The Stalker Chronicles Read Free

circle of four became suddenly quiet.
    â€œYou haven’t been watching the news?” the chunky, red-faced sports reporter asked.
    â€œNo. Over the weekends, I rarely even turn on my TV.”
    They curiously looked from one to the other, then back at me. The sports reporter, I think his name was Frank, dropped his head down and stared at the floor. He seriously looked like he was about to break into tears any minute.
    Finally, the receptionist spoke up. “Pilar, I’m sorry to deliver the news.”
    â€œWhat news?” I asked, as if I had no clue as to what was going on.
    She sighed and simply spit it out. “Michael is dead.”
    â€œWhat?” I cried out, trying not to be overly dramatic, but to have just the right amount of concern etched in my voice.
    â€œHe was found early Sunday morning,” she volunteered.
    â€œWhat? H—how? What h—happened?” I stuttered. In my mind I was thinking how I was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. Look out, Halle Berry. Maybe I should consider acting in the land of wannabe actors and actresses.
    â€œIt was an apparent suicide. His mother found him in his car, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. He had stuffed a cloth in the tailpipe so toxic fumes could enter his car and, of course, his lungs.”
    â€œHe even left a note.”
    I didn’t respond, simply willed crocodile tears to form. As I stumbled, the assistant editor caught my arm. I leaned on him for support and comfort.
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked, pulling out the nearest chair so I could sit and catch my breath. My heartbeat was pounding away at a mile a minute.
    â€œYeah, I guess. This is such a shock.”
    â€œTell us about it. We were all just saying that, how it is unbelievable,” he added.
    â€œI spoke with Michael on Friday regarding some edits for an article I was putting the finishing touches on. Wow, you never really know people,” I said and shook my head slowly from side to side. “Unbelievable. And his mother found him?”
    The female entertainment reporter didn’t comment, simply looked at me oddly. Simple bitch , I thought. I knew Michael was fucking her, had been for a few weeks. I hoped she enjoyed my sloppy seconds, because I was definitely number one.
    â€œThis is so unlike Michael. He wasn’t depressed. He wasn’t withdrawn. He didn’t have any of the classic symptoms of depression. I became close to him over the years, and he simply wasn’t the type,” the sports reporter revealed.
    â€œThe type?” I asked.
    â€œThe type to commit suicide. It just doesn’t add up. In fact, he was scheduled to drop by my house on Sunday to watch the game and drink a few beers. Who makes plans when they have no intentions to be around in the next forty-eight hours?”
    I nodded in agreement.
    â€œYou never know what’s really going on in people’s lives,” the sports reporter said.
    â€œYou never know,” I gushed.
    â€œSo true,” the entertainment reporter stated, looking me up and down, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, with her nose scrunched up, making it obvious she didn’t like what she saw. She hadn’t liked me from day one, and the feeling was mutual.
    I glared back at her, met her eyes, and made her look down first. She couldn’t step to me, and she knew it. If she didn’t know, then she had better learn. I thought, She won’t be getting that dick anymore. Me, either, for that matter . Michael was good, but I had had much better. A certain bestselling author came to mind, and I couldn’t help but smile, but I bit the inside of my lip to turn the smile into a smirk.
    All that occurred in the early morning, before lunchtime. Before the day was over, I resigned from my position and boarded a plane for Houston. Everyone would think I was distraught over Michael’s apparent suicide. If only they knew. Los Angeles was okay,