Free Over the Edge by Brandilyn Collins

in his eyes . . .
    "Where did he c-call from?"
    The question hung in the air.
    "Brock?"
    "Your cell phone call came from the El Camino area in Palo Alto."
    I gaped at him. "You mean right near where I was . . . driving to L-Lauren's school?"
    He flexed his jaw and nodded.
    Stalking Man had been that close? That close?
    "And the call at home?"
    "From our neighborhood."
    My breath caught. "You're kidding."
    No response.
    Panic uncoiled in my limbs. "He's following me! Everywhere! He was in our house, Brock. It's not one of those p-painters."
    Was he close now? Somewhere in the hospital? Why was he doing this?
    Brock seemed strangely unaffected. The way he kept looking at me . . .
    "I told you they've tapped our phones. If the man calls again, they'll get a recording plus trace where he's calling from. They'll try to get to the area while he's still there."
    "Okay." I couldn't think anymore. Couldn't make sense from any of it.
    Brock shifted positions. He regarded me with his chin raised and eyes half closed, as if broaching an uncomfortable subject. "Jannie, maybe your illness is psychosomatic. The man said you'd be sick—and you were."
    Right. That would explain it—if I hadn't collapsed on the kitchen floor before I'd ever heard from the man. But Brock knew that. I looked away.
    "Doctors like your husband will tell you it's all in your head." Stalking Man had warned me this would happen.
    What was I supposed to do with that? The man had said I was sick, and I was. He'd said Brock would react this way, and he had.
    But Stalking Man was crazy. Not to be believed.
    I picked at my bedcovers. It's true what they say about the unknown. It's far more frightening to have no answer than to hear one you'd never have wanted. In crisis situations you need a tangible enemy. Someone or something to fight. To bull's-eye with the arrows of your righteous indignation. "The doctor said they want to run more tests tomorrow so . . . maybe they'll find something."
    Brock grunted. "Maybe."
    Our words lulled. Minutes passed in silence. We seemed to have little to say to each other. Brock mouthed his goodbyes and left. I watched him go, feeling the distance between us crack wider. When he'd rushed home yesterday he seemed so concerned. I couldn't lose his caring, our partnership. No way could I battle this . . . whatever it was alone.
    I thought of my childhood, the summer when I was twelve. My father had launched with gusto into one of his week-long drunken binges. Every day he ratcheted up, then loosed by beating me. Then I fell sick. But I was only faking. I was stuck in that nightmare of a house, too afraid of my father to run away. Instead I threw all my resources into a feigned illness that left me weak and crying with stomach pain in hopes that my dad would feel sorry for me. In hindsight it seemed a silly plan—if the man felt anything for me he wouldn't have beat me in the first place. But surprisingly, it worked. My dad toned down his drinking and took to sitting with me on the couch. When he touched me I felt a gentleness I hadn't known in a long time. For three days I basked in the peace my ailment had wrought. But then my father grew restless. Clearly his concern for me was too much of a burden. Out came the whiskey bottles. His hands again turned harsh. I quickly got better and escaped outside to play with my friends.
    Over the next three years, when my dad's behavior warranted it, I pulled the same trick countless times. To this day my mother refers to that era as my stomach-problem years. Each time my strange ailment would buy me a day or two of softening in my father. An ephemeral rescue. But oh, the relief.
    My phone rang. I jumped, sending shocks of pain through my muscles. I pressed two fingers to my forehead, then reached toward the table on my left for the receiver. Maybe it was Lauren. "Hello?"
    "Good evening, Janessa." Stalking Man's voice rode low and snide. My lungs bubbled. "So sorry to hear you're in the