I shove the ski mask into the hoodie pocket.
My hands shake—from adrenaline or nerves, I’m not sure—as I mentally make a list. I don’t write it down—I’m not a psychopath—but it exists in my head, neat and orderly, like everything else I try to control.
Okay, maybe I am unhinged. But writing it down would be a crime.
Instead, I use my fingers to tick off the items on my list.
Reasons this is a bad idea:
* I don’t stalk people—except that one time I crept into her home.
* Masks are for crimes and ski slopes.
* Ivy does not need encouragement.
Reasons I’m already doing it:
* She stopped coming over.
* She looked perfectly fine without me.
* I can’t stop thinking about her.
The second list wins.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell my empty office.
The empty office does not argue.
I step in front of the mirror I hung on the closet door. The one I use to check my appearance before heading to meetings.
But this time, I barely recognize myself.
I’m all in black. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Sneakers. Gloves.
I slide my hand inside the pocket and put on the mask.
The mirror reflects someone I don’t recognize—tall, broad, anonymous. Dangerous looking, if you don’t know me. Which I don’t love.
But this isn’t about intimidation. This is about observation.
I remove the mask and stuff it back inside my pocket. Then I slip out of my office—quiet, controlled, practiced in a way that makes me pause for half a second before locking the door. Apparently, I’ve been learning from Ivy without realizing it.
The irony is not lost on me.
I drive past her house and park down the street. Then I exit my car, slipping beneath the cover of darkness.
This time, I pay attention to how different it feels approaching it from the outside. How exposed the hedges are, how easy the shadows make it to disappear if you know where to stand.
I stop short of the property line. I’m not trespassing. I’m researching. That matters.
The lights are on in her bedroom.
I wait.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
This is how people end up on watch lists, I think distantly.
