Her Shadows His Secrets Read online

  CONTENTS

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1. Hanna

  2. Hanna

  3. Theo

  4. Theo

  5. Hanna

  6. Hanna

  7. Theo

  8. Hanna

  9. Theo

  10. Hanna

  11. Theo

  12. Hanna

  13. Hanna

  14. Hanna

  15. Theo

  16. Hanna

  17. Theo

  18. Hanna

  19. Hanna

  20. Theo

  21. Hanna

  22. Theo

  23. Hanna

  24. Theo

  25. Hanna

  26. Theo

  27. Hanna

  28. Theo

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by CC Monroe

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 by CC Monroe

  Edited by Kayla Robichaux

  Cover Designer & Interior Design by Juliana Cabrera, www.jerseygirl-design.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Hanna, many things have come and gone in the last two years, but one thing that lasted in some of the hardest times is our friendship. I had to give a character as unique, kind and yet fiercely badass like you, a name like yours.

  You deserved a real friend and many betrayed you. But may Brenda never betray you. May she always be there and protect you with so much love and a shield of Armor.

  And to Salvatore Randazzo, rest easy with light and love. You will be missed.

  PLAYLIST

  Joke’s On You - Charlotte Lawrence

  Death by a Thousand Cuts - Taylor Swift

  Fat Funny Friend - Maddie Zahm

  Sail - Awolnation

  Reasons - Mimi Webb

  Feel - Fletcher

  Electric (Feat. Khalid) - Alina Baraz

  Lovely - Billie Eilish & Khalid

  Wow - Zara Larsson

  Pray (Feat. Rooty) - JRY

  All I Want - Kodaline

  Tell Me I’m Pretty - Brynn Elliott

  Chains - Nick Jonas

  Pray - Jessie Murph

  Animals - Maroon 5

  Just About Over You - Priscilla Block

  Grace - Lewis Capaldi

  If You Want Love - NF

  Arcade (Feat. Fletcher)

  Lips on You - Maroon 5

  Don’t Blame Me - Taylor Swift

  I Wanna be Your Slave - Maneskin

  Empty Space - James Arthur

  Power Over Me - Dermot Kennedy

  Ocean Drive - Duke Dumont

  Workin On It - Meghan Trainor

  Lie - NF

  Love it When you Hate Me - Avril Lavigne (Feat. blackbear)

  PROLOGUE

  HANNA

  The door handle moves, gently at first, but the sound is oddly loud in my small New York apartment. I take a slow, deep breath, and yet to me it sounds heavy, as if the person on the other side of the door would be able to hear it.

  Tonight marks the third week this has been happening to me. Whoever stands outside my door never fully makes it in, no attempt other than to maybe spook me. It’s not an upscale place where I live, so all it would take is a swift kick with gusto to tear that door apart and step inside. Hell, the person could make it in if they just used a card, most likely even a piece of paper folded up a few times.

  “Who— Who’s there?” I finally call out. Weeks of restless sleep and nightly visits from the stranger have led me here with no choice but to let them know I’m here and doing my best to be unafraid. I fail miserably, because I’m chilled to the bone. Every noise arouses such fear in my blood that shadows haunt me.

  I look over my shoulder, feeling the constant eyes boring into me. Waiting for me to be unalarmed, unprepared, and absolutely vulnerable.

  After my voice rings out, it’s silent, the echoes the door makes and the jiggling ceasing. Loud footsteps move away gradually, the sound of something scraping along the walls as the person leaves making me grow cold. They know that I know, and now, my fear has only multiplied.

  My shadows have only grown more haunting.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HANNA

  The city buzzes around me, pedestrians’ feet moving at a rapid pace to get from one place to another. I do my best to stay on the outside of the crowds, dangerously close to the busy street with ruthless taxi drivers and worse—everyday New York drivers. My work is only twelve blocks away from where I live, so I leave an hour and a half early each day to make it.

  Sure, I could take the subway, but lately, there has been this uncanny feeling of danger nagging at my stomach. And although the subways are usually busy—full of people, so lots of witnesses—I feel safer above ground, in broad daylight, and shoulder-to-shoulder with people who I can hide behind, yet I have open room to run.

  The logic makes zero sense, but nothing has lately. I grew up in this city, I was in the foster care system at eight years old. My parents—not druggies, not dead, not anything—just didn’t want me. I was an inconvenience, and that molded me and how I view myself today.

  I’m… more than curvy, my body unlike most New York women. I wouldn’t say I’m a linebacker or something grotesque, but in today’s world, I’m no Cinderella. I have curves that accentuate my waist, and my thighs have no gap. My breasts are large, and my bottom is generous.

  But for most my life, this has kept me hidden and unbothered by men, society, and anyone who might want to get close. I have no desire to have a large group of friends nor enjoy the idea of going out on weekends to whoop it up. I’m a plain Jane, with a plain, lonely life.

  God, listen to me. How pathetic does that sound? “Woe is me” is the story. Or so I thought. But recently—the past three weeks—things have… shifted; something has changed in my life.

  I’m being watched, followed, harassed, or, as the cops say, “delusional or hearing things.” But I’m not. There is always someone watching me. I feel their every gaze; I hear them outside my apartment every night. On occasion, they will cut me some slack and give me a damn break, but he or she returns and taunts me more.

  The police, I gave up calling eventually. Whenever they came, there were no actual threats being made, so I was written off as just a “scared, lonely woman hearing things in a rundown neighborhood.”

  I’m not crazy. There are a lot of things I am—shy, timid, insecure, and yes, lonely—but I am not crazy or hearing things. Someone is out there, and for whatever reason they would want to harass someone like me, it’s beyond my comprehension. I’m not anyone or anything special.

  My thoughts can no longer linger on this as I walk through the revolving doors of the small, derelict magazine company I work for. This is why I live in the neighborhood I do. I make barely above minimum wage, and half the time, the magazine cuts our hours, because—let’s face it—we aren’t doing well. We mainly focus on local eateries or places to see and visit when in New York. We write glorified tour guides, and no New Yorker wants to read that.

  Everyone local knows this information already, but we are only published in New York, and our online presence suffers, because the cheap man upstairs doesn’t want to pay for a marketing team for our website.

  Stepping into my small cubicle, I remove my purse, then hang it on the small holder I have Command-stripped to the small box I call a workspace and fix my dress. I wore my Monday dress. I only have seven nice work outfits, so I repeat them frequently—a
nother New York no-no. I live in the capital of fashion, but this black sundress with cap sleeves was eight dollars at my local thrift store and gets the job done. It’s not like I’m working for Vogue.

  “Hey, Hanna, it’s good seeing you.”

  The pleasantries I share with Chelsea in printing are about it for me. I know I’m a little shy and never the first to initiate a conversation, but this place is stuffy. There is one person who is persistent though—Dax in editorial. He’s a nice guy, clean cut, and seems to be like me, wears the same few outfits and tends to keep to himself.

  He asked me out a few weeks ago, and I turned him down. I could tell it hurt, but he didn’t seem too upset. In fact, he stayed pretty normal if you ask me. Still stops by when he’s on my floor, says hello, asks me about my day or the past weekend, and then he smiles and is off. But other than that, my face is in my computer, researching, writing, and editing final articles.

  My days pass like this. They come and go, and as a twenty-three-year-old, I realize just how pathetic it is. Do I need to be more social? Probably. Should I consider dating? Maybe. At least I don’t have a bunch of cats—hell, not even one.

  Go me!

  I have no idea where to start though or even what I would do. This whole harassing thing has definitely made me leery to go outside and trust people. But what could they want? Money? Are they druggies looking for a hit? My apartment complex is that kind of place.

  Nothing exciting jumped out at me at work, per usual, and once I head off, I’m only three blocks away from home when my stomach starts to sink. The closer to home I get, the less foot traffic there is, leaving a nagging, spine-tingling sensation that I’m not alone.

  I risk looking back yet see no one there but a few locals I’ve seen around. I pick up speed and get inside to the mailboxes. Hurrying, I open my box with my keys in my shaking hands, looking behind me and over my shoulder. Messily, I grab the few envelopes, then rush up the stairs. Once inside, I lock the door and release a deep breath.

  “Relax, Hanna. You’re starting to sound insane even to yourself now,” I whisper into the room. I want to rinse off; the muggy summer day and long walk to and from work have me dying to clean myself up, and maybe the brief spray of hot water that will last at most ten minutes before going cold can help settle me down. I complained for over a year now that my water doesn’t stay hot, and they do nothing. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers, especially when you live in a place like this.

  Putting my purse and keys down along with the mail, I start to undress. I wait until I’m fully naked before starting the water, making sure I save every second of warmth I’ll get. Stepping in, I make work of cleaning myself from head to toe, and closing my eyes, I daydream of a luxurious shower and hours of hot water… or maybe a nice bubble bath. By the time I’m clean, the water goes from lukewarm to bite-you-on-the-ass-with-snow cold. Shivering, I turn off the tap and grab the towel hanging over the shower rod, covering myself up, followed by my robe.

  Stepping onto the mat, I tremble a bit while putting on my nightly face moisturizer. The sun is almost about to set, and I plan to eat a microwavable Lean Cuisine and curl up with a book in my bed. Whenever I have extra money to spare, I go to the local used bookstore and purchase whatever novel intrigues me. Usually, the cover is all it takes to get me hooked, but when I can’t find one that catches my eye, I spend over an hour reading blurbs on the back until I find one I like.

  The latest one is a romance. Not my usual, go-to genre. Thrillers like Gone Girl or Girl on a Train tend to be my favorite, but with the nightly stalker showing up at my door, I don’t want to add to my building paranoia.

  Looking at the clock while my dinner heats up, I pull out my romance novel, and my Diet Pepsi from the fridge, and walk to my nightstand. My studio apartment is small and as cozy as it can be. It’s not much, but I’ve done my best to make it a home.

  It’s nearly 7:30 p.m. when I finally sit to open my book and eat the heated-up dinner. I try not to anticipate the late-night visitor, hoping they take the occasional night off tonight. Honing in on my book, I get lost in the pages. This is definitely not a book I would normally read, but I hate to admit I’m a little obsessed with the insta-love trope.

  “Wonder what that’s like,” I murmur into the empty space. I’m at the part where they kiss for the first time, and unlike most romance books, it’s dangerous, all-consuming, hot, and possessive, something I know nothing about but suddenly feel intrigued, wishing I could experience that just once.

  To be with someone who loves you so deeply, with such force and desire that they would do anything to keep you as theirs and theirs alone. To be the center of their world and touched in a way that shows you just that—bordering on obsession. I wouldn’t know, nor will I ever, because the men in these books would never go for a woman like me. Curvy plus a little extra. My brownish-blonde hair, green eyes, and certain facial features are the only things I find somewhat appealing about my entire self.

  The night passes on, and I slowly drift off, my eyes heavy. But my short-lived luck passes when I hear it. The very thing that haunts me nightly and keeps me from sleeping.

  Them?

  Him?

  Her?

  Someone.

  I stand slowly, taking small steps until I’m a few feet from the door.

  The handle moves, gently at first, but the sound is oddly loud in my small New York apartment. I take a slow, deep breath, and yet to me it sounds heavy, as if the person on the other side of the door would be able to hear it.

  Tonight marks the third week this has been happening to me. Whoever stands outside my door never fully makes it in, no attempt other than to maybe spook me. It’s not an upscale place where I live, so all it would take is a swift kick with gusto to tear that door apart and step inside. Hell, the person could make it in if they just used a card, most likely even a piece of paper folded up a few times.

  “Who— Who’s there?” I finally call out. Weeks of restless sleep and nightly visits from the stranger have led me here with no choice but to let them know I’m here and doing my best to be unafraid. I fail miserably, because I’m chilled to the bone. Every noise arouses such fear in my blood that shadows haunt me.

  I look over my shoulder, feeling the constant eyes boring into me. Waiting for me to be unalarmed, unprepared, and absolutely vulnerable.

  After my voice rings out, it’s silent, the echoes the door makes and the jiggling ceasing. Loud footsteps move away gradually, the sound of something scraping along the walls as the person leaves making me grow cold. They know that I know, and now, my fear has only multiplied.

  My shadows have only grown more haunting.

  When enough time has passed and my heart rate has settled, my fight-or-flight instinct calming. Looking around—for what, I don’t know—I try to think of what I should do now. For weeks, the phone calls to the police have left me with nothing. No change or security—I’m the crazy one. In fact, the last officer said it’s most likely a cracked-out addict looking for his dealer. “That is to be expected in this type of neighborhood.”

  No. I’m not crazy. I haven’t lost my mind.

  So I move fast, going to my purse, but in my frantic state, I hit the small table with the front of my thigh. I curse out from both the pain and my things falling to the ground. Rubbing out the ache, I finally bend and make quick work of cleaning up what fell to the ground: mail, junk mail, more junk mail, another piece of jun—

  I stop, the last envelope catching my attention. Addressed to me from a South Carolina Law Office. That’s where my parents are from. That is one of the things I do remember before they left me to start their life without me.

  Trembling hands open the cream-colored envelope. What if it’s them? My parents? I stop once the lip of it opens. Do I want to read this? Is this even something I’m ready for? They never wanted me. I was a waste, unlovable, and an inconvenience in their lives. Is this just going to be another punch to my gut, a blow to my alread
y fragile heart?

  I grew tough skin, but there are still wounds unhealed beneath the surface. Can I take more? Maybe it’s still the nerves and fear molding into a mess inside me, but I give in and pull out the letter. The words are typed out with a generic font, and my eyes slide across the page, sentence by sentence.

  Dear Ms. Hanna Whittington,

  My name is Jack Loweson. I’m the attorney for your grandfather, J.D. William Whittington. I’m reaching out to you in these unfortunate circumstances and after great work. You are one hard woman to track down. Your grandfather has recently passed, and per his Will and Testament, he has named you not only as his Power of Attorney but has left all fortune and physical assets as of his passing.

  There are multiple physical possessions left as well as his estate. I would like to get in contact with you to discuss further instructions and manners of his Will and Testament. We are able to conduct a phone call or plan a time in which we could fly you to my location. Money has been placed aside for travel expenses if needed. A funeral has been held already, but due to the lengths it took in order to find you, the burial has come and passed.

  I’m very sorry for the loss of your grandfather. He meant a great deal to us in Cherry Hill, South Carolina. I am sending you thoughts during this hardship. I look forward to hearing from you.

  All my best,

  Jack Loweson

  Loweson’s Legal