# CHAPTER FOUR

  Michelle's apartment was smaller than Sarah's—a one-bedroom in a pre-war building with creaking wooden floors and a temperamental radiator that clanked to life at random intervals. The living room, where a futon had been hastily converted into a bed for Sarah, was cramped but cozy, with medical textbooks stacked on every available surface and a collection of potted plants crowding the windowsill.

  "They'll die the minute I touch them," Sarah had joked when Michelle first moved in, watching her friend arrange the plants in optimum sunlight positions. "Some of us just don't have the nurturing gene."

  Now, at 3:17 AM, Sarah lay awake on the futon, staring at those same plants silhouetted against the ambient glow of the city filtering through the curtains. Sleep had come in fitful bursts, each time disrupted by dreams of being watched, of someone standing just out of sight, breathing quietly, waiting.

  Michelle had insisted on taking Sarah's phone for the night, powering it off completely and locking it in her dresser drawer. "Whatever sicko is messaging you, they can wait until morning," she'd declared. "You need to rest."

  But rest wouldn't come.

  Sarah shifted positions, the futon's metal frame groaning in protest. From the bedroom came the soft, rhythmic sound of Michelle's breathing. Her friend could sleep through an earthquake—a skill developed during her years of hospital rotation shifts.

  With careful movements, Sarah sat up and reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. The ice had long since melted, leaving it tepid and flat. She drank it anyway, her thoughts returning to the strange events of the past twenty-four hours.

  The picture frame. The missing strawberries. The shampoo. The texts.

  Individually, each incident seemed trivial, the kind of thing that happened to everyone occasionally. But together, they formed a pattern that sent cold ripples of fear through her body. Someone was in her apartment. Someone was watching her. And that someone knew details about her life that no stranger should know.

  *You look nice tonight, Sarah.*

  *That blue blouse brings out your eyes. Better than the green one you almost wore.*

  *Running to Michelle won't help. I'll always know where you are, Sarah. Always.*

  The last message replayed in her mind, bringing with it a fresh wave of unease. How had they known she was going to Michelle's? Had they followed the cab? Were they watching Michelle's apartment now?

  Sarah rose quietly and moved to the window, carefully parting the curtains just enough to peer down at the street five floors below. The neighborhood was quiet at this hour, the sidewalks empty except for a homeless man pushing a shopping cart and a couple walking arm in arm, likely returning from a late night out.

  Parked cars lined both sides of the street. Sarah scanned them slowly, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of someone watching. In the third car from the corner, she thought she saw the cherry glow of a cigarette, but it might have been a reflection from the traffic light.

  She let the curtain fall back into place and returned to the futon, wrapping herself in the blanket Michelle had provided. Despite the warmth of the apartment, she couldn't seem to get warm, a bone-deep chill having settled into her body.

  Tomorrow—no, today—they would go to the police. Michelle had been insistent about that. But what evidence did they have? Strange text messages from a burner phone, most likely. Reports of minor disturbances in Sarah's apartment that could easily be attributed to forgetfulness or imagination.

  The police would take a report, offer some bland reassurance about increasing patrols in her neighborhood, and suggest she change her locks. Nothing would happen. The messages would continue. The violations of her space would escalate.

  And then what?

  Sarah's mind drifted to Eric, her neighbor, the police officer. Maybe he could help? But something about him made her uneasy. The way he'd appeared in the elevator just as the doors were closing. The smile that didn't reach his eyes. His convenient occupation that he'd made sure to mention.

  That familiar voice tried surfacing again. *You're overreacting. You're seeing threats everywhere.*

  But that voice felt different now. Weaker. Less convincing.

  The doubt that had served as a shield was becoming a liability. What if her instincts were trying to warn her? What if dismissing them was exactly what put her in danger?

  But paranoia felt increasingly like prudence.

  At some point, Sarah must have drifted off, because she woke with a start to sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains and the smell of coffee brewing. Michelle stood in the kitchenette, still in her pajamas, her red hair tangled from sleep.

  "Morning," Michelle said, noticing Sarah's movement. "You look like hell."

  "Thanks." Sarah sat up, running a hand through her own disheveled hair. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."

  Michelle poured coffee into a chipped mug with "Nurses Do It With Better Reflexes" printed on the side and brought it to Sarah. "Cream, no sugar. Just how you like it."

  "You're a saint." Sarah took the mug gratefully, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers.

  "So," Michelle perched on the arm of a nearby chair, her own coffee cradled in her hands. "What's the plan?"

  "Police station, I guess," Sarah replied without enthusiasm. "Though I still don't think they'll take it seriously."

  "Let me see your phone again."

  Sarah watched as Michelle retrieved her phone from the bedroom, powering it on with visible reluctance. They both stared at the screen as it came to life, holding their breath.

  Five new messages, all from the unknown number.

  *Good morning, Sarah. Sleep well at Michelle's?*

  *The futon can't be comfortable. Your neck will hurt all day.*

  *Those plants need watering, by the way. Third one from the left is dying.*

  *Check your email. I sent you something last night while you slept.*

  *You should go home. I miss you.*

  Michelle's face paled as she read the messages. "How the hell would they know about my plants? Or that you slept on the futon?"

  Sarah stood and moved to the window, scanning the street below with renewed urgency. "They must have followed us. Or they know where you live already. Maybe they can see into your apartment somehow."

  She examined the buildings across the street, looking for any window that might provide a direct view into Michelle's living room. There were several possibilities.

  "We're definitely going to the police," Michelle said, her voice hardening with determination. "This is beyond creepy. This is stalking, Sarah."

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  Sarah nodded absently, her attention caught by the mention of email in the texts. "I need to check my email."

  Michelle handed her laptop over reluctantly. "You sure that's a good idea?"

  "If they sent something, I need to know what it is."

  Sarah logged into her personal email account, her stomach churning with apprehension. At the top of her inbox sat an email from an address she didn't recognize: . The subject line read simply "Home."

  She clicked on it, ignoring Michelle's sharp intake of breath over her shoulder.

  The email contained no text, just three attached photos. Sarah opened the first one, and her blood ran cold.

  It was her apartment—her bedroom—taken from the doorway. The bed was unmade, exactly as she'd left it yesterday morning in her rush to get ready. Her pajamas lay discarded on the floor.

  The second photo was closer, focused on her bedside table. Her glass of water, her lip balm, her e-reader. And a small framed photo of her parents that normally sat on her dresser across the room.

  The third photo made her gasp aloud. It was her bed again, but this time someone was lying in it. The sheets were pulled up to just below the shoulders, revealing dark hair splayed across her pillow—her pillow, in her bed. The person's face wasn't visible, just the back of their head.

  "Jesus Christ," Michelle whispered. "Sarah, that's..."

  "Someone was in my bed." Sarah's voice sounded strange to her own ears, distant and hollow. "While I was here with you, someone was in my apartment, in my bed."

  "We're calling the police right now." Michelle reached for her phone, but Sarah grabbed her wrist.

  "Wait. Let me check something first."

  She returned to her email inbox and sorted by sender, scanning through for any other messages from the same address. There were none. Then she checked her sent folder, a horrible suspicion forming in her mind.

  There, from yesterday afternoon, was an email she had no memory of sending. The recipient was the same address. The subject line read "Working Late." The body contained a single sentence:

  *I'll be at the office until at least 8, then meeting Michelle at Bowery Bar.*

  "I didn't send this," Sarah whispered, turning the screen so Michelle could see. "I never sent this email."

  Michelle stared at the screen, her expression shifting from confusion to horror. "They have access to your email? How is that possible?"

  "I don't know. I have two-factor authentication. I'm careful with my passwords." Sarah closed the laptop, suddenly feeling as though the device itself was contaminated. "This is someone who knows what they're doing."

  Michelle was already dialing her phone. "I'm calling Jake. His cousin is a detective with NYPD. We need someone who will take this seriously."

  While Michelle spoke rapidly into the phone, Sarah returned to the window, scanning the street with newfound intensity. The morning rush had begun, people hurrying to work, coffee cups in hand, earbuds in place, oblivious to the private nightmares unfolding in the apartments above them.

  Any one of them could be watching her right now. The businessman checking his watch. The woman walking her dog. The delivery driver idling on the corner.

  Or none of them. Maybe the watcher wasn't on the street at all, but in one of the surrounding buildings, binoculars trained on Michelle's window, noting Sarah's every movement, every expression.

  "Jake's cousin can meet us at the 14th Precinct in an hour," Michelle announced, ending her call. "His name is Detective Reid. Jake says he's good people."

  Sarah nodded, still staring out the window. "I need to go home first."

  "What? No way. That's exactly what that creep wants."

  "I need clean clothes, my laptop for work, some toiletries." Sarah turned to face her friend. "And I need to see it, Michelle. I need to see my apartment, to know if anything else has been touched or moved or... I need to know how bad this is."

  Michelle shook her head vigorously. "Absolutely not. I'll loan you clothes. We can buy toiletries. Your work can wait."

  "I can't hide here forever." Sarah gestured around the small apartment. "And I'm putting you at risk too. Whoever this is, they know where you live now."

  "All the more reason to go straight to the police."

  "We will. But I need ten minutes at my apartment first." Sarah held up a hand as Michelle began to protest. "I won't go alone. You'll come with me. We'll be in and out. But I need to see what they've done."

  Michelle stared at her for a long moment, then sighed heavily. "Fine. Ten minutes. We go together, we stay together, and then we go straight to meet Jake's cousin."

  "Thank you."

  They dressed quickly, Sarah borrowing a sweater and jeans from Michelle that were slightly too big. Neither of them spoke much as they prepared to leave, each lost in her own thoughts.

  In the elevator, Michelle finally broke the silence. "What if they're still there? In your apartment?"

  Sarah had been considering the same possibility. "We'll see if Walter is on duty. He has a master key. We'll ask him to check the apartment first."

  "And if Walter isn't there?"

  "Then we call the police and wait."

  But as they exited the building and hailed a cab, Sarah couldn't shake the feeling that their precautions were futile. Whoever was watching her, stalking her, had already demonstrated an uncanny ability to know her whereabouts, to access her private spaces, to anticipate her movements.

  They were always one step ahead, always watching, always waiting.

  The cab pulled away from the curb, merging into morning traffic. In the side mirror, Sarah caught a glimpse of a man standing on the sidewalk outside Michelle's building, watching their departure. He was too far away to make out his features clearly, but something in his posture—the stillness, the focus—sent a shiver of recognition through her.

  By the time she twisted in her seat for a better look, they had turned the corner, and the man was gone from view.

  "What is it?" Michelle asked, noticing her movement.

  Sarah hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing. Just jumpy, I guess."

  But as the cab wound its way through the city streets toward her apartment, Sarah couldn't dispel the image of the watching man, or the growing certainty that she was heading exactly where he wanted her to go.