Thursday night, I left the office at nine—early, by my recent standards. The subway was quiet, populated by the usual mix of late commuters and people heading out to start their evenings. I found a seat and let the rhythmic rocking of the train lull me into a half-doze, my head nodding against the window.
My apartment welcomed me with its familiar silence. I kicked off my heels in the entryway, padded to the kitchen in my stockinged feet, and surveyed the contents of my refrigerator. Leftover Thai from lunch with Lisa. A bottle of white wine I'd been saving for a occasion that never seemed to arrive. Some wilted lettuce that had been optimistic even when I'd bought it.
I heated the Thai and poured a generous glass of wine, then settled onto the couch with my laptop. More work emails—there were always more work emails—but I forced myself to close the browser after thirty minutes. Lisa's voice echoed in my head:You're burning out, Gaby.
Maybe I was. Maybe that explained everything—the paranoia, the sleeplessness, the constant feeling that I was one mistake away from losing everything I'd worked for. Normal people didn't see stalkers in every shadow. Normal people didn't feel hunted walking down a public street.
I finished my wine, washed my face, and changed into pajamas—soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that had belonged to my college boyfriend, the last man who'd seen me undressed. That had been two years ago, before the weight I'd gained from stress eating and sedentary office work had made me too self-conscious to let anyone close. The shirt was worn thin now, comfortable in a way that new clothes never were.
My bed felt like heaven after the long day. I lay in the darkness, listening to the familiar sounds of the building—pipes settling, a television murmuring through the wall, the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
I fell asleep within minutes, deeper than I'd slept in weeks.
***
The sound that woke me was wrong.
I couldn't identify it at first—my sleep-fogged brain struggled to categorize the soft metallic scraping that had pulled me from unconsciousness. It wasn't the pipes. Wasn't theneighbors. It was something else, something that didn't belong in the symphony of sounds I'd learned to ignore.
Then I placed it: my front door. Someone was picking the lock.
I lay frozen, my heart suddenly pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe the paranoia had followed me into sleep, conjuring threats that didn't exist.
The lock clicked open.
I stopped breathing. In the silence of my apartment, I heard the door swing inward, heard the soft footfall of someone stepping inside. Then another. More than one person.
Move, my brain screamed.Move, move, move.
I threw off the covers as quietly as I could, my hands shaking so badly I could barely control them. My phone—where was my phone? On the nightstand, but I couldn't call for help now, couldn't risk the sound of my voice carrying to the intruders. I needed to run. Needed to get out.
The fire escape.
I was already moving toward the window when I heard the voice—low, male, speaking in a language I didn't understand. Russian, maybe. The word came through clearly, even though I couldn't translate it:Bedroom.
They were coming for me.
The window stuck. Of course it stuck—it always stuck, swollen with humidity and age, and I'd been meaning to ask the super about it for months. I shoved upward with all my strength, panic lending me force I didn't normally have. The old frame groaned, resisted, then finally gave.
Cool October air rushed over my face as I climbed through onto the fire escape. The metal grating was freezing against my bare feet, rough with rust, but I didn't care. I was already scrambling down the ladder, my breath coming in harsh gasps that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet alley.
Behind me, I heard my bedroom door crash open. Shouts in Russian. The clatter of someone climbing through the window after me.
I dropped the last few feet to the ground, my ankles screaming at the impact. The alley was dark, lit only by the dim glow from a streetlight at the far end. If I could reach the street, if I could scream loud enough for someone to hear—
"Stop."
The command came from ahead of me, not behind. A figure stepped out of the shadows near the mouth of the alley, blocking my escape. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark coat that probably cost more than a month of my rent.
I knew him before I saw his face. Knew him by the way he moved, by the authority that radiated from his posture, by the prickle of recognition that ran down my spine.
Then he stepped into the light, and those green eyes met mine.
The man from the coffee shop.
"You," I breathed.
He moved toward me, and I stumbled backward, my bare feet slipping on the grimy pavement. Behind me, I could hear his men dropping from the fire escape, cutting off my retreat. I was trapped in the narrow alley, surrounded by strangers in the dark, and the man I'd glimpsed once and tried to forget was walking toward me like he had all the time in the world.
