And they don’t let go easy.
Ever since Grayson talked to the guys at the precinct, Sabine’s stalker has gone quiet. Awfully fucking quiet.
Not a single message. No flowers. No packages. No sign he’s watching from across the street like before. It’s as if he vanished. Like he packed up whatever twisted obsession he had and let it rot in some dark corner of his mind.
But I’m not naive enough to believe he’s gone.
Sabine thinks it’s over. She’s easing up already. She's sleeping in, skipping the extra locks, even laughing without looking over her shoulder. And I get it. She wants it to be done. She needs it to be done.
But it’s not.
This is just the part where that creep proves he’s patient. Where he learns how to go around the extra level of difficulty. The truth is, he’s adapting. Adjusting. He knows I went to Grayson. Knows I’m circling Sabine’s life like a goddamn bloodhound, showing up day after day, and waiting for him to slip. And that’s why he’s gone quiet.
Because when he does make a mistake—and everyone does sooner or later—I’ll be there. I’ll grab him by the balls and squeeze until there’s nothing left of them.
So now it’s a waiting game. Him on one end, me on the other. A silent war drawn out over time and nerves and stubborn fucking resolve.
I wake before dawn. 0400 on the dot. I lie there for a moment, not out of laziness, but to let my mind sharpen. I run through the day’s plan: what I’ll check, where I’ll go, what I’ll do if something’s off. Then I sit up and let my eyes sweep the room.
Everything’s where it should be.
Gun in the drawer. Knife strapped to my ankle. Phone facedown by the lamp.
I stand and move to the window first. The curtains are pulled just enough to give me a narrow line of sight.
Nothing unusual outside.
Still, I scan twice.
Then once more.
Only when I’m sure I see nothing suspicious do I turn and make my way through the house, checking each lock, every window, and every point someone could slip through if they wanted it badly enough. I don’t rush. This is the part that matters.
In the kitchen, I check the cameras. They’re mounted high on the corners of the house, feeding straight to my phone. One by one, the indicators blink green.
Clear.
Clear.
Clear.
I sit at the counter, barefoot, the tile cold under my heels. My hands go through the motions of making coffee. Grind. Measure. Pour. But my eyes stay fixed on the screen.
West cam: nothing.
Alley fence: still.
Branches swaying. Birds losing their minds again, shrieking like the sky’s about to fall.
All normal.
I lean back against the counter, facing the front door like it might turn on me.
Almost two hours pass.
Then, finally, I hear it. The soft creak of her bedroom door opening upstairs.
Sabine steps into the kitchen like a ghost waking up. Her hair’s a mess. The collar of her sweatshirt slips off one shoulder. Her eyes are puffy with sleep. She pauses at the bottom of the stairs and blinks, squinting like the light’s too much.
