Page 109 of Letters From A Stalker

“Lower your voice.” Something in my tone makes him hesitate, but only briefly.

“You just fucking attacked me.”

I don’t bother answering, and apparently the silence irritates him even more because he straightens and brushes mud from his palms.

“This is my neighborhood. I’m out for a run. Who the hell are you?”

“Walk away.” The instruction could not be simpler, and he can still take it if he has enough fucking sense left to understand what I am offering. But instead his eyes move past my shoulder toward Julia’s house as realization slowly changes his expression.

“Is this about her?”

My hands curl at my sides. “Leave.”

He gives a short laugh that sounds more embarrassed than amused. “She’s the one doing it in front of a fucking window.”

The anger sitting beneath my ribs sharpens.

He keeps talking. “If she doesn’t want people looking, maybe she shouldn’t put on a free show where half the neighborhood can see…”

I hit him. There is no thought in the space between his sentence and my fist connecting with the side of his jaw. His head snaps sideways from the impact, and he staggers backward until his shoulders strike the trunk behind him. I’m on him before he recovers. One hand fists into the front of his jacket near his throat while my forearm pins him against the tree, and the confidence finally starts slipping from his face.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Listen to me.”

He shoves at my shoulder, but the movement barely shifts me. “Get off me.”

“You had the opportunity to leave.”

“Fuck you.”

My hand moves beneath my jacket. The second my fingers close around the grip of the pistol, I know exactly how far this has gone. My permit gives me the right to carry it. It does not give me the right to pull it because a man looked through Julia’s window. He isn’t threatening my life, there is no weapon in his hands and no possible version of this ends with me explaining to a police officer that drawing a gun seemed like a reasonable response. I know all of that while I do it anyway.

The cold barrel settles beneath his chin. Every bit of resistance leaves his body. His hands rise slowly beside his shoulders, palms open now that fear has finally reached him. Good.

“Now,” I tell him quietly, “you are going to listen.”

His throat moves against the barrel. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You stopped.”

“I was just looking.”

“That was enough.”

He stares at me, trying to see past the tinted visor of my helmet, and I can practically see the question moving behind his eyes as he tries to decide whether the man holding the gun is actually crazy enough to use it. Fair question.

“I’m sorry.” The apology comes quickly now, and whether he means it or not, doesn’t matter to me.

“You’re going back to the path, and you’re going to keep running.” He nods. “You will not stop near this house again. If you happen to see something through that window, you turn your head and mind your own fucking business.”

“Fine. I understand.” The answer comes too quickly, so I tighten my grip on his jacket and watch his eyes widen.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“If I see you standing near her property again, looking through her windows or deciding that anything she does inside her own home is an invitation for you, we will not be having this conversation twice.” I don’t need to explain the threat. He understands perfectly.