Chimera | H.S Mature

20.

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*Samantha's POV*

For several days I settled into a routine of hiding away in my office and pretending I was busy, while simultaneously ignoring Harry's attempts at contact. I would arrive each morning at 9am on the dot, set my papers, laptop, notebooks and pens on the desk just as I normally would, and each time someone knocked on the door, I made a show of typing away on my computer and subsequently deleting the nonsense my fingers had created on the screen after they left. I also made sure that tabs of personal profiles and location trackers were open, so I could quickly flick back and forth between them should someone enter the room unannounced, which Barbra had made a point of doing at least once a day. I suspected she knew that I wasn't working, that I spent my days twiddling my thumbs and playing low quality computer games until it was deemed acceptable for me to leave, but I couldn't help but wonder if she was making these regular appearances to make sure that I was alone and not, you know, fucking Harry on the desk. Not that I would of course, my desk is far too small for that.

Today I was playing with the ball I had purchased from a small corner shop on my walk in. I tossed it repeatedly in the air and cursed each time I dropped it, chasing it across the room to stop the obnoxious noise it made as it bounced loudly across the floor. Hand-eye coordination had never been my forte, well at least that was the excuse I used each time I was asked to participate in sporting activities.

I sighed as I once again tossed the ball up and caught it in my hand. It was 2pm, lunch had been and gone, Barbra had made her daily appearance and I was slowly losing the will to live. I had made an effort earlier in the week to get things done, to forge ahead with the investigation as best I could, but I quickly realised that nothing could be done until I had an approved warrant slapped on my desk.

My phone lay face down beside me, its screen hidden from view and the ringer on mute, I couldn't bare its obnoxious ringing and buzzing any longer, it was driving me insane. I hadn't replied to the message Harry sent me on Saturday, or any of the ones since, I didn't know what to say. I spent Sunday thinking back on everything I knew about him, about everything he had told me, about things I had observed. I thought about the relationship he had with his sister, about the way he would look at her like he wanted nothing more than to take away all the pain she was feeling. I thought about the way he made me feel, about myself, about my past, I thought about how his lips pressed against mine in his hallway. I thought about the way I shut people out, about how I never let myself feel, or open up, or even trust people who I wasn't related to, although I don't even trust all of them, not since my cousin stole my Barbie when I was 9 and then lied about it after I found it in her bag.

But most of all, I thought about how Harry did, at times, truly terrify me. It was the sudden changes I had seen in him, in my office and at the coffee shop, the way his eyes would darken to the point where they were almost black, how his face would contort and his lips would quirk up into such a sinister, sickening smirk. Twice I had found myself googling 'what are the symptoms of bi polar disorder' and making a mental checklist of all the things that matched Harry's personality. But nothing I read explained why when he looked at me, there was such a raging, vengeful hatred in his eyes, to the point where I could see it consuming his body and his mind. I spent most of Saturday night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts flickering back and forth between what I feared might have happened if Harry hadn't held himself back form coming towards me that day, and the recurring image my head was conjuring of my body being thrown to the floor in a dirty alleyway and a heavier one then settling itself above me, large hands grabbing and groping at my body, pulling, tearing at my clothes and telling me to shut up.