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Maybe that’ll come with time.
But I won’t be staying for long.
I can’t.
Even if I admit that I was wrong for assigning Cole the bad boy label, that he’s even better than the button-up, cookie cutter, acceptable guy I’d imagined would fulfill all my long-term requirements, dating for a few months is too short for me to move in.
This is just temporary, I remind myself as I reach the stairs.
I’ll start looking for a new apartment today. Maybe moving this time will be easier. I can ask Cole if he’d be willing to lend me his truck. Maybe this time my shadow won’t find me. Or they’ll get bored.
Rushing out of my apartment last week with a hastily packed bag was a bit dramatic. Seeing all of the notes for the first time was no doubt shocking for Cole. Still, it was an overreaction.
The thought comes just before I step onto the landing. And there, resting on my front mat, is a familiar orange envelope.
Fear claws over skin that’s suddenly too sensitive.
He wasn’t overreacting.
The notes have come so many times, I think I’ve been trying to desensitize myself to them. No one’s ever approached me, so I can pretend that no one ever will.
But that’s naive thinking.
I waver, feeling like the envelope is an extra deadbolt on my door, and that I have to give up my safety to unlock it.
Maybe I should wait for Cole to get off work and come back here with him.
That cowardly thought has me thinking of my mother’s words.“You don’t need a man.”
Would she agree in this situation? I haven’t told her about the notes. She’d only panic and probably push even harder for me to move in with her. Both of those outcomes make me anxious.
There’s no reason for her to know.
There’s also no reason to bother Cole. Leaving something outside my door does not mean they have access to my apartment. I’m alone here on my landing, in the middle of the day, bright sunlight almost blinding, practically shoving me toward my apartment with its cheeriness.
I continue forward, reaching out to rattle the knob just in case. Still locked.
Briefly, I leave the envelope where it sits, carefully opening my front door and scanning the studio space.
Everything looks to be the way I left it.
The first thing I do when I enter is pull the curtains back. I don’t want to be entombed in this place if someone is hiding in my shower waiting to hurt me. Next, I pull out a box of plastic gloves I bought for this exact purpose. The latex snaps as I tug two on. No longer at risk of contaminating the materials with my fingerprints, I lift the envelope off the ground.
The smart thing to do would be to not open it and hand it over to the police. That’s what I did with the first ten or so. But despite the fact that I’ve received these notes for years, the cops haven’t turned up anything. Probably because a public librarian’s non-violent stalker doesn’t rate high on their priority list.
Clearly, we have different lists.
And even though seeing the news articles covered in creepy writing leaves me with a nauseous fear, I’m driven to pull out the contents. I’m worried that one day it won’t be an article, but instead a picture of someone I love tied up in a basement with a ransom note attached.What would a stalker even ask me for in a ransom? I ponder as I pinch the metal clasp to open the envelope.
A pair of my panties? A nude picture? My undying love?
Anything goes when dealing with someone who is fine with silently tormenting me.
But no threatening pictures fall free.
However, the contentsaredifferent from the normal news article.
It takes me a few paragraphs to realize what exactly I am reading, but when I do, a darkness presses in on the edges of my vision. My knees decide they no longer want to support me. With no chair at the ready, my butt lands hard on the linoleum floor.
