"I need to show you something," she whispered, her voice strained even to her own ears. "Break room. Now."
Miriam's eyebrows rose, but she followed without question, abandoning her task. Ann led the way, checking the employee hallway once more before pulling Miriam into the empty break room and shutting the door with more force than she'd intended.
"What's going on?" Miriam asked, concern replacing her usual easy smile. "You look terrible."
Ann's hands trembled as she fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste to unlock the screen. "Last night," she began, her voice catching. "Two in the morning. He was there, Miriam. Outside my apartment."
"Marcus?" Miriam stepped closer, her voice dropping instinctively.
Ann nodded, pulling up her photo gallery with fingers that wouldn't quite obey her commands. "I couldn't sleep. I've barely slept in days. I was checking the windows—I do that now, every hour or so—and there he was."
She turned the phone toward Miriam, displaying the first image—a patrol car parked at night, partially obscured by a hedge but clearly visible in the harsh glow of her phone's night mode. The timestamp in the corner read 2:07 a.m.
"This is from last night?" Miriam took the phone, studying the image with narrowed eyes.
"Swipe right. I took several." Ann's voice quivered. "He was there for over an hour. Just sitting. Watching."
Miriam swiped through the photos, each showing the patrol carfrom slightly different angles. The final image was the clearest. The number 37 was clearly visible on its door.
"That's definitely his car," Miriam said, her tone shifting from curious to concerned. "The one with the dent in the rear bumper?"
Ann nodded vigorously. "And it gets worse. After the traffic stop the other day?—"
"He pulled you over again?" Miriam's head snapped up, her fingers tightening around Ann's phone.
"On my way home. Said I rolled through a stop sign on Westfield and Elm." Ann's voice rose slightly before she caught herself, glancing at the closed door. "I didn't, Miriam. I swear to God I didn't. I've been so careful—counting in my head at every stop sign, watching my speed exactly. I knew he'd use any excuse to pull me over."
"What happened?"
Ann hugged her arms around herself, as if the physical pressure might keep her from falling apart. "He kept me there for twenty minutes, just asking questions. Where was I going? Was I heading straight home? What route was I taking home?" She swallowed hard. "He said he'd noticed I took Cedar Lane the night before—that's the detour I made when I was checking if someone was following me."
"How did he know that?" Miriam whispered.
"Because he was the one following me." Ann's voice cracked. "He wanted me to know he was watching."
Miriam took a step back, her expression shifting as the full implications sank in. She zoomed in on one of the photos, focusing on the license plate and the distinctive dent in the bumper. "This is the same patrol car you've seen before? You're absolutely sure?"
"Positive." Ann rubbed her hands over her face, smearing the concealer she'd carefully applied to hide the evidence of her sleepless night. "Number 37. The same one I’ve seen him arrive here in, the same one my neighbor saw. The same one he used to pull me over."
"And he didn't give you a ticket? Just a warning?"
Ann nodded. "He doesn't want official records. He wants me scared." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's working."
Miriam handed back the phone; her earlier skepticism had completely evaporated. "You need to tell Tom about this," she said firmly, squeezing Ann's arm. "This is beyond uncomfortable customer territory now."
"I tried." Ann scrolled through the photos again, as if confirming to herself that the evidence was real, that she wasn't imagining the escalating nightmare. "He thinks I'm overreacting. That I should be flattered by the attention."
"Show him these photos," Miriam insisted. "The timestamp, the car number—it's all right there. This isn't some police officer with a crush. This is stalking, Ann."
The word hung in the air between them, stark and undeniable. Ann had been circling it for weeks, afraid to give voice to her fears, but now it stood plainly before them. Stalking. By a man with a badge, a gun, and the institutional power to make any complaint disappear.
"What if telling Tom makes it worse?" Ann whispered. "What if Marcus finds out I'm documenting this? What if?—"
The break room door swung open, and both women jumped. Lena stood in the doorway, her eyebrows rising at their obvious tension.
"Sorry to interrupt whatever's going on, but Ann, you've got customers at table four," she said, her gaze moving between them with open curiosity.
Ann nodded, hastily shoving her phone into her apron pocket. "I'll be right there."
