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He looks over his shoulder, barely glancing at me before turning away again. “I’m sure you can spare a few more minutes.”
What’s with this guy?I think, busying myself with tidying up the shelves behind the counter to avoid looking at him. I can’t help but feel frustrated—and a bit unnerved—that he won’t leave. After a few minutes of tense silence, he finally approaches the counter, thrusting a small stack of movies toward me.
“Will that be all?” I ask, taking the cases. He flashes me a smug grin, and I keep my face expressionless as I scan his membership card and the barcodes on the cases. “That will be $5.50. With our special?—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, hand waving to shush me as he slides a ten-dollar bill across the counter.
I bite my tongue, ignoring his remark as I give him his change and grab his movies. “Thank you for renting with us,” I say evenly, bagging his tapes. “Have a good night.”
Without another word, he turns and strides out the front door, leaving me alone with my exasperation. Letting out a deep sigh, I lean against the countertop and press my hands to my face. It had been another long shift and I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I finish up the cleaning and other tasks before shutting off all the lights and locking up. Walking back to my car, I can’t help but wonder why some people feel the need to be so rude.
As I drive away from the store, my mind is a tangle of thoughts and emotions. Days like today make me wonder why I try so hard to show kindness and courtesy when it feels like no one else cares about it anymore. It’s a constant internal struggle between understanding where people are coming from and being frustrated by their behavior.
I push the negativity out of my head and focus on getting home to enjoy some well-earned rest. Briefly pausing at a red light, I continue on my way and take in my surroundings. The streets are unusually empty tonight, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in some sort of dream world. By the time I pull into the apartment parking lot, I yearn to take off my shoes and relax. I’ll worry about calling Jen and getting the craft fair details tomorrow.
I exit my car—and see a silhouette at the edge of my vision. I squint, but I can’t see anything in the darkness. The hairs on my arms stand on end as the lights in the lot blink on and off. Looks like I’ll have to give Nancy a call tomorrow, too.
I’m just being paranoid, I tell myself. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
The feeling of being watched persists as I quicken my pace toward the front of the building. I turn around, but there’s nobody there. As I take a deep breath and start walking again, something darts past me, causing me to shriek—before I realize it’s just a cat. I sigh in relief, chuckling to myself. Too bad the complex has a policy against owning cats because I would love to adopt it. When I was a kid, I had a white cat named Alice, and I still miss her comforting presence.
My relief is short-lived when I turn the corner and see a figure standing in the shadows by the other side of the building. I freeze, my heart pounding as they move out of the shadows and come toward me. I can tell it’s a man, but I can’t make out his features because of the bizarre-looking white mask he’s wearing. Is this the same person who watched me in the park? The same one who committed all those murders?
Panic roots me to the spot. I’m indecisive, a million thoughts swirling in my head. Do I run? Call for help? But who will hear me? I’m unable to move as he takes yet another step toward me. “Who are you?” I ask, managing to find my voice. “What do you want?”
The figure stops for a second, then continues edging closer to me until we’re standing less than fifteen feet apart. He doesn’t answer, just stares at me through the empty voids of the mask. My stomach turns, and I feel like I’m going to be sick; the mask reminds me of my father and how he loved to wear them during his sprees.
“Please,” I beg, failing at keeping the fear from my words. “Just leave me alone.”
I imagine him smiling cruelly behind the mask as he brandishes something. It’s a knife—one used for hunting—and it glints menacingly in the moonlight as he scrapes it against the brick wall of the building. The unpleasant screeching echoes through the quiet night air, sending chills down my spine. I take a step back, my mind scrambling as I try to come up with an escape plan.
“I’m not going to leave you alone,” he says, his voice modified by some sort of device. “I’m going to watch you. I’m going to follow you. And I’m going to make sure that you never forget me.” He advances on me, slowly and steadily, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
In desperation, I turn and run in the opposite direction as he speeds after me, back toward the parking lot. But I stumble over something—goddammit, those broken lights!—and realize it’s a rock. A decent-sized one at that. Grabbing it with both hands, I stand and turn to face my pursuer, raising the rock above my head.
He stops in his tracks, surprised by this sudden show of courage from what he had likely assumed was an easy target. His grip on the knife tightens as he stares at me. He is clearly weighing his options, but ultimately decides to flee and vanishes into the night.
I’m motionless for a few moments as my heart rate slows down and my breathing returns to normal. After finally regaining some composure, I quickly drop the rock and run into the building, never once looking back as I climb the stairs. But before I can process what just happened, I see a piece of paper stuck to my apartment door. Slowly, I peel it away and unfold it, my eyes scanning the page.
I’m always watching you.
Chapter
Eight
HIM
Iplug the cord back into the outlet and slide the oven back into place. Sabotaging the heating element with no one noticing was no easy feat in such a small apartment. But fortunately, I learned a thing or two from my time as a freelance repairman—like how easy it is to get in and out of people’s houses with a little tinkering.
I also learned a thing or two about human nature through observation. People can be predictable creatures of habit, always preferring to stick to a schedule rather than risk any deviation. This is because schedules provide a sense of control and predictability in an often-chaotic world. And that predictability makes my job easier, that’s for damn sure.
Gathering my tools, I look around to make sure everything is in order. Stilling my breath for a few moments, I listen for any sounds of movement. But there’s nothing aside from the soft breathing coming from my Little Finch’s bedroom. It’s dawn, and the sun is just beginning to rise. Her alarm won’t go off for a few more hours.
Quietly, I make my way out of the kitchen and creep into her bathroom. I open the cabinet above the sink and find mostly run-of-the-mill things: vitamins, bandages, birth control, and sleeping pills.Having trouble sleeping, Little Finch?Then I notice it in plain sight—her prescription medication tucked away behind the bottles of supplements. I grab it and unscrew the lid.
I have to be careful; the last thing I need is for her to come in here while I’m swapping more of her pills with placebos.
After shutting the cabinet, I tiptoe out of her bathroom and into her bedroom where she sleeps peacefully, unaware of my presence. I stand by her bed, watching her. I contemplate reaching out to touch her face, but now is not the time for such a gesture—not when she still has no idea who I really am.
