I don’t remember pulling this.
I open it.
Inside: two photos.
Both black-and-white. Blurry. Shot from a distance.
The first—Raven, sitting on stone steps, head bowed, wearing a private school uniform, hands folded in her lap like she’s praying.
The second—worse.
Her, asleep on a chapel pew.
And behind her?
A figure.
Indistinct. Just shadow and light. Unfocused.
But tall.
Close.
Watching.
I stare at the image for a long time.
And I realise what I’m looking at isn’t mine.
I didn’t take these.
They were already on her system.
Archived.
Buried.
Someone watched her before I did.
And I never noticed.
My fingers curl slowly into a fist.
The problem isn’t just that she hasn’t told me.
It’s that she doesn’t know.
I closed the folder.
Eject the drive.
And lock it back in the case with a calmness that doesn’t belong to me.
Because inside, I’m splitting.
Not with rage—yet.
With realisation.
