Deleted them.
Rolled my eyes.
Comes with the territory, people said.
Internet creeps are everywhere.
But then it escalated.
Last stop was in Pennsylvania—Green Dragon Market.
I’d gone there because one of my followers swore I had to see the Amish farmers' market, and honestly? It was adorable.
Fresh baked bread, jams, baskets, quilts, flowers, pies the size of steering wheels.
I filmed a little segment on homemade chow-chow and hand-stitched potholders and bought enough baked goods to justify skipping dinner.
For a few hours, I forgot.
Forgot the unsigned papers.
Forgot Benji.
Forgot the weird comments.
Until I walked back out to the van.
And found a bouquet of blackened roses with a red ribbon tucked under the drivers’ side windshield wiper.
No note.
No card.
Just dead roses, brittle and wrong, like someone had gone out of their way to send a message.
I stood there in the parking lot, staring at them while the hair on the back of my neck lifted.
Then my phone buzzed.
Private number.
A text.
Dead things can still be beautiful if you look close enough.
I almost threw up.
After that day, “maybe it’s just internet weirdos” didn’t quite cut it anymore.
Then came the broken lock on the small apartment I sublet in Philly when I tried to crash there for two nights before heading to Jersey.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing obviously touched.
Just the lock jimmied and a pair of my clean panties draped over the chair by the window like someone had been waiting for me.
That was enough.
