Page 102 of Letters From A Stalker

She wants to know she can surrender without disappearing.

My hand stills over the keyboard.

There it is, the thing that has been moving underneath everything since Sunday.

Not simply that I watched her pleasure herself, not even that I wanted to replace her hand with mine. It is the knowledge that she responds to being wanted when wanting doesn’t erase her choice.

The second letter asked whether knowing I was there would change anything. Today, she has unknowingly given me the answer to what comes next. Choice. I can’t knock on her door. I can’t enter her house. I can’t even reveal myself without detonating every layer of trust between us. But Ghost can ask. The thought is monstrous in its simplicity.

I close the file. Not long after that, I’m home. I don’t change out of the suit immediately. I remove the jacket, loosen my tie and stand at the desk looking down at the black envelopes inside the drawer. There is still time not to do this. I take one out.The cream paper follows. My handwriting looks obscenely controlled considering the thoughts behind it.

I begin.

Little Ember,

Last time, you didn’t know I was there.

You thought the dark outside your windows belonged only to the night. I watched you sit on that sofa, slide your hand between your thighs, and make yourself come like it was a secret. Like no one would ever know how wet you got, how your mouth opened, how your hips lifted when you finally let go.

I asked whether knowing would have changed it.

I’m still wondering.

So tonight, I want you to do it again.

For me.

Not rushed. Not because I told you to. On your own time. Sit there as long as you need. Tease yourself. Stop. Start again. Make me suffer through every second of it if that’s what you want.

But know this:

I will be watching every move you make.

Every time your fingers slip under the waistband. Every time you spread your legs a little wider. Every quiet sound you try to swallow. I want you touching yourself, knowing my eyes are on you. I want you soaked before you even start, just from the thought of me standing in the dark, hard, watching you fuck yourself.

Last Sunday, your body thought it was alone.

Tonight, I want it to know it isn’t.

If you agree, leave the lamp beside your couch on.

That’s all. You decide when I am welcome.

If that light is burning, I’ll take it as your yes.

And I’ll show you how much better it feels when you come with my eyes on you.

—Man in the Shadows

I stop at the final line. The page remains beneath my hand while my pulse beats steadily against my wrist.

You decide when I am welcome.

There is something almost laughable about pretending this restores any ethical balance to what I have already done. I watched her without permission first, I crossed the boundary before I offered her control over it. Nothing in this letter changes that. Still, the sentence matters to me and, more importantly, I suspect it will matter to her.

I fold the paper, slide it into the black envelope and press the red wax seal into place. For a moment, I stood there looking at it. It is still light outside. That alone should be enough to make me wait. Julia lives on a quiet residential street where people notice unfamiliar cars, motorcycles and men lingering near houses they have no obvious reason to approach. Mrs. Pritchard could be outside or one of the neighbors could be walking a dog. Julia herself could already be home. I put the envelope inside my jacket anyway. Apparently patience, which was one of my charming personality traits, has become another casualty of this entire situation.

My ZX10R carries me toward her neighborhood while the sensible part of my brain provides a running commentary I don’t particularly need. Leaving an anonymous letter on a patient’s doorstep is already indefensible. Doing it before nightfall simply adds stupidity to the list. None of that makes me turn around because I want to know what she’ll do. That is the only explanation that matters by the time I reach her street. Her car isn’t in the driveway, which makes this marginally less reckless, although not enough to deserve credit. I park farther away and walk the rest, keeping my pace unhurried as I approach the house.