Page 92 of We Can Stay
Sebastian and I share a look that says everything words can’t. “We’re back together,” he confirms, and the certainty in his voice makes my knees weak.
“Yay!” Maya’s clapping drowns out whatever else might have been said.
For one perfect moment, I forget everything—the pericarditis that lurks in my chest like a predator, the stalker who’s been blessedly quiet since the coffee shop incident. The increased police patrols past my condo have been reassuring, but part of me wonders if I’ve just gotten better at not noticing surveillance.
The bell above the door shatters our bubble of joy. “Oh! We’re not op?—”
The words die in my throat. A figure in a dark hoodie stands just inside the threshold, hood pulled low to obscure their face. But I know that hoodie. The same one from the coffee shop. The same slouched posture, the same way of holding themselves that makes my skin crawl with recognition.
Sebastian’s arm tightens around me, protective instinct kicking in. “Is that the person from the coffee shop?”
All I can manage is a nod, my throat closing around any words.
“All of you, stay here.” He starts forward, but I catch his hand, fingers tangling desperately with his.
“Sebastian, no.” The words come out as barely more than a gasp. “We don’t know what this person will do. I’m calling the police.”
My hands shake so badly I can’t even unlock my phone screen. But before I can manage it, the figure turns and slips back out the door, the bell chiming mockingly in their wake.
“I’m following that person.” Sebastian’s jaw sets in that stubborn line I recognize from arguments about overworking. “I want this to end once and for all. They can’t get away again.”
He rushes for the door, determination radiating from every movement.
“We’re all going,” Hannah announces, already reaching for her own jacket.
“Wait, what?” Disbelief colors my voice.
“Sebastian is right, this needs to end.”
I hesitate, torn between terror and the desperate need for closure. My friends’ faces reflect the same determination Sebastian wears. “Let’s go.”
The November air hits like a slap as we burst onto the sidewalk. The hooded figure is half a block ahead, walking with purpose but not quite running. We follow at a distance, trying to look like a group of friends out for an evening stroll rather than vigilantes on a mission.
Main Street is quiet this time of night, most storefronts dark except for the coffee shop’s warm glow. The figure turns down the narrow alley beside it, disappearing into shadows.
We pick up our pace, feet slapping against pavement. When we round the corner, the person is full-out sprinting, their messenger bag bouncing against their hip with each stride. We break into a run, but it’s hopeless—they have too much of a lead, and whoever they are, they’re fast.
At the far end of the alley, a chain-link fence blocks the way. The figure scales it with practiced ease, but halfway over, their messenger bag catches on the twisted wire at the top. They struggle for a moment, yanking frantically, before abandoning it entirely. The bag hangs there like a surrender flag as they drop to the other side and vanish into the night.
Sebastian reaches the fence first, pulling himself up just high enough to unhook the trapped bag. Inside, a single manila folder peeks out, thick with contents.
My hands tremble as I open it. Photos spill out—dozens of them. Some are screenshots from my social media, but others...
“Oh my God.” The words escape on a breath.
Me walking into Knit Happens, coffee in hand. Me at the farmers market, examining skeins. Me on my front steps, fumbling with keys. All taken from a distance, all without my knowledge. The violation of it makes my stomach turn.
“This person has been following you for weeks,” Hannah breathes, her face pale in the alley’s dim light.
I flip one photo over, squinting at the bottom corner. There, in careful script: J.R.
The initials tickle something in my memory. “J.R.” I test the letters out loud. “Who is that?”
“We’ll figure it out.” Sebastian’s voice wraps around me like the softest cashmere. “For now, let’s get you back to KnitHappens to grab your things. We’ll bring these photos to the police once you’ve had some rest.”
The walk back feels both endless and too short. My friends surround me in a protective huddle, their presence a comfort even as my mind races through every possible J.R. I might know. At the shop, I hug each of them fiercely, promises to text updates once I know more.
“Ready?” Sebastian asks once we’re alone again.
