The thing that keeps me up isn't the stalker. Stalkers I understand. They operate on patterns, escalation curves, predictable psychology.
The thing that keeps me up is simpler. What happens when I'm standing right here — cameras live, locks engaged, every window pinned — and it's still not enough?
Chapter 9
Kari
The cameras watch me brush my teeth.
Not literally — the interior ones are pointed at the doors, the hallways, the entry points a reasonable person would use. But their little green lights glow in the edges of my vision like a new kind of wallpaper, and Millicent is already enough wallpaper for one house.
"Good morning," I tell the bathroom mirror. My face looks the way it always looks after a bad night — slightly translucent, like a person who's been arguing for hours and lost. The argument ended with from now on, you know what I know, and I'm still not sure whether that was a concession or a confession.
The renovation doesn't care about my feelings. Patricia needs a new sanding pad. The second-floor hallway baseboard has been peeling since I started, patient, waiting for me to get back to it the way a dog waits by its bowl.
Stopping means they win. Whoever repositioned that kitchen chair. Whoever typed that letter while I stood one floor above with shampoo in my hair.
My thumbnail finds my teeth.
Downstairs, coffee is already made. The mug sits on the counter, handle facing the direction I reach from. Liam is onthe front porch, phone in hand, scanning camera feeds the way other people check the weather. His shoulders shift when I come through the screen door — a micro-adjustment I've learned to read as I know you're here.
"I'm sanding the hallway baseboard today," I say.
"Okay."
"And maybe the parlor trim, if Patricia's feeling generous."
"Okay."
"And I might wrestle that crown molding in the back bedroom, but I'll need Gerald, and Gerald's been moody."
His mouth twitches. "I'll be inside."
That's it. No argument about windows and sight lines. Just I'll be inside, which means I'll be close, which means we've found the new rules and he's choosing to follow them.
Patricia is halfway through the baseboard when my phone buzzes. Del's name, surrounded by the string of emojis she programmed into my contacts — a knife, a fire, a crown, a middle finger.
"You need to leave," Del says, before I can get a hello out.
"Good morning to you too."
"I talked to Nina last night. She told me about the letter. The chair. Someone was in your house while you were in the shower, and you're — what? Sanding?"
"The baseboard won't sand itself."
"THE BASEBOARD CAN ROT."
"Del. Listen."
"No, you listen. Pack a bag. Drive to my place. I have a couch, a bottle of wine, and absolutely zero psychopaths rearranging my furniture."
"I'm not leaving."
"Why?"
Through the open door at the end of the hall, I can hear Liam moving through the first floor. Checking pin locks. Making his rounds.
"Because Margit didn't leave. She stayed in this house for decades while people tried to push her out. If I run the first time someone writes me a threatening letter, then what was the point?"
