But I’d need at least triple the money I have coming in right now to lease that place…
I close the lid on my laptop with a soul-heavy sigh, then slip it into my gym bag before pulling my hoodie back on. I should probably get out of here. I’m going to have to go back to the flat while it’s still daylight, just so there might be a witness to me being murdered.
I know. I teach karate. I should be able to handle one identity-stealing stalker. But that’s not how it works in real life.
Like I said before, rule number one in a fight—a rule that I always carefully instil in my students—is that if you can run, you should run. You only engage physically if you absolutely have to, and then you only do it long enough to be able to escape.
Taking a punch to the face isn’t like in romance novels. It really fucking hurts. It scrambles your thoughts and your movements, and you’ll be at your enemy’s mercy fast unless you can get control of yourself.
And if they’ve got a weapon? Forget about it. Fight them if it’s life or death, for sure, but know you’re going to get stabbed or slashed or shot. Being mentally prepared for that is half the battle.
I try to catch the barista’s eye on the way out. She doesn’t look up. I call out thanks, but either she doesn’t hear me or she ignores me.
Then I’m back out in the cold.
And it is bitterly cold. I pull my hoodie up and sling my gym bag across my chest. I wish I’d grabbed my coat this morning. But that was over by the door, too far from the window I crawled out of.
Then I remember I probably left that window open.
Then I think about how frigid the flat is going to be.
Then I think again about the heating bill I can’t afford.
That fucking prick!Why is he doing this to me?
Well, it’s time to find out.
Pissed off now, I set a direct line for home. It’s too cold to stick to the main streets, the wind howling along the wide promenades of St. John’s Wood, so I head down a series of labyrinthine backstreets and alleys that I know will get me there faster.
My pace picks up as my anger does, and I open and close my hands, trying to keep some feeling in them as they numb, but maybe also slightly because I’m daydreaming about finding this guy still at my place, getting the jump on him, and having it out with him once and for all.
Maybe that’s all it needs. A swift punch to the face to let him know we’re done.
But just as that wonderful image pops into my mind, I hear footsteps behind me.
The buildings are narrow here, tall and red brick, the unseeing backs of towering townhouses. The sound ricochets from the cobblestones up and all around.
I slow my walk, tread lighter, listen hard.
Definitely someone else’s footsteps, and faster than mine.
I can’t see anyone when I glance over my shoulder. And it could be that triple shot of coffee talking, but I have a bad feeling about this.
I’m in London, a city full of people. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone else to be coming this way. But it’s the insistent strike of those shoes that worries me. There’s intent behind it.
Maybe I’m not ready to start a fight with my stalker after all.
Jesus, what if he’s coming to stab me?
But what if this is my best chance of getting close to him?
Quickening my pace, I pull my phone out. I touch the camera on, turning it to face me, but I aim it past my shoulder as I’m walking. It’s jumping around everywhere with the movement, hard to make much out clearly, but then…there…
A human shape appears on the screen. Dark hair, everything black from head to toe, exactly like a murderous stalker might wear.
I can’t make his face out, but I’ve never seen him up close anyway. There’s no way to tell whether this man is actually my stalker unless he does something.
But if the police won’t deal with it, someone has to.
