Chapter Three - Clara
I spend the whole week feeling like something presses against the back of my mind. It follows me through hallways, lectures, and subway rides. I keep trying to shrug it off, but it clings to me with quiet persistence.
By Wednesday, the tension sits so squarely in my chest that Eden notices the second I drop my tray across from her in the cafeteria.
“You look like shit,” she says, pushing her salad aside so she can study my face. “What’s going on?”
I stir the ice in my drink, buying myself a second before answering. “I don’t know. Something feels off lately.”
“You mean besides the fact that you got famous overnight?” She lifts her brow. “Clara, you’re on everyone’s timeline. People keep sharing your article like it’s a Marvel trailer.”
“It’s not fame,” I say. “It’s a story. A good one. That’s all.”
“Come on. Be honest. You’ve seen the comments. Half the school thinks you’re brave. The other half thinks you have a death wish.”
A few students at a nearby table glance over. One whispers something to another. I know they are talking about me. It’s not hard to tell. People look at me differently now. Some with respect. Some with something close to pity.
“I didn’t write it to be brave,” I say. “I wrote it because it was true.”
“That’s the part that scares everyone.” Eden reaches across the table and nudges my tray. “You poked a pretty big bear.”
“I didn’t poke anyone. I reported facts.”
“Facts about a man who kills people.”
I let out a slow breath. “I didn’t accuse him of murder.”
“You didn’t need to. Everyone filled in the blanks the second they saw his name.”
Her voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is clear. She’s not judging me. She’s worried.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Nothing’s happened.”
Eden doesn’t push, though she watches me for another second before changing the subject. We talk about class schedules and internships, but my mind drifts toward the window behind her.
A black car sits at the curb outside the student union. Engine running. The same one I saw yesterday morning. Same shape. Same deep tint on the windows.
Eden follows my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“It’s probably just waiting for someone.”
She doesn’t believe that, but she lets it go.
The rest of the day drags. Every classroom feels colder than usual. Every whisper feels like it could be about me.
By late afternoon, even professors look at me differently. I spot two security officers lingering near the academic building doors. One stares at me for a second too long. Maybe it’s coincidence, but my skin tingles all the same.
When I leave campus, the black car is still there. This time it rolls forward as I step off the curb. I force myself not to react. My throat tightens, but I walk, head down, pace steady. It follows for half a block. Then two. Then three.
I stop at a busy intersection. My hand shakes slightly as I pretend to check a message on my phone. The car pauses at the corner, then merges into traffic and disappears.
I try to breathe normally, but my pulse drums through my ears.
I tell myself I’m overreacting. The city is full of dark cars. There’s no proof it’s the same one. There’s no proof it’s following me.
Still, the tension stays with me until I reach my apartment and lock every deadbolt twice. The quiet inside should soothe me, but the silence feels heavier than usual.
I make tea and sit at my desk, trying to lose myself in the next article I’m working on. It should be easy. Editing usually settles my mind, but tonight everything fights against me.
My Wi-Fi drops three times in the first hour. I reconnect, only for the connection to stall again. My laptop freezes in the middle of a paragraph, glitches, and restarts without warning.
I stare at the blank reboot screen, heart pounding harder with every passing second.
“Come on,” I whisper.
When the desktop finally loads, the fan whirs loud enough to drown out the ticking clock on my wall. I try to tell myself it’s normal. Old laptop. Bad service. Faulty connection. These things happen.
I’m almost convinced when my phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number.
My stomach knots. I hesitate before opening the message.
You shouldn’t work so late.
My pulse trips. I read it again. Then again. My hands shake so hard I almost drop the phone.
I try to rationalize it. A prank. A wrong number. Someone messing around because my article made noise. Students do stupid things for attention.
No one outside this apartment should know I’m working right now. No one should know my Wi-Fi dropped. No one should know I’m sitting here alone in a quiet room with my laptop open.
Something cold spreads through my chest.
I stand abruptly and back away from my desk. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. I need to do something. I need someone to help.
I grab my phone and dial the police. My voice shakes when the operator answers.
“I… I got a message,” I say. “I think it’s threatening.”
“What does the message say, ma’am?”
I read it aloud, and yesterday’s, each word feeling heavier than the last. The operator is silent for a moment.
“That doesn’t appear to be a direct threat,” she finally says. “It could be a wrong number.”
“It isn’t.”
“Did they mention harm or specific intent?”
“No, but—”
“Then it’s likely a prank. Students receive strange messages all the time. I can create a report if you’d like, but without a threat of violence, it isn’t an immediate concern.”
The dismissal hits me harder than the text. My throat closes.
“So you’re not sending anyone?”
“It isn’t an emergency situation.”
I hang up slowly, staring at the wall. The apartment feels colder than before. My reflection in the dark window looks smaller than I expected, as if the room is swallowing me.
I grab my laptop, slam it shut, and lock it in the drawer of my desk. I turn off the lights and sit on the bed, listening to every distant horn and every footstep outside.
My mind races with questions I can’t answer. Who sent that message? How do they know what I’m doing? How long have they been watching me?
I clutch my phone in both hands and whisper to myself, quiet and certain.
“I should’ve never written that name.”
The truth is worse. I don’t know if I could’ve stopped myself even if I tried.
***
My alarm barely has time to ring before my phone buzzes again. Another email. Another notification. Another reminder that everything I did last week is catching up with me faster than I can process.
I force myself out of bed and dress quickly. My stomach twists the whole subway ride to campus. The moment I step inside the journalism building, the hallway feels colder than usual.
Students keep glancing at me, then looking away. A few whisper to each other. I keep walking.
My professor waits outside his office. He doesn’t invite me in. He closes the door behind him and folds his arms.
“Clara, we received a formal complaint,” he says. His tone is flat. Tired. “Not from a reader. From higher up.”
I blink. “Higher up where?”
“The university board.”
Ice climbs through my chest. “Did I break policy?”
“No, but the university doesn’t want its name attached to anything that brings attention from certain… circles.”
“So I’m being punished because I wrote something accurate?”
“You’re being removed from publication work until we finish reviewing the complaint.”
It hits me like a punch. “You’re suspending me?”
“Temporarily.”
“That’s not temporary. That’s silencing.”
He sighs. “You need to understand how serious this is. Someone complained through channels we don’t usually hear from. I’m not even sure who filed it. I’m telling you this because I care, Clara. You stepped into something bigger than you realize.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You might not survive being right,” he says quietly.
The words sting more than I want them to. My throat burns, but I refuse to let him see any of it. I turn without answering and walk away. His voice follows me, softer, strained, but I don’t look back.
By the time I push through the building doors, my face burns with anger and embarrassment. Students stare as I pass. Someone mutters, “Told you she’d get shut down.”
I keep walking, shoulders tight.
Across the street, a black SUV idles at the curb. I don’t notice it. I’m too busy replaying the conversation, too busy feeling the bruise of humiliation settle in my chest.
I spend the rest of the afternoon drifting through classes I don’t absorb. My mind circles the same thoughts. Someone complained. Someone powerful enough to make the university nervous. Someone watching what I do.
Night creeps in early. Clouds swallow what little sunlight is left. I leave campus with a knot in my stomach and take the side street I always use to save time.
The streetlights flicker in short bursts. The pavement is uneven. It smells faintly of cold rain, even though the sky is dry. I walk faster, clutching my bag against my ribs.
Halfway down the block, I hear footsteps behind me. They match my pace before slowing. My pulse jumps. I tell myself not to look back. It makes me feel hunted, and I don’t want to give that feeling any more power than it already has.
Then two figures step out from behind a parked van.
I stop short. My breath leaves me in a sharp rush.
“Hey,” one of them says. “You’re Whitmore, right?”
The sound of my name makes my chest tighten. I take a step back.
“I need to get home,” I say, voice thin.
One blocks my path. The other closes in behind me.
“Don’t run,” he warns.
I run anyway.
I barely get three steps before a hand clamps around my arm. Another hand covers my mouth. Panic floods me so fast my vision blurs. I kick, twist, claw at the fingers crushing my face, but he’s stronger than I am.
“Quiet,” he hisses.
My scream stays trapped behind his palm.
Then a voice cuts through the dark. “Not like this.”
Everything stills.
The grip on my arm loosens. Both men turn their heads. I can’t see who spoke, only the outline of a tall figure stepping out from the mouth of the alley. Controlled steps. Unhurried. Certain.
The air shifts around the men holding me. I feel it in the way their fingers tremble for a split second.
“We weren’t told—” one starts.
“I said not like this,” the voice repeats.
The men release me.
My knees buckle. I stumble back, sucking in air that burns. The world tilts as they retreat into the shadows without another word. As if summoned. As if commanded.
I turn to run, but strong arms catch me from behind. A sharp scent of cologne, leather, and smoke fills my senses. I try to scream again, but a gloved hand covers my mouth, this time without panic in its grip—only certainty.
“It’s alright,” he says near my ear. His voice is low and steady. “I won’t let them touch you.”
It doesn’t comfort me. It terrifies me more.
My vision blurs again as he pushes me toward a car parked behind the alley. Not the SUV. A different one. Sleeker. Darker. The door opens, and I’m guided inside before I can gather breath to fight.
The interior smells of leather and cold air. The city lights blur outside the tinted window.
A man slides in beside me. I don’t look at him. I can’t. His presence fills the space.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I press against the door, shaking so hard the window trembles with me.
His voice breaks the quiet, calm in a way that feels unreal. “You’ve been asking the wrong questions.”
I finally force myself to look at him.
He watches me with steady blue eyes that hold no panic, no rush, no hesitation. “You should’ve stopped while you still had the choice,” he says.
The city disappears behind us. The night swallows everything.