. “Are you okay? What the hell happened to you?”

He pulled back to inspect my bruises, his face paling.

As I watched him, it dawned on me that something was distinctly different about my brother.

He was clean shaven, with his hair combed neatly back.

And his green eyes were clear.

Alert.

~Sober?~

“Freya,” came a man’s voice from behind Mason. I stiffened immediately at the sound of it.

“Frey, don’t be mad,” said Mason. “We’ve been talking for a while now, and he’s changed. I swear. He just wanted to make sure you’re okay…”

I took a step back from my brother, my eyes locking on the man standing several feet behind him.

The man I thought I’d never see again.

The one who haunted my dreams.

~It can’t be.~

“Dad.”