Her bras and pantyhose were all piled together. She always kept them neatly separated. Ashley suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
Had he unzipped his pants, picked up her pantyhose and rubbed them against himself?
Had he fantasized about raping her? Raping her and murdering her? She was finding it difficult to breathe.
I should go to the police, but they would laugh at me. You want us to investigate this because you think someone got into your lingerie drawer?
Someone has been following me. Have you seen who it is? No. Has anyone threatened you? No.
Do you know why anyone would want to harm you? No. It's no use, Ashley thought despairingly.
I can't go to the police. Those are the questions they would ask me, and I would look like a fool.
She dressed as quickly as she could, suddenly eager to escape from the apartment. I'll have to move.
I'll go somewhere where he can't find me. But even as she thought it, she had the feeling that it was going to be impossible.
He knows where I live, he knows where I work. And what do I know about him? Nothing.
She refused to keep a gun in the apartment because she hated violence. But I need some protection now, Ashley thought.
She went into the kitchen, picked up a steak knife, carried it to her bedroom and put it in the dresser drawer next to her bed.
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