The deputy he left on my couch lasted until about three in the morning before we mutually agreed she’d be more useful in her car. She kept pretending not to notice that I was still sitting atmy desk, eyes glued to my monitors, hair sticking up in a static halo from me running my fingers through it.
Now it’s just me, my sad tree, my laptop, and three thousand tabs open in my head.
My scraping bots pulled everything they could on the body at the Falls while I tried very hard not to picture Henry Thurston’s face pressed to my window.
It didn’t work.
I’ve catalogued every flinch, every footprint. The angle of his shoulder. The way he said little girl like it was a pet name and not a threat.
My brain writes things down whether I ask it to or not.
The chat rooms exploded after I dropped his name. Nightjar might be just another handle to them, but when I say Henry Thurston, people listen. Some because they respect my accuracy. Some because they like watching a car crash in real time.
A few might be him.
I haven’t slept. My muscles vibrate with that awful, sourceless energy that comes from too much adrenaline and not enough actual movement.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table with a text.
COTTON:awake?
I stare at it for three seconds before my thumbs catch up.
ME:define “awake”
Her reply is instant.
COTTON:conscious, breathing, able to text me movie quotes
ME: I’ll have what she’s having
COTTON:okay, she’s fine. but also I’m coming over later with food
ME:you really don’t have to—
COTTON:too late just accept the care
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh. It feels weird in my throat.
My stomach growls, offended that I’ve only bribed it with coffee and anxiety since last night. I ignore it and push my chair back from the desk.
Standing makes my head swim. I grab onto the back of the chair until the vertigo steadies.
“You’re so dumb,” I inform myself. “Eat something.”
I shuffle into the kitchen—three steps, a pivot, two more steps, because efficiency—and stare at the fridge like it’s going to offer anything.
I know what’s inside. Half a carton of eggs, two sad yogurt cups that I’m never in the mood for, a bag of baby carrots that have definitely seen better days, and three takeout boxes I don’t trust.
I grab a yogurt and peel it open. It tastes like sour vanilla and regret.
My apartment feels smaller than usual. The white walls loom. Every creak from the hallway makes my shoulders jump.
I hate this. The hypervigilance. The feeling of being prey.
I’m good at mapping monsters. I’m less good at being inside the map.
A light knock at the door makes my heart lunge into my throat.
