Page 73 of Letters From A Stalker

Instead, I read the letter again. The fact that I do it bothers me almost as much as the contents. I start from the top, moving more slowly this time because fear no longer has the advantage of surprise.

I watch you.

Still frightening.

I know the way you sit too still...

Still far too specific.

Then:

But I see the fire you try to hide.

My thumb shifts against the edge of the paper. That line lands exactly where it did the first time. I don’t like admitting why. I have spent most of my life feeling understood in pieces. Tessa knows more than almost anyone, but even with her there are things I don’t say because there is always something happening, someone calling, work beginning or life moving the conversation somewhere else. My mother knows the history but filters so much of what I tell her through her own experiences that sometimes I stop recognizing myself by the time she is finished interpreting me. Even therapy is structured around explanation. What happened? What did you feel? Why do you think you reacted that way? Nobody simply looks. And apparently the first person who has decided to announce that he does is some lunatic hiding in the woods.

“Perfect.” A humorless laugh slips out of me.

Maybe that is why the letter gets under my skin. Not because I want to be stalked. I cannot emphasize strongly enough, even to myself, that I do not want a stranger lurking outside my home. But because somewhere inside everything frightening about this is an idea I have wanted for longer than I probably understand. To be seen without first having to explain myself. The thought makes me deeply uncomfortable.

My eyes return to the final line.

You are mine, Little Ember.

Possessive, arrogant, completely fucking unearned. And still something warm moves through me when I read it.

I lower the page onto my lap.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

Maybe nothing. Maybe adrenaline can make fear and excitement resemble each other enough to confuse anyone. That explanation feels sensible. I decided to keep it, for now. Kai comes into my mind without invitation because of course he does. If anyone could explain why part of my nervous system apparently thinks receiving threatening love letters from an anonymous stranger is interesting instead of exclusively terrifying, it would probably be the man I pay to explain the rest of my questionable emotional architecture. For a few seconds, I seriously considered bringing the letter to my next appointment. Then I imagine the conversation. I would have to tell him someone has been watching me. He would ask how I know. I would give him the letter. Then, because Kai Blackwood has apparently dedicated his professional life to asking the exact question I least want to answer, he would eventually ask how reading it made me feel.

Absolutely fucking not. Worse, he would probably tell me to contact the police and he would be right. There would be no version of telling a psychiatrist that an unknown man has followed me home and left a letter claiming ownership that ends with him saying, Interesting. Let’s see how this develops. Once I tell Kai, this becomes official.It becomes something requiring action — police reports, security cameras. Questions about where I’ve been and who might have had access to me. The possibility of officers talking to neighbors or my employer. My mother finding out and turning every future evening alone into a phone call asking whether my doors are locked. None of those are reasons not to report it, I know that. I’m simply not ready to turn the strange black envelope in my lap into all of that tonight.

My attention drifts toward the windows again. Thursday returns. The feeling of being watched had been so strong that I abandoned television, checked every lock in the house and went upstairs with lights still burning below me. At the time, I convinced myself I had imagined it. Now I’m not so sure. The realization sends a much cleaner wave of fear through me than anything written on the page.

“You were there.” The words leave my mouth quietly.

I don’t know who I’m speaking to. Him, perhaps. The empty room. Myself. There is no answer. I sit there for another moment before finally shrugging my coat off and reaching for my phone. I don’t call anyone, but I keep it beside me on the sofa while I read the letter for the third time. It remains frightening. Nothing about repeated exposure improves that. The man writing it still knows where I live, still claims he watches me and still believes announcing that he intends to follow me constitutes an acceptable introduction. But the intrigue remains too. Not trust, I have none. Not affection, because I know absolutely nothing about him. What remains is the uncomfortable pull of a question I cannot answer.

Who is he?

How long has this been happening?

What does he see when he watches me?

And why does the idea that he sees something burning inside me feel better than it has any right to?

Eventually, I fold the letter along the same crease it came with and slide it back into the black envelope. The broken wax seal no longer holds the flap closed, so it falls open slightly when I place it on the coffee table. I stare at it. I should throw it away. Instead, I leave it there. Fear makes perfect sense but curiosity doesn’t.

What unsettles me most is that, despite knowing which one I should listen to, I’m no longer entirely sure which one will win.

14

Kai

Ihave never been nervous about a patient walking into my office. Concerned, yes. There have been patients whose names appearing on my schedule required preparation beyond reviewing a file, people prone to violence, severe instability or the kind of unpredictable behavior that makes maintaining awareness of exits less paranoia than professional responsibility. I have worried about whether someone would return after a difficult session, whether medication was working, whether a patient I sent home with a safety plan would actually use it if the night became worse than expected.

Nervousness is different.. Nervous is what I am now and for all the wrong reasons. I glance toward the clock in the lower corner of my computer screen and immediately resent myself for doing it because I checked less than three minutes ago. Julia’s appointment begins in twenty-seven minutes. The letter has been inside her house for three days. Assuming she found it Monday morning when she left for work, which is almost impossible not to assume considering I placed the fucking thing directly against her front door. She has had three days to read it, decide what it means and determine what she intends to do about the anonymous man who informed her — in handwriting and sealing wax like a psychopath with an unfortunate appreciation for presentation — that he watches her.