Like he's been waiting for this moment for seven years.
five
Angelina
The pigeon man.
Chesca's sleepy voice echoes in my head as I descend the stairs, each step deliberate and controlled, like I can hold myself together through sheer force of will.
He sits on the bench by my school. The pigeons are really fat now. Like little balloons with feet.
She'd said it innocently. Delighted. Like she had recognized a friend.
And Cole had stood in the hallway waiting for me, expression unreadable, like he knew this moment was coming.
Seven years. He said seven years.The words keep circling, refusing to land anywhere that makes sense.
The thermostat catches my eye on the landing. Sixty-eight degrees. My nighttime setting, the one I change after Chesca falls asleep, because she runs hot and I run cold.
I haven't touched it yet tonight. My stomach drops.
He shouldn't know any of this.
He's waiting in the living room when I reach the bottom. The living room feels smaller with him in it.
Cole stands near the window, backlit by the streetlamp outside, giving me space I didn't ask for but desperately need. My bare feet are cold against the hardwood. The house settles around us, and the sighs I usually find comforting now sound like whispers I can't quite hear.
"The thermostat." I gesture toward the landing, needing to understand the scope of this. All of it. "Sixty-eight degrees. You knew that before you ever stepped inside this house."
"Yes."
"The coffee this morning. One sugar, cream until it's caramel. The blue mug with the chip." Each detail another violation, another brick in a wall I didn't know existed. "Chesca's purple. The exact shade. You knew all of it."
"Yes."
"The bench." My voice cracks on the word, and I hate myself for it. "By her school. Feeding pigeons like some—like you belonged there. You were watching her walk inside. She's eight years old, Cole. She'seight."
Something shifts in his expression. Not guilt. He looks like a man stating facts he's long since made peace with. Like this confession costs him nothing because he already paid the price years ago.
"I know her teachers' names. Her friends. Every parent who picks up or drops off." He takes a step towards me and I take one back, maintaining the distance between us like it matters. "I know when you have nightmares. When you can't sleep. When you sit at the kitchen table at 3 AM holding your father's medal and crying."
"Cameras?" I change my mind and move closer, my bare feet slapping against hardwood. His scent hits me. "Where?"
"Exterior. Entry points. Driveway, front porch, back patio." Each location delivered like coordinates on a map. "Nothing inside. I watched through windows. The cameras or when I was parked outside. Saw what I could see."
"You were parked outside my house?"
"Sometimes. When I couldn't stay away." He takes a deep breath. "I know you, Angelina. Every detail. Every habit. Every exit you've mapped from every room in this house."
"That's stalking." I take a step towards him, holding my hands at my side to stop them from shaking.
"That's protection."
"You should have stayed away entirely." I take another step towards him.
He shakes his head. "I couldn't."
"You don't get to decide—"
