Except she never moved that photo. Ever. It was sacred. Untouchable.
She backed out of the bedroom, pulse hammering. Pulled out her phone and dialed Detective Black’s number before she could second-guess herself.
He answered on the second ring. “Nora? Everything okay?”
“Someone was in my apartment.” Her voice came out thin, breathless. “The photo on my nightstand—it was turned around. I didn’t do it. I never touch that photo.”
A pause. She could hear traffic in the background, the sound of his car. “Are you there now? In the apartment?”
“Yes. The door was locked. Everything was locked. But the photo—”
“Listen to me carefully.” His voice was calm, authoritative. It cut through her panic like an anchor. “I want you to leave the apartment right now. Don’t touch anything else. Go somewhere public—a coffee shop, a friend’s house, somewhere with people. I’m on my way.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m coming. Give me your address.”
She did, feeling tears prick at her eyes. She shouldn’t cry. Shouldn’t fall apart. But someone believed her. Someone was coming.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Twenty minutes. Stay on the phone with me until you’re somewhere safe.”
Nora grabbed her purse and laptop and left the apartment, keeping her phone pressed to her ear as she took the elevator down. Detective Black kept talking—nothing important, just his voice filling the silence, keeping her grounded.
Eugene, the night security guard, looked up from his desk as she rushed past. “Evening, Ms. Bell. Everything okay?”
She forced a smile. “Fine. Just forgot something.”
Outside, the cold air helped clear her head. She walked three blocks to a chain coffee shop, brightand busy with the after-work crowd. Found a table by the window where she could see the street.
“I’m at Starbucks on Fifth,” she told Detective Black. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll be there soon. Order something. Try to relax.”
“Okay.”
She ended the call and ordered a tea she didn’t want, then sat at her table, watching people pass by on the sidewalk. Normal people with normal problems. No one watching them. No one invading their space.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:You looked beautiful today. The blue sweater is my favorite.
Nora’s blood turned to ice.
She was wearing a blue sweater. Had been all day.
With shaking fingers, she forwarded the text to Detective Black, then typed:Just got this. Unknown number.
His response came immediately:Don’t respond. I’m five minutes out.
Nora set down her phone and wrapped both hands around her tea, trying to stop the shaking. Trying not to look at every person in the coffee shop, wondering which one was watching her.
Because someone was watching. Someone had been in her apartment, turned her parents’ photo around, and now they wanted her to know they’d seen her today.
This wasn’t anxiety. Wasn’t paranoia. Wasn’t her broken brain creating patterns.
This was real.
And it was getting worse.
