Chapter 4 - Faith
I dress quietly in the dark, muscle memory guiding me through the routine. Running started as therapy. Now it's how I think, how I plan, how I escape the dreams that won't let me go.
The November air bites at my face as I step outside, still fully dark at this hour. I like it this way—honest darkness instead of pretending dawn. My usual route takes me north on Sheffield, but today I'm heading to the cemetery first. Mom deserves roses, and I need to talk to her.
The cemetery gates are always open, a fact that used to comfort me. Now, knowing someone might be watching, it feels like an invitation.
The yellow roses feel heavier than they should, twelve perfect blooms. Morning mist clings to the cemetery grounds, November cold seeping through my running tights as I navigate the familiar path to her grave.
My breath creates small clouds in the air, each exhale visible evidence that I'm still breathing when she isn't.
The gravestone stands exactly as it has for over a decade: the dates that bracket her life seem too close together, forty-one years not nearly enough.
I kneel on the damp grass, cold seeping through my leggings, grounding me in the physical world when my mind wants to drift into memory.
The roses smell wrong against the cemetery's earthy decay, too alive, too bright, like bringing sunshine to a tomb.
"Hi, Mom." My voice carries louder than necessary in the empty cemetery. If someone's watching, and my skin prickles with the certainty that someone is, they need to hear this. "I've been working to keep my promise."
I pull the worn leather notebook from my running pack, the one I've filled with observations, patterns, evidence.
My pulse hammers as I place it deliberately on the gravestone, pages falling open to reveal Trent Neumann's name circled in red ink.
Dates. Times. Locations. Patterns I've tracked for so long they feel like breathing.
I leave the notebook where anyone watching can see it.
My test, my dare, my confession all at once.
"Neumann trusts me now," I say, still speaking louder than I need to for a conversation with stone.
The invasion of being watched at my mother's grave should disgust me.
Instead, heat coils low in my belly. Someone sees all of me, the good girl facade and the darkness beneath.
"Can you believe it? He actually trusts me.
His wife thinks I'm sweet. Invites me to their charity events. "
My fingers find the cold granite, tracing the grooves of her name. "His children love story time at the library. They have no idea what their father is."
The wind picks up, rustling the pages of my notebook. Photos tucked inside threaten to escape. Images of Neumann at various events, his family, his business associates. Careful documentation, all laid bare on this grave for my watcher to see.
"I'm so close, Mom. A few more months and I'll have everything I need for court." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Legal justice. Through the system. That's what good girls want, isn't it?"
"The law has to work this time," I tell her gravestone. "Has to. I've learnt every statute, every precedent, every loophole. Building something airtight."
But even as I say it, something violent twists in my chest. The dreams I can't talk about, not even here. The ones that wake me in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating and ashamed.
I don't tell her about those dreams. Don't tell her what happened that made me start having them. Some things are too dark even for graveyards.
The wind picks up again, colder now. I pull my hoodie tighter, but don't lower my voice. Let my watcher hear this too. Let him know exactly what kind of darkness he's been protecting.
"Father Molina says vengeance belongs to God.
That earthly justice is enough. So I'm doing this legally.
Building a case. Documenting his crimes, the tax evasion, the bribery, the assault charges he's paid to disappear.
" I touch the notebook, trace his circled name with one finger.
"I need him alive for this. Need him functional.
Need him to face a courtroom and a cell, not… not what my dreams show me."
The admission makes my chest constrict. I shouldn't be doing this, leaving confessions for someone who breaks into my apartment. But whoever left those Polaroids, whoever's been watching… he's protecting me in ways the police never could. In ways that make my dark dreams seem less monstrous.
"Legal justice," I repeat, louder this time, standing on unsteady legs. "Through the system. The right way. Even though every night I dream of the wrong way."
I leave the notebook on the gravestone for another moment, evidence of my obsession laid bare. If my mysterious guardian is watching, let him see. Let him understand that Trent Neumann is mine to destroy.
Even if my dreams suggest darker hungers than any decent human should have.
I check my watch—6:45 a.m. If I run hard, I can still get five miles in before work.
The cemetery path leads directly to Lincoln Park, my usual route.
I tuck the notebook back in my pack and start running, needing the burn in my lungs, the ache in my legs, something physical to chase away the ghosts.
Someone's following. I can feel it even though I can't see them, a presence keeping pace despite my speed. I'm fast for a civilian—sub-eight-minute miles even after three years. But my guardian isn't civilian, is he?
I push harder, taking a sudden left, doubling back through an alley. Testing. The presence stays with me, patient and persistent as shadow.
The sun sets as I return to my apartment, exhausted from memories, confessions, and the longest run I've done in months.
Last night's discovery of the blurry Polaroid at 3 a.m. still unsettles me.
Someone so close while I slept, placing paper prayers on my pillow.
On my doorstep now sits another one, this one pristine white against the dark paint.
My heart races as I pick it up, finding an image of me walking outside the library with a pensive look on my face.
Inside, under better light, I flip it over with trembling fingers.
A single word in those same precise block letters: "WHY? "
He was there. Watching. Saw the notebook, heard my confession.
The picture feels warm in my hands, as if he just developed it. I imagine him watching the ink form on the paper, creating my image out of nothingness. The same hands that might have sharpened my knife, that fixed my blanket while I slept. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with fear.
I fold a square from newspaper, pressing it in half. Inside, I write simply: "Justice."
The window by the fire escape becomes my messenger point. I place the message there, visible from the street, from rooftops, from wherever he watches. Then I wait, too wired to even attempt sleep.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he understands.
If he judges me for my violent dreams or my need for legal vindication.
The thought of his eyes on me, knowing my darkness now, makes heat pool between my thighs.
I shouldn't feel this pull toward someone so dangerous.
Shouldn't imagine what kind of man leaves something as delicate as a Polaroid while watching from shadows.
At exactly three a.m., I hear it. The whisper of paper sliding under my door.
Another picture waits on my floor, red paper borders this time, me in sharp focus wearing my favorite green jacket. My hands shake as I flip it, already knowing this question will be harder.
"Justice or revenge?"
Such a simple question that cuts straight to the bone. I think of the promises I made. Of Neumann's crimes. Of dreams where justice looks different than courtrooms. Of the notebook full of evidence. Of prayers whispered every Sunday to wash the violence from my thoughts.
My hand moves without conscious decision, writing a single word on white paper: "Both."
The admission makes my chest tight, like confessing my deepest sin. When I write it, my hand trembles not with fear but with the thrill of being understood by someone dangerous enough to appreciate both sides of my hunger.
I place the folded square in the window and return to bed, knowing sleep won't come.
Knowing I've just admitted something to a stranger I've never admitted to myself.
Something that makes me press my thighs together against the building heat, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone who understands that church girls can dream of blood.
Morning light filters gray and hesitant through my window, exactly how I feel after confessing my darkness to a stranger.
The folded square with "Both" written inside still sits in the window, waiting.
I dress mechanically. Cardigan, skirt, the uniform of a harmless librarian that hides what I really am.
The square is gone.
My breath catches, and I push open the window, cold air hitting my heated skin.
There, on the fire escape, sits a new Polaroid.
White this time, pristine against the rusted metal, showing me with my back turned to the window, inside my apartment.
I climb out carefully, the frozen metal burning against my bare feet, and retrieve it.
Inside, two words that make my heart race: "I understand."
His words feel like a claim. Like he's seen my darkness and decided it belongs to him now, just like the rest of me apparently does.
He understands. This stranger who breaks into my apartment and protects me from shadows, he understands the duality of wanting justice and revenge, of being good while dreaming of violence.
I place my own crude folded square on the fire escape where he left his message, a simple exchange that feels like so much more.
Like accepting something I can't take back.
Whoever he is, he knows things. The perfect framing, the careful timing, the ability to move unseen.
This isn't some ordinary person. This is someone with skills.
Someone who operates in shadows like they belong there.
Inside, I face myself in the bathroom mirror.
Same face I've always worn. Same careful smile, same innocent eyes that fool everyone.
But something's different now. There's knowledge in my reflection that wasn't there yesterday.
Someone knows my darkness exists. Not all of it, not the full scope of what I've planned, but enough.
Someone has seen the violent dreams I carry and responded with understanding instead of judgment.
"Someone knows," I whisper to my reflection.