9. Elena
Elena
Detective Sarah Mitchell arrived at my apartment at eleven-thirty, accompanied by a uniformed officer who looked barely old enough to be out of the academy.
Mitchell was in her early forties, with short dark hair and the kind of tired eyes that came from years of seeing the worst of human behavior.
She introduced herself with professional courtesy, then asked Lucia and me to walk her through everything.
I told her about Marcus. The first letter that had arrived last February, the flowers left at the stage door, the escalation from admiration to surveillance.
I told her about the photographs I’d found outside my apartment, the feeling of being watched that I’d dismissed as paranoia, the eight months of silence that now felt like complicity.
Mitchell listened without interrupting, taking notes in a small leather notebook. When I finished, she asked to see the photographs.
Lucia had arranged them in chronological order across my kitchen counter, a timeline of violation that began with innocent surveillance and ended with explicit documentation.
Mitchell examined each one carefully, her expression neutral, professional.
When she reached the photographs from Dominic’s loft, she paused, her jaw tightening slightly.
“These were taken through a window?” she asked.
“Yes. Dominic’s loft is on the thirtieth floor. The curtains were open. I didn’t think… I didn’t realize anyone could see us from that height.”
“He would have needed specialized equipment. A telephoto lens, probably a tripod for stability. This level of detail suggests he was set up somewhere with a clear line of sight to the window.” Mitchell set down the photograph, made another note. “Do you know where he might have been positioned?”
“There’s a building across the harbor. It’s under construction, mostly empty. He could have been there.”
“We’ll check it out.” Mitchell’s attention shifted back to me. “You said this started eight months ago. Why didn’t you report it sooner?”
The question was direct, non-judgmental, exactly what I’d been asking myself since opening the package.
“I thought I could handle it. I thought if I ignored it, if I didn’t give it power by acknowledging it, it would eventually stop.
I was afraid that involving the police would make it public, that it would damage my career, that I would be seen as a victim rather than a professional. ”
“That’s a common response to stalking, especially for public figures.
The desire to maintain control, to not let the stalker dictate your life, often results in delayed reporting.
” Mitchell’s voice was gentle, understanding.
“Unfortunately, it also gives the stalker more time to escalate. Eight months is a long time for this kind of obsessive behavior to develop unchecked.”
“I know. I should have reported it sooner. I made the wrong choice.”
“You made the choice that felt right at the time. We’re not here to judge you for that.
We’re here to figure out how to keep you safe moving forward.
” Mitchell closed her notebook, her expression serious.
“Based on what you’ve told me and the evidence in these photographs, Marcus Webb has committed multiple crimes.
Stalking, harassment, voyeurism, possibly cybercrime if he’s been hacking your accounts or tracking your phone.
We’re going to open an investigation, collect evidence, and build a case.
In the meantime, I’m going to recommend you file for a restraining order.
It’s not a perfect solution; restraining orders are only pieces of paper, and they only work if the person respects them, but it establishes a legal boundary and gives us grounds to arrest him if he violates it. ”
“What if he doesn’t respect it? What if he escalates?”
“Then we arrest him. We charge him with violating the restraining order in addition to the stalking charges. We build a case that’s strong enough to ensure he faces real consequences.
” Mitchell’s expression was firm, certain.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Ms. Voss. Stalking cases are difficult.
They require documentation, evidence, a clear pattern of behavior.
You’ve given us a good start with these photographs, but we need more.
We need to establish where Marcus lives, where he works, how he’s been tracking your movements.
We need to build a timeline that shows escalation, that proves his behavior is obsessive and threatening. ”
“How long will that take?”
“Weeks, possibly months. Building a solid case takes time. In the meantime, we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe.
Increased patrols in your neighborhood, regular check-ins, coordination with building security.
We’ll also reach out to Marcus, let him know we’re aware of his behavior and that we’re watching him.
Sometimes that’s enough to make a stalker back off. Sometimes it escalates them further.”
The uncertainty was terrifying, exactly what I’d been afraid of. Involving the police meant giving up control, meant trusting that the legal system would protect me when my own silence had failed to do so.
“What should I do in the meantime?” I asked.
“Be vigilant. Vary your routine. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can avoid it.
Document everything: if you see him, if you receive any communication from him, if you feel like you’re being watched.
Keep a log with dates, times, locations.
The more evidence we have, the stronger our case.
” Mitchell handed me a business card with her contact information.
“Call me if anything happens. Day or night. If you feel unsafe, if you see Marcus, if you receive any communication from him; call me immediately.”
I took the card, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should. “Thank you.”
“We’re going to need to take the photographs as evidence.
I’ll have them processed, see if we can pull any forensic information from them.
In the meantime, I’d recommend you stay somewhere else for a few days.
If Marcus knows where you live, and based on these photographs, he clearly does, then this apartment isn’t safe. Do you have somewhere you can go?”
“She can stay with me,” Lucia said immediately. “I have a guest room. She’ll be safe there.”
Mitchell nodded, satisfied. “Good. Pack a bag, stay with your friend for a few days while we investigate. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have more information.”
She collected the photographs, placed them carefully in an evidence bag, then left with the uniformed officer. The apartment felt emptier after they were gone, the violation somehow more real now that it had been documented and catalogued and transformed into evidence.
Lucia helped me pack a bag with clothes, toiletries, the essentials I would need for a few days away from my apartment. The routine was mechanical, mindless, exactly what I needed to keep from thinking too hard about what came next.
“You should call Dominic,” Lucia said as we were leaving. “Let him know where you’ll be. He’s going to want to know you’re safe.”
“He walked out. He was furious with me for not telling him sooner.”
“He was hurt and overwhelmed. He’ll come back. He just needs time to process.” Lucia locked my apartment door behind us, tested the handle to make sure it was secure. “Call him. Let him know you’re staying with me. Give him the opportunity to be there for you.”
I pulled out my phone, stared at Dominic’s contact information. The last time we’d spoken, he’d been cold, distant, nothing like the warmth I’d grown accustomed to. He’d needed space to process, needed time away from me to manage his rage without saying things he’d regret.
I sent him a text instead of calling: Staying with Lucia for a few days. Police were here, took the photographs as evidence. Detective Mitchell is opening an investigation. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I understand if you need more time.
The response came almost immediately: I’m coming over.
I’m not at my apartment. I’m at Lucia’s.
Then I’m coming to Lucia’s. Send me the address.
I sent him Lucia’s address, then looked at Lucia with something close to panic. “He’s coming over.”
“Good. You two need to talk. You need to figure out how to move forward together.” Lucia’s expression was firm, certain.
“He’s not going to leave you, Elena. He’s possessive and intense and probably planning ways to hurt Marcus, but he’s not going to leave you.
He just needs to understand that you made a mistake, that you’re sorry, that you need his support rather than his judgment. ”
“What if he can’t give me that? What if his possessiveness is too strong, what if he can’t separate his need to protect me from his need to control me?”
“Then you’ll deal with that when it happens. Right now, you focus on getting through tonight. Tomorrow, you figure out the rest.”
We drove to Lucia’s apartment in the South End, a cozy third-floor walk-up filled with plants and books and the comfortable clutter of someone who actually lived in their space. She showed me to the guest room, helped me unpack my bag, then made tea while we waited for Dominic to arrive.
He showed up twenty minutes later, his expression carefully controlled, his body tense with barely contained energy. Lucia let him in, then disappeared into her bedroom to give us privacy.
Dominic stood in the middle of Lucia’s living room, his hands in his pockets, his attention fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
“I’m sorry I walked out,” he said. “I was overwhelmed, and I needed space to process without saying things I’d regret. I shouldn’t have left you alone to deal with the police.”