Talking on the phone is an awkward uncomfortable experience. It feels like an intimate set of secrets whispered into someone's ear. You can hear things in someone's voice that you would otherwise miss in a regular conversation. The sound of someone's mouth turning up into a smile. An intake of breath. It's like every audible cue is given a loud microphone.

Sure none of my physical flailing and large dramatic tics can be seen, but I feel vulnerable and caught off guard every time I have to talk on the phone. I'm a "text you" kinda girl. But I made an exception when I called the number in my phone titled, .

Aiden picked up on the second ring, confirming my theory that he was in fact the owner of the second number that he had given me with ZERO context. "Hello?"

I always sat in the strangest places when talking on the phone. Like it would give me a superpower to be sitting in a bizarre pose, or better reception if I sat on the kitchen counter or laying upside down on my bed.

So as I hit the call button, I found myself half perched on the arm of my couch, tugging on a strand of my hair in a rhythmic measure to distract from the idea that I was willingly making a phone call. "Uh, yeah, is this Aiden?"

"Summers? You okay?" Aiden asked, the sound on the other end of the phone slightly garbled.

"What time does your shift start —" My phone slipped through my fingers, hit the couch, and flew across the room like it wanted to kill all potential conversations. I scrambled for it like a cat after a fish, and after dropping it three more times because, yes why not do that when you are trying to come across as a calm and collected human being, I finally got a grip on it.

Sitting on my knees I lifted it back to my ear. "Aiden, sorry about that."

But the line was dead. "Awww crap," I groaned. "I'm one smooth operator."

A sudden crash made me yelp in surprise.

Turning, I watched with wide eyes as my front door splintered at the lock, flew open, and hit the wall next to it with a loud CRACK. I scrambled back like a crab, screaming in surprise as a shadow filled the doorway. I couldn't hear anything past the ringing in my ears.

Spots filled my vision as I began to hyperventilate. The stalker is here, my mind screamed. But I couldn't move. I felt trapped, frozen, unable to defend myself. Where is a good pair of high heels when you need them to stab somebody?

But the idea of the stalker vanished, replaced by Aiden as he bolted through the door. He scanned the room searching for something before finding me half-hidden behind the couch. Dashing to my side, he crouched, looking out of breath. "Are you okay?"

I nodded mutely, my heart roaring in my ears. His voice sounded far away.

"What's wrong? Did someone get in?" he asked, eyes narrowing as he scanned my apartment again, his gaze menacing and strangely territorial.

My voice sounded like a pubescent mouse. "Just you."

He rocked back on his heels, his expression turning from cold to confused. "But you called... and on the phone, you..." He sounded flustered and if he hadn't just made the most dramatic entrance I had ever seen, on level with Rambo, it would have been adorable.

"I dropped my phone and your first thought is that I was being attacked at seven o clock in the morning?" I asked staring past him at my broken door. Damn, he's strong.

He ran his fingers through his hair. "It wouldn't be the first time."

I laughed. The idea of having a habit of being found in dangerous places wasn't funny, but there tends to be comedy in moments of dark truths. "Fair point, but maybe knock next time."

"Right, like some attacker would let me in if I asked politely," he replied looking unamused. "If you are fine, why did you call?"

Insulted that my only options were to either never call him, or wait for a near-death situation to call, I bit back several sassy remarks. Ignoring my racing pulse, and his eyes, because they weren't helping slow my heart's beats per minute, I stood up.

Walking over to the kitchen, I motioned to one of the bar stools. "Sit."

He raised a brow as if to say, "I'm not moving until I have more information from you, you crazy person."

I sighed and pushed a bowl of granola across the counter. "Here."

Aiden walked over, looking skeptically at the bowl like it was going to bite his face off. "It's just granola, I promise I didn't put a bomb in it."

"Why?" he asked, eyes pinned to the bowl.

"Because granola would be a stupid place to hide a bomb," I explained, placing a spoon next to the bowl.

He shot me a look. "You know what I mean."

"It's... a peace offering," I replied, purposefully pulling two Pop-Tarts out of a wrapper and putting them in a toaster. "To say I'm sorry for... well not being helpful when you were asking me questions."

He looked from the granola up to me, with an unreadable expression. His gaze wasn't ice cold anymore, but it wasn't kind either. He looked almost afraid. Dropping a carton of milk next to him, I walked over to the cabinet and pointed at something inside. "I got some tea too, so you don't have to always have extra on you."

He didn't say anything. He just stared at the bowl and the tea, lost in a moment that was beyond my understanding. The silence continued for so long that I was halfway done with my second Pop-Tart before he spoke.

"Sorry about your door."

I shrugged. "Sorry I scared you."

He shook his head. "Not your fault." Then he looked at my Pop-Tart. "Why'd you get granola if you were just going to keep eating those things?"

I ate the last bite, enjoying the sugary flavor, refusing to let him ruin it. "I didn't see you eat at all yesterday. Thought you'd like something around here that wouldn't repulse you."

Realization flickered across his expression. "Tate," he said with a groan.

I smiled. "Yep. Met him this morning when I went grocery shopping." The non-grumpy Aiden.

"What were you doing going grocery shopping so early?"

I crossed my arms. "Well, it hardly seems fair to do all of the errands with you. Gotta spread out the exciting daily life that is errands."

A smile crossed Aiden's face as he picked up the carton of milk. "Thank you," he said quietly as he poured. "This was very..." he cleared his throat and refused to look at me. "Thanks."

"No problem," I replied humming with excitement. Other than destroying my front door, things seemed to be going better with Aiden. Tate, you are a freaking food genius.

So I threw away my Pop-Tart wrapper with a dramatic flourish, feeling quite pleased with myself and after a painful pause, I managed to push a small shoebox across the table towards Aiden. I averted my gaze as he pulled the lid off. "The notes," I mumbled.

Aiden looked through them silently. He was reading the final note when his hand froze, his long slender fingers pressing into the paper. His brows furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out. Then as if suddenly inspired, he poured the notes onto the table like they were an actual jigsaw puzzle. I looked away, trying to ignore the flashes of words that were still carved into my heart.

"What are you doing?" I said while staring at my fridge.

"They're numbered," he replied. After a pause, I turned to look at him.

He held up the first note I ever got. The number fifteen sat in the top right corner, unassuming. I hadn't noticed it before. My eyes had always been drawn to the text written in blood red ink at the center of the yellow piece of paper.

He counted. "There are thirteen notes here." Then he put them back into the shoebox and tapped the table, thinking, his bright blue eyes staring at the box. "Was there a number on the mirror?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I saw the words, realized someone was in my apartment and ran."

He nodded, his brows furrowing.

"What does that mean?" I asked, suddenly afraid.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll talk to the police and see if they took a picture of the mirror."

I didn't like the hard expression on his face. "Aiden, please tell me what the hell you are thinking about because this is freaking me out."

He blinked, coming back to the present, no longer detective Aiden lost in a puzzle that only he could see. "It won't make you feel better."

I crossed my arms, half to stop them from shaking and half to drive home my point. I want answers, and you are going to give them to me statue boy of mystery.

"There are thirteen notes here," he said holding up the box. "Each one was numbered. Starting with the number fifteen. Is this the second one you got?"

He held up a note that said...

"We are missing two numbers," Aiden explained once I had confirmed the order of each note. "They are counting down."

The air was heavy and the room spun. If I hadn't been sitting I would have hit the kitchen floor like a sack of potatoes. Instead, I gripped the counter. "To what?"

Aiden ran his fingers through his thick black wavy hair. "To the stalker making contact." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Which felt impossible. I didn't want the words to sink in. That would make them real. I froze.

Aiden continued. "If the mirror had the number two on it, the only number left is one. That could mean that the encounter at the premiere was a warning. Maybe the last number, but I don't know yet—"

I bolted to my feet and walked, half tilted towards my phone. But I didn't make it three steps before I lost my balance, too dizzy to stand straight. Aiden caught my arm and helped me to the couch, his grip warm against my skin. "I need to know... if that mirror had a number..." I said, fingers numb as I tried to grip my phone and dial.

After a moment of watching me struggle, Aiden took my hand and gently pried the phone away. "I'll call her," he said, reading my mind. Spots filled my vision as I heard Sanders pick up.

"Sanders, Aiden. Do you happen to have a copy of the image the police took of Summers' mirror?" Aiden was quiet, listening as Sanders said something in response.

"Good. Can you look at the picture and tell me if there is a number on the mirror? Most likely in the upper right-hand corner?" The world grew quiet. Aiden nodded, hearing the answer. "Thank you Sanders."

Then Aiden hung up and turned back to me. I held my breath, suddenly terrified. I had never wanted there not to be a number on something so badly. The lack of a number meant I had time. It meant that perhaps I could live in denial a little longer. Whoever this stalker was, they had a long-term plan with me and I wanted to IGNORE IT FOR AS LONG AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. It was a game I couldn't quit.

"The number was on the mirror."

I sucked in an unsteady breath. "Crap."

The word was far from the right word to describe how I was feeling, but it was the only word my mouth seemed capable of saying. And since it was a simple copy-paste, repetition of my brain patterns, it became its own monologue. "Crap... crap, crap, CRAP, CRRRRAAAPPP, CRAP, crap, crappity, crap, crap. CRAAAAAP!"

"Breathe," Aiden said crouching down in front of me.

"NO!" I shouted, surprising myself. "I don't have time to breathe, I don't have time to think. I am in a freaking sudoku game with a crazy lunatic that hates me for reasons I don't understand!" Aiden didn't flinch, utterly calm as I yelled and flailed my arms.

"What can I do?" he asked gently.

"Make him go away! Is that possible? I don't even know who this person is!" I began to slip into hysterics. I could feel myself on the verge of laughing for no apparent reason. I was about to turn into the freaking Joker— the Jack Nicholson one. His laugh was terrifying. That was what I was about to turn into. A laughing, crazy Joker.

"No, I mean right now. What can be done to help YOU, in this exact moment."

I paused, calming slightly. "Oh..." The concept sent my mind to a jarring halt. What can I do for myself? I spent so much time doing things to help move my career forward, that the idea of doing anything else felt foreign. Which of course made me sad, which lead me to question my life choices, which then made me sadder.

"Summers?" Aiden asked, pulling my attention to the present.

"I have errands to run," I blurted out like the lamest person on the planet.

"Is that what you want to do?" he asked with a tinge of amusement in his voice.

No, my heart replied in a bitter protest. "It's productive," I managed.

Aiden tilted his head to the side, his hair falling into his face as he looked at me. I suddenly had this urge to brush his hair away. But I refused to listen to the desire. THAT is not something I want to do, I lied to myself. "How about we get your front door fixed, then we get some fresh air, then we run a few errands..." My heart fluttered at his use of the word 'we.'

"You like bookstores I'm assuming. Writers like those places right?" he asked, his gaze soft.

I snorted, amused. "Yeah, we like bookstores. Kind of like our place of worship if we don't have a particular place of worship."

At that, he offered a soft smile. "Good. So door, air, errands, and books. Sound good?"

Sounds like heaven. Too good to be true so it will probably go terribly wrong type heaven. I smiled back. "Yeah, sounds good."

Aiden stood back up, as if coming to himself, his eyes leaving me and making me feel sad and relieved all at once. He walked to the kitchen, and picked up his bowl of granola.

"Oh, Tate gave me the name of a good dry cleaner. I'm hoping to get my dress back to a normal-ish color so I Sanders doesn't kill me..."

I trailed off, watching Aiden's face as it went from relaxed to guarded in a flash. "You okay?"

He blinked and offered what I guessed was supposed to be an encouraging smile, but the guy clearly wasn't much of a liar. "Yep." He took a large bite of the granola thoughtfully. "Let's get the door fixed, then we can do that."

But something was clearly wrong. A dark cloud seemed to be hanging over him. I didn't know if I had accidentally bought terrible granola or if he hated drycleaners. But whatever it was, our moment of bridge-building had lasted for a total of point two seconds and I had been an idiot to assume things would go smoothly.

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Are you a flight or fight person? When danger comes knocking, do you fight, or do you run?