Page 122 of Faking the Goal

One step. That's all it'd take. One tiny, innocent step, and I'd be inside.

Then another step toward the manga shelves.

Then I'd tell myself I'd only read one chapter.

One chapter would somehow become three volumes.

Before I know it, it'd be two in the morning, my feature would still be unfinished.

"Not tonight," I tell myself firmly. "Priorities, Taylor. The feature. Money. Adulthood. Blah blah blah."

I take a step back, pouting like a child who's been told they can't have ice cream for dinner. I press my face briefly against the cold glass of the window and whisper, "I'll be back soon, my pretties. Mama's just going through a responsible phase. It won't last."

A woman walking past gives me a wide berth. I don't blame her.

The walk back to my apartment starts normally enough, sandwich bag swinging from my fingers and chips crinkling with each step. About halfway there, though, that familiar crawling sensation starts between my shoulder blades, the one that makes every instinct in me sharpen at once.

I glance over my shoulder, but the street behind me looks empty.

My phone pings inside my hoodie pocket.

I pull it out while I keep walking, expecting some useless notification, but the second I open the message, my steps slow.

It's a photo of me from behind.

At first, my brain takes a second to process what I'm looking at. Then I notice the hoodie. The plastic convenience-store bag hanging from my hand. The same stretch of sidewalk beneath my feet.

My hand starts shaking.

No.

I look down at myself, then back at the photo, and a horrible chill races over my skin because there's no mistaking it. I'm wearing those exact clothes right now, holding that exact bag, walking on this exact street.

My breath catches so sharply it hurts, and suddenly my heartbeat is pounding everywhere at once—my chest, my throat, behind my eyes—so hard it feels like my body is trying to warn me before my brain can fully catch up.

He's here.

Watching me.

My eyes sweep across the parked cars, the storefronts, the dark gaps between buildings, trying to find anything that looks wrong. Someone standing too still. A shadow that moves when it shouldn't. A car with someone sitting inside.

Nothing.

My phone pings again in my trembling hand.

UNKNOWN

Out this late all by yourself, Kitten?

A second message follows almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

That's not very safe, Kitten.

UNKNOWN

But you don't have to be scared. I'm right here watching over you.