Page 7 of Perfect Stalker

His expensive wool coat had been unbuttoned, and his silk tie was askew. The bourbon on his breath had mixed with his designer cologne as he’d lurched toward me. “You ungrateful bitch.” The words had sprayed from his lips, as his perfectly manicured hand swept through the air. “After everything I’ve done for you? The gifts, the attention—you’re nothing without me.”

I’d regained my footing enough to turn and run once more, but soon, my boots, meant for fashion rather than practicality, slid on the icy sidewalk again. Each breath had been like swallowing needles, the frozen air stabbing my lungs when I tried to increase my pace, but he’d been faster and stronger.His Italian leather shoes had eaten up the distance between us until his fingers, still warm from the crystal tumbler he’d been nursing all evening, had dug into my throat.

The rough brick had scraped my back through my coat as he’d slammed me against the wall. The impact had knocked loose snow from above, dusting us both in white powder that did nothing to cool his rage. He’d pulled back his hand and punched me, making me see stars. I’d fought the urge to pass out while trying to figure out how to escape or reason with him.

That’s when my savior had materialized from the shadows. Tall as a Viking warrior, with shoulders that filled his black cashmere coat, he’d moved like a predator. His actions had been precise and economical—one moment Stephen had been pressing me into the wall, and the next, he’d been sprawled in the dirty snow, blood trickling from his nose. The stranger had punched him a few more times before Stephen was unconscious.

I tremble now as I remember how darkly thrilled I’d been to see his fists connecting with Stephen’s flesh—his face, stomach, and side. Each fleshy thud had… I flush, recalling how I’d been so turned on for a second in spite of the pain in my face.

“Are you all right?” The stranger’s voice had been muffled by his thick scarf, and he’d stayed mostly in the shadows, but I’d felt safe with him there. I’d managed a nod, trembling not just from the cold. He’d stayed until the police arrived, unspeaking in the swirling snow, but had vanished before I could ask his name.

The memory dissolves, and I turn to open my mailbox. I try to stop thinking about it all while I sort through my stack of mail.Bills, junk, and a postcard from my cousin Phoebe in Miami. The paper trembles in my hands.

The hallway stretches ahead, seeming longer than usual. My heels click against the tile floor while I walk toward my apartment door. Something shifts in the air. The hair on my neck rises.

I unlock it, and push. My door swings open into darkness. The familiar scents of my apartment—vanilla candles and fresh laundry—do nothing to dispel the sensation of being watched.

The apartment door clicks shut behind me, and I pause in the entryway. Something’s different. Wrong. The novel I left sprawled on my couch now sits neatly on the coffee table, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge. I brush my fingers against the light switch, illuminating the living room in a soft glow.

A masculine scent lingers in the air—expensive cologne mixed with leather and something darker. My stomach twists. Has Stephen been in my apartment? Or someone else?

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, dropping my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. The sound echoes through the quiet apartment. “He’s in London. Has been for months. He’s lying about being in Atlanta, and his cologne is different.” I have to believe he’s lying about being back, or I’ll go mad. As for imagining someone else in my apartment—that seems even crazier. Who would have two stalkers at once?

The words don’t stop my hands from shaking while I check the deadbolt twice. Three times. I move through my nightly routine on autopilot—changing into penguin pajamas, microwaving leftover Chinese food, and settling onto the couch with the TV remote.

The channels blur together as I stab the remote button, desperate for distraction. A perky chef demonstrates the perfect omelet flip. Click. A grim-faced anchor details another shooting downtown. Click. Drunk housewives screech at each other across a marble counter. Can’t click fast enough to avoid that one. I settle on a “Hallmark” Christmas movie for background noise. I guess it’s the season since Halloween has passed.

My half-eaten lo mein grows cold on the coffee table while my attention drifts to the wall of windows. Through the sheers, city lights paint the dark glass in streaks of gold and white. A shadow shifts in the building across the street, sliding between lit windows like ink through water.

My thumb freezes mid-click. “Don’t,” I whisper, but my gaze stays locked on that window, searching for movement that could mean nothing. Or everything. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed that resident seeming to have an unerring interest in my apartment.

A dark figure stands at one of the windows across the street, perfectly still against the yellow glow from inside his apartment. Male and broad-shouldered, his silhouette cuts a menacing shape in the frame. When I shift my weight on the leather couch cushions, he mirrors my movement with an unnatural precision that makes my stomach drop.

My throat constricts as I push myself up, stumbling toward my kitchen on trembling legs. Through the connecting window, I watch him glide to his own kitchen window, maintaining the same distance between us.

I grip the counter, counting to ten before returning to the living room. He’s already there again at the main window. Waiting. Watching. The city lights outline his shape, and though I can’tsee his face, I feel his stare burning into me across the hundred feet of empty space between our buildings. I’d swear it’s the kind of psychotic thing Stephen would do, but this man is too muscular and tall to be Stephen. Even in my fear, I can appreciate his silhouetted frame.

The half-empty carton of lo mein sits abandoned on my coffee table with congealed noodles spilling over the edge. The TV drones behind me but words doesn’t register. My hands shake as I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over the keypad.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” I whisper to myself, testing the words. “There’s a man watching me from the building across the street. No, he hasn’t done anything. He’s just...standing there, but he does this a lot.”

I let out a bitter laugh. They’d probably tell me to close my curtains and stop wasting their time, but the thought of moving toward those windows again makes my skin crawl.

“This isn’t happening. You’re just imagining this.” My voice catches as I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it in my rush when it buzzes with a text from Stephen:Miss you, baby. London was too cold without you, so welcome me home.

“You’re supposed to be gone,” I mutter, staring at his message. “Six thousand miles away. That was the deal.”

The silhouette hasn’t moved from its position in the window across the street. Even through the darkness and distance, something about its stillness makes my throat close up. His stance is like a predator waiting to strike.

I press my back against the wall beside my window, pulse hammering in my ears. “You’re being paranoid,” I whisper tomyself. “It’s just shadows playing tricks.” But the words ring hollow, doing nothing to ease the cold certainty spreading through my veins.

My finger trembles over the nine on my phone’s keypad. A nervous laugh bubbles up in my throat. “What am I supposed to tell them?” I mutter, rehearsing the conversation a different way but finding it no more effective or believable than last time. “‘Yes, operator, there’s a suspicious person...standing completely still...in their own home?’“ The words sound ridiculous even as I say them.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lunge forward, grabbing the plastic cord of the blinds. With one sharp tug, they clatter shut, the sound cracking through the silence of my apartment like a gunshot. I flinch at the noise, wondering if he heard it too.Talk about paranoia.

The darkness outside pushes against my windows like ink seeping through paper, but closing the blinds doesn’t help. That silhouette remains branded in my mind—the rigid posture, the unnatural stillness, and the calculated patience of someone who knows exactly for what they’re waiting.

“Stop,” I whisper, but my hands won’t stop shaking. “Stop dwelling in fear, Jenny.”

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