Page 71 of Letters From A Stalker

His voice carries the same smooth amusement it always does, but he doesn’t linger in the way he sometimes used to before asking me out. He has been exactly what he promised since that conversation: normal. Annoyingly, it makes me like him more.

Michael’s gaze moves briefly over the papers spread across my desk. “Do you need help with any of that?”

“No, I’m almost done. I just want to get this out tonight so I’m not walking into it tomorrow morning.”

He studies me long enough to make it clear he knows almost done is an optimistic interpretation, but he respects the answer.

“Then I’ll let you work. Just try not to be the person security has to remove when they lock the building.”

“I’ll make every effort.”

“Goodnight, Julia.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks toward the elevators, leaving me with the quiet hum of the office and another forty minutes of work before I finally admit that whatever is left can survive without me until morning.

Night has settled completely by the time I reach my neighborhood. The drive home has done very little to restore my energy. My eyes feel dry from staring at screens, my shoulders ache beneath my coat and the only thing I want with any genuine passion is to take off my bra, put on something that would embarrass me if the house caught fire and fall face-first into bed.

My street is quiet. Porch lights glow at intervals between darkened houses, and the woods beyond mine are little more than a deeper stretch of black against the night. I pull into the driveway and sit behind the wheel for a few seconds after switching off the engine. Home.

Thank God.

My bag is heavier than it was this morning, although I have absolutely no idea what I collected during the day to justify it. I drag it onto my shoulder, pick up Mrs Pritchards empty basket from the passenger seat and walk up the path. I unlock the front door while already mentally debating whether showering tonight is genuinely necessary. The door swings inward. I take one step when something crunches softly beneath my shoe. The sound is small enough that I almost keep walking, but there is resistance beneath my heel that shouldn’t be there. I stop and look down. Black paper peeks out from beneath my foot. For several seconds, my tired brain fails to understand what I’m looking at. I move my shoe away and see an envelope lying slightly crooked on the hallway floor, as if it had been pushed inward when I opened the door. Then I remember the scrape I heard this morning and Mrs. Pritchard. The basket. Something moving behind me while I was rushing out. The envelope must have been against the door. Someone must have left it there sometime before I left for work.

A strange coldness slides beneath my skin. I bend and pick it up. The paper is thick, matte black and heavier than ordinary stationery, with a dark red wax seal pressed across the flap. There is no stamp. No address. Only two handwritten words across the front.

Little Ember.

My exhaustion disappears. Not gradually but alarmingly fast. One second I am thinking about pajamas and whether leftover pasta is still edible, and the next my entire body is suddenly alert in a way that makes every sound inside the house seem sharper.

I stare at the words while my bag slowly slips down my arm and catches over the basket. Little Ember. Nobody calls me that. Nobody has ever called me that.

My keys are still in my hand. Without taking my eyes from the envelope, I reach toward the small table beside the door and drop them onto the wooden surface, missing the ceramic dish by several inches. They land with a loud metallic clatter. I flinch.

“This is ridiculous.” My voice sounds too loud inside the hallway.

I close the front door and lock it before turning the deadbolt. Then I stand there for another moment, envelope still in my hand, listening to a house that sounds exactly as it always does. Nothing moves upstairs. The refrigerator hums faintly from the kitchen, the heat clicks on somewhere beneath me. Everything is normal. Except for the black envelope. I turn it over. The wax seal is embossed with a design I don’t recognize, although I am too distracted by the fact that someone apparently bought sealing wax specifically to leave something at my house to spend much time inspecting it.

My first instinct is to call Tessa.

The second is considerably more practical and probably involves not opening strange anonymous correspondence before taking a photograph of it.

The third is curiosity. Curiosity wins before common sense finishes presenting its case. I put down the tangled bag and basket and slip one finger beneath the flap and break the wax. The sound is strangely delicate. Inside is a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded with almost obsessive precision. Handwritten. That detail bothers me more than I expect. Typed words would create distance. They could belong to anyone. Handwriting means I can picture a person sitting somewhere with a pen in his hand, choosing every word before forming it on the page. I begin unfolding it as I move away from the hallway. My coat is still on. My bag and basket remain forgotten on the floor while walking slowly toward the living room.

The first line matches the envelope.

Little ember,

My eyes move to the next sentence.

I watch you.

I stop walking. The sensation that moves through me is so immediate that for a second I can almost feel Thursday night all over again: the dark windows, my own reflection staring back at me, the strange certainty that the shadows outside contained something I couldn’t see. Someone. My gaze snaps toward the living-room windows. The darkness beyond them gives me nothing. I can see the lamps behind me reflected in the glass, the edge of the sofa and part of my own body standing motionless in the middle of the room. Nothing outside. My fingers tighten around the letter as I keep reading.

I know the way you sit too still, as if the silence will keep the ghosts at bay.

I know the shadows under your eyes are there because you avoid sleep, to prevent the past from haunting you in the dark.