The Novartis presentation went better than Sarah had expected. Despite the rushed preparation, her concepts for their new campaign had impressed Phillips enough that he'd asked for expanded mock-ups by the end of the week. As the executive team filed out of the conference room, Marcus had given her a subtle thumbs-up behind their backs.

  "Told you you're always over-prepared," he whispered as the door closed. "Let's debrief in my office."

  Now, four hours later, Sarah sat at her desk, massaging her temples against the headache that had been building since morning. Her computer screen displayed the early stages of the expanded mock-ups, but her focus kept drifting. The strange events in her apartment that morning lingered in her mind like an unresolved chord.

  "Heading out soon?" Eliza from the copywriting team poked her head over the partition. "You look like you could use a drink."

  Sarah glanced at the time: 6:42 PM. She'd promised to meet Michelle at eight.

  "Just wrapping up," she said, saving her work. "Got plans tonight anyway."

  "Hot date?" Eliza's eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

  "Just Michelle and some of her hospital friends."

  "Ah, the eternal mission to find you Mr. Right." Eliza leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Any prospects since David the Douchebag?"

  Sarah shook her head, powering down her computer. "Not looking. And please don't call him that."

  "Why not? Three women, Sarah. At the same time."

  "I know." Sarah gathered her things, wanting to end this conversation. She'd spent months trying to forget the humiliation, the shock of scrolling through those messages, each one a fresh betrayal. "I just don't need the reminder."

  Eliza's expression softened. "Sorry. I just hate seeing you still hurt over someone who didn't deserve you in the first place."

  "I'm fine, really." Sarah mustered a smile. "See you tomorrow?"

  Outside, the early evening air had cooled. Sarah pulled her jacket closer, joining the flow of commuters heading toward the subway. She could have walked home—it was only twenty blocks—but something about the approaching darkness made her opt for public transportation.

  As she descended the subway stairs, her phone buzzed.

  Michelle: *Running late. Jake got stuck with a patient. Meet at the bar at 8:30 instead?*

  Sarah texted back her agreement, then considered her options. She could go straight to the bar and nurse a drink alone for an hour, or she could go home first, freshen up, maybe change her outfit. The thought of her apartment—quiet, empty, things slightly out of place—made her hesitate.

  *Don't be ridiculous.*

  She adjusted her course toward home, annoyed at her own reluctance. It was her space. Her sanctuary. Whatever strange things she'd noticed that morning, they had logical explanations. The coffee had lasted fewer days than expected. She'd absentmindedly put the keys in the bathroom drawer while multitasking. The strawberries... well, maybe she'd eaten them and forgotten.

  The subway car lurched into motion. Sarah held the overhead bar, swaying with the movement as she scanned her fellow passengers out of habit. A teenager with headphones nodding to music. An elderly woman clutching a shopping bag. Two businessmen discussing quarterly reports. A man in a dark coat reading a newspaper.

  Something about him caught her attention. His face was partially obscured by the paper, but there was something familiar in his posture. Sarah stared for a moment too long. The man lowered his newspaper slightly, and their eyes met.

  She looked away quickly, heart suddenly pounding. It wasn't her neighbor from the hallway this morning—this man was older, with a heavier build—but something in his gaze had triggered the same unease.

  When Sarah glanced back, he had raised the newspaper again, his face hidden. She shifted positions, moving further down the car, telling herself she was being paranoid.

  At her stop, Sarah exited quickly, relieved to be free of the confined space. The station was fairly busy with the evening rush, footsteps and voices echoing off the tiled walls. As she climbed the stairs to street level, she thought she heard footsteps matching her pace behind her, but when she turned to look, there were only strangers, none paying her any particular attention.

  The six-block walk to her apartment building seemed longer than usual. Twice, Sarah checked over her shoulder, certain she was being followed, but seeing only normal pedestrian traffic each time. By the time she reached her building, the skin between her shoulder blades prickled with tension.

  Walter wasn't at his usual post in the lobby—probably on his dinner break. Sarah swiped her key card at the security door, glancing at the empty desk with a twinge of disappointment. The familiar face would have been reassuring.

  In the elevator, she checked her watch: 7:22 PM. Plenty of time to shower and change before meeting Michelle. As the doors slid closed, a hand shot between them, forcing them back open.

  "Sorry! Almost missed it."

  Her neighbor from that morning stepped in, slightly breathless. Up close, Sarah realized he was younger than she'd initially thought—early thirties perhaps, with light brown hair cut short and unremarkable features. The kind of face you might pass a dozen times without remembering.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Fifth floor?" he asked, finger hovering over the already-lit button.

  Sarah nodded, taking a small step back. "Yes, thanks."

  "I'm in 5D," he offered, extending his hand. "Eric Larsen. I've seen you around, but we've never officially met."

  "Sarah," she replied, briefly shaking his hand. His palm was cool and dry against hers. "5A."

  "Ah, we're practically next door neighbors. Been in the building long?"

  "Three years," Sarah said, watching the floor numbers climb with deliberate attention. "You?"

  "Just moved in last month. Transferred here for work." His smile revealed slightly crooked front teeth. "I'm still finding my way around."

  The elevator chimed at the fifth floor, and Sarah stepped out quickly, Eric following. As they walked down the hallway, she was acutely aware of his presence behind her.

  "What do you do, if you don't mind me asking?" he continued.

  "Graphic design." Sarah reached her door, keys already in hand. She didn't elaborate.

  "Interesting. I'm in law enforcement myself."

  Sarah's fingers fumbled with the key. "Oh? What branch?"

  "Police department." Eric had stopped outside his own door but made no move to open it. "Nothing exciting, mostly paperwork these days. Used to be on patrol."

  "Must be interesting work." Sarah finally got her door unlocked. "Well, nice to officially meet you."

  "Likewise. Hope to see you around, Sarah."

  She nodded politely and slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind her. The deadbolt slid into place with a satisfying click. Sarah leaned against the door for a moment, breathing deeply.

  *Why am I so jumpy? Because he's a cop? Because he's new to the building?*

  She pushed away from the door, dropping her bag on the entryway table. The apartment was exactly as she'd left it—or seemed to be, at first glance. She moved through the rooms, switching on lights, checking that everything was in its place. The photo frame on her dresser remained aligned where she'd straightened it that morning. The coffee bag sat on the counter, still half-empty.

  As she entered her bedroom, something caught her eye on the floor near her nightstand. A small red fiber, too bright to be from any of her clothing or linens. She picked it up, examining it between her fingers. It looked like thread from a sweater—a man's sweater, based on the thickness. She couldn't recall having anyone over who'd worn something this color. She dropped it into her wastebasket, dismissing it as something tracked in from outside, though it did nothing to ease the creeping sensation along her spine.

  In the bathroom, Sarah turned on the shower, letting the water heat up as she undressed. Steam began to fill the small space, fogging the mirror. She stepped under the hot spray, hoping to wash away the tension of the day.

  As the water sluiced over her body, Sarah closed her eyes, rolling her shoulders to release the knots there. She reached for her shampoo bottle, squeezing a dollop into her palm.

  The scent hit her immediately—something was wrong. This wasn't her usual shampoo fragrance. She opened her eyes, examining the bottle. It was her brand, her bottle, but the contents smelled different—a heavier, more masculine scent.

  Sarah set the bottle down with shaking hands, quickly rinsing the shampoo from her hair. The familiar bottle with the unfamiliar contents seemed suddenly sinister. Had someone replaced her shampoo? Or was her memory failing her again?

  She finished her shower in record time, wrapping herself in a towel as she stepped out. The bathroom mirror was completely fogged now. She wiped a circle in the condensation, staring at her reflection. Her eyes looked too wide, her face pale beneath the flush from the hot water.

  "It's just a new formula," she said aloud, the sound of her voice startling in the steamy bathroom. "They change them all the time."

  But she couldn't shake the feeling of violation. Someone else's scent was now in her hair.

  Sarah dressed quickly in black jeans and a navy blouse, applying minimal makeup and blow-drying her hair. The strange shampoo made her scalp feel different—slightly tight, almost tingling. Or was she imagining that too?

  Her phone buzzed with another text from Michelle.

  *Running REALLY late. Make it 9? Jake's colleague is still coming though, so don't bail! His name is Chris.*

  Sarah sighed, texting back: *No problem. I'll be there.*

  She still had over an hour to kill. The thought of staying alone in the apartment suddenly seemed unbearable. She'd go to the bar early, have a quiet drink, maybe look over her notes for tomorrow.

  As she gathered her things, Sarah noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. Few people used her landline—mostly her parents and telephone solicitors—but she kept it for emergencies. She pressed the play button.

  Silence greeted her. Then, faintly, the sound of breathing. Ten seconds of someone just... listening. The message ended with a click.

  Sarah stared at the machine. The timestamp indicated the call had come in at 2:17 PM, when she'd been in the meeting with Novartis. Her hand hovered over the delete button, then withdrew. She'd save it, just in case.

  Just in case of what, she wasn't sure.

  She checked all the windows, making sure they were locked, then grabbed her keys and purse. At the door, she hesitated, then returned to the kitchen. After a moment's consideration, she took a small paring knife from the drawer and slipped it into her purse. The action made her feel both safer and more ridiculous.

  In the hallway, she glanced toward apartment 5D. Eric's door was closed, no light visible beneath it. Sarah hurried to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly until the doors opened.

  The lobby was still empty. Where was Walter? He rarely left his post unattended for long. Sarah pushed through the front doors, stepping out into the night. The streets were less crowded now, the initial rush of commuters having dispersed to homes and evening engagements.

  She hailed a cab, not wanting to risk the subway again. As she settled into the back seat and gave the driver the address of the bar, Sarah felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

  A text from an unknown number: *You look nice tonight, Sarah.*

  Her blood turned to ice. She glanced out the window at the people on the sidewalk, but no one seemed to be watching the cab. The message had been sent at the exact moment she'd stepped into the vehicle.

  With trembling fingers, she typed back: *Who is this?*

  The response came immediately: *A friend who's looking out for you.*

  Sarah stared at the screen, her mind racing. Was this someone's idea of a joke? Michelle setting her up with this Chris person? Or something more sinister?

  *I think you have the wrong number,* she typed.

  Another immediate response: *I don't think so, Sarah. I never make mistakes about you.*

  The cab pulled up to the bar, and Sarah paid quickly, almost running inside. The warmth and noise enveloped her—clinking glasses, laughter, music playing just loud enough to make conversation an effort. She scanned the room, looking for Michelle's familiar face, but her friend wasn't there yet.

  Sarah found a small table in the corner and ordered a vodka tonic, stronger than her usual. She placed her phone face-down on the table, not wanting to see if more messages arrived.

  The bartender delivered her drink, and Sarah took a long sip, feeling the alcohol burn a path to her stomach. She had options. She could block the number. Call the police. Tell Michelle. But what would she say? *Someone texted me that I look nice?* It sounded absurd, even to her.

  She took another sip, larger this time, and tried to focus on the normalcy around her. People laughing, flirting, enjoying a night out. Nothing sinister. Nothing threatening.

  But as Sarah raised her glass again, she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere in the crowded bar, someone was watching her. Someone who knew exactly what she was wearing tonight.