3. Phantom Visitor
Phantom Visitor
Ari
“You’re welcome to stay with us,” Frankie says, breaking off pieces of her muffin and handing them to Lucia, her eighteen-month-old daughter. “You know, temporarily.”
“I might buy a gun,” I tell her absentmindedly, chewing on the banana bread I’m eating but not really tasting.
Frankie chuckles. “Do you even know how to use a gun?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do. I had Captain America as a father.”
She snorts. “How is Mr. Clarke, by the way?”
This earns her another eye roll. “Oh, you know. Still waking up at 0500, still iron-pressing his jeans, still thinking emotions are a government conspiracy.” She laughs, and I shake my head. “Seriously, I swear the man thinks glitter is a threat to national security.”
“Classic Lieutenant Clarke.”
“Classic,” I agree. “It’s too bad he had three daughters that he couldn’t mold into the picture-perfect soldiers he always wanted.”
Lucia laughs, despite not understanding, and I smirk, reaching over to her and booping her on the nose, which makes her squeal with more laughter.
“Instead, he got you—CPA by day, misfit by night,” Frankie says, gray eyes twinkling. “But seriously. Come stay with us. Dante wouldn’t mind,” she adds, referring to her husband.
I shrug as I push the rest of the banana bread away. For a second, I’d forgotten about why I asked Frankie to meet me for coffee.
The second letter wasn’t a coincidence. The first letter could have been a fluke, just another piece of mail meant for my grandma and her adventure-filled life.
But the letter from this morning?
It means whoever sent it knows me. Knows where I live, and my name. Knows enough to make me feel… watched. And I haven’t fully come to terms with that yet. Because who would send me something like that? Is it a prank? A bored stranger? Maybe an angry ex-client?
I’ve run through every possibility. Asher? No. Not his style. Too dramatic, too cryptic. He’s blunt, direct, too logical for something like this.
Frankie? Definitely not. She’d subscribe me to a monthly “Potato of the Month” club and wait six months before telling me it was her.
A wrong address? But that doesn’t explain how they knew my name. The personal tone. The way it feels too… intentional.
That leaves one option: someone I don’t know.
Someone who knows me .
And what was up with the flower? A forget-me-not? So cliché.
Still, a slow chill creeps up my spine, and I tamp it down.
“I’ll be fine. I’m a black belt, remember?” I add, holding my fists up in front of my face. “But if I go missing, just know my murder was premeditated.”
Frankie scoffs. “Ari, I’m being serious. The letter was fucking creepy. At least ask Asher to stay with you tonight,” she adds, handing Lucia a sippy cup of water.
I wrinkle my nose. “And share my bed? No, thanks. He’s a blanket hog.”
“Your relationship confounds me,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “You’ve been together for two years. That’s a long time. Sometimes I wonder if you’re just with him because it’s convenient.”
I look down, tracing my finger along the edge of the plate. “I mean, I’m also with him because of his giant co—” I clear my throat, looking at Lucia. “His giant sausage, I mean.”
She giggles again.
“Have you at least told Asher about the creepy letters? If he knew, he’d probably offer to stay over in a heartbeat.”
I hadn’t even considered telling him.
The thought grates at something in my chest. Asking for help has never been my strong suit, but… what does it say about me that it didn’t even cross my mind?
That I don’t trust him to handle it?
Or that I just don’t think he’d care enough to?
“I’m still considering paranormal theories,” I add to break the tension.
“Do I want to know?” she asks, her voice droll.
I huff a laugh. “Well, considering it could be a demon coming to claim my soul, probably not.”
“You’re unhinged.”
“I promise I can handle it,” I say quickly, offering her a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I have my alarm system and a massive knife sitting under a pillow on my bed.”
Frankie gives me a flat look. “That’s not reassuring.”
I grin, lifting my hands. “Why not? It’s a big knife. You should see it.”
Lucia babbles something in toddler gibberish, smacking her sippy cup on the table, and Frankie rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m a survivor,” I correct. “I was raised by Captain America, remember? He practically had us running combat drills in the backyard.”
Frankie exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t get you, Ari. You say you can handle it, but you don’t even know what it is. You got a random letter from some creep, your door was unlocked, and now you’re making jokes about stabbing someone. If it were me, I’d be shitting my pants terrified and halfway moved out already.”
“Well, if I actually had to stab someone, I’d hope my jokes would make the police report more interesting.”
“Ari.”
I sigh, dropping my playful expression for the first time.
The truth is, I don’t want to think about it too hard. Because if I do, if I let myself fully acknowledge that someone out there is watching me, slipping notes into my mailbox, and maybe even walking into my home, my safe space—then I’ll have to admit that I’m not actually in control of this situation.
And I don’t know how to deal with that.
So I do what I do best. I deflect. I joke. I pretend.
“I’ll be fine, Frankie.” My voice is light again, easy. “I’m too stubborn to get murdered. If anyone tries, I’ll annoy them into letting me go.”
Frankie stares at me for a long moment, then sighs. “Just… be careful, okay?”
I lift my coffee mug in a mock toast. “Aren’t I always?”
* * *
After my early coffee date with Frankie, I head back home to start my workday, albeit a little later than normal. Upon walking up to my house, I look around, checking for any clues that someone’s been here. But everything is how I left it. Unlocking the door, I walk inside and immediately lock it behind me before setting the alarm. I don’t usually turn it on during the day—it feels a little overkill—but every creak, every hum of the refrigerator, sends a shiver licking through me.
After a thorough check that no serial killers are hiding under my bed or in my closet, I get to work.
Or try to.
Every noise makes me jump—cars driving by, the faint sound of my neighbor, Blythe, trimming her rose bushes, the gurgle of my grandma’s ancient fridge. I can’t even drown it out with headphones because, apparently, fear makes me hyperaware and paranoid.
I do my best to tackle my to-do list, despite my clammy hands and racing heart.
When I get to lunchtime, I’m jittery and exhausted. I head into the kitchen, ready to slap together the least depressing sandwich I can muster, when I hear someone moving on the other side of my front door.
I freeze, bread in one hand, butcher knife in the other, as my palms grow clammy. Slowly walking to my front door with the knife in my hand, I listen for the trespasser to knock or do something, but nothing else happens, until I hear the scuffle of boots walking away. A quick peek through the peephole tells me that whoever was out there is gone, but I’ve seen horror movies. I know they could be hiding off to the side.
I wait.
And I wait.
My breath comes in heavy pants as my heart pounds against my ribs. Gathering the courage to open the door, I pull it open quickly as I brandish the knife, just in case.
No one is here.
Frowning, I step out onto the porch, scanning the yard for anything suspicious. Blythe, my elderly neighbor, is watering her roses, her floppy sun hat casting a shadow over her face.
She glances over and waves when she sees me.
I wave back awkwardly, knife still in hand. “Hey, Blythe! Did you see anyone come to my door a few minutes ago?” I call out.
She squints at me and motions for me to come closer.
With a sigh, I walk barefoot across the grass, knife behind my back.
“Sorry, what was that?” Blythe asks, cupping a hand around her ear.
I point back to my door with my free hand. “Did you see anyone knock on my door just now? A man? A woman? Maybe one of those kids selling overpriced chocolate bars?”
She narrows her eyes and puts a finger under her chin, tapping it thoughtfully. “You know what? I think I did. Just now, wasn’t it? Tall man, blond. Gorgeous blue eyes,” she adds, winking.
My breath eases out in relief. “Oh, that sounds kind of like my boyfriend.”
Blythe hums, leaning on her garden wall. “Interesting,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.
I look down at myself before looking back up at her. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that he didn’t seem very…” She purses her lips.
“Very what?” I ask. Arching my brows, I wait for her to continue.
“He had a bit of a rough edge to him. Looked like he was about to ask if I had a cigarette, you know?”
The description makes me pause. Asher’s polished to the point of gleaming. He wouldn’t show up looking anything less than perfect, not even to stop by unannounced.
But it had to be him. Who else could it be based on Blythe’s very detailed description?
“Huh. Maybe he was having a bad day. I’ll call him. Thanks, Blythe!” I say, forcing a smile.
As I walk back toward the house, knife still in hand, I can’t shake the feeling that her description doesn’t quite match Asher. Once I’m inside, I text the man of the hour.
This is a weird question, but did you stop by my house a few minutes ago?
Much to my surprise, he texts me back immediately.
Asher
No, I’ve been knee-deep in tax filings all afternoon. Why do you ask?
I stare at the message for a second too long, my fingers coiling around my phone.
A slow, creeping unease curls through me, but I force it down. There has to be an explanation. Maybe Blythe’s eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Maybe some random guy just happened to be passing through the neighborhood—a random guy who fits Asher’s description…
Maybe.
I swallow hard, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
No reason. Someone came to my door and I assumed it was you.
Asher
Wish it were me. Would’ve rather been with you than drowning in spreadsheets.
His response should comfort me, but it doesn’t. I set my phone down, rubbing my arms as if I can shake off the lingering unease.
It’s nothing. Just my imagination.
Still, as I move through the house, checking the locks a little more thoroughly than usual, I can’t ignore the feeling humming beneath my skin.
Blythe described someone. Someone real.
And if it wasn’t Asher…
Then who the hell was it?