14. Lilith
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I once read that if you stare at your phone long enough, you can actually manifest a text message.
Total bullshit, obviously. But tell that to my brain, which had spent the last thirty minutes trying to make it happen anyway.
Not that I was waiting for a text. Because that would imply I cared. Which I didn’t. Obviously.
Still, as I leaned behind the counter, absentmindedly twirling a pen between my fingers, I found myself doing the one thing I absolutely shouldn’t be doing. Scrolling. Again.
There weren’t many messages, which only made it more ridiculous that I’d reread them at least six times.
Mr Stalker
Goodnight, Lilith.
And then nothing. Not a single text since last night. No follow up. No cryptic ‘I see you.’
Good. Great, even.
I wasn’t going to text him first. Not a chance. I wasn’t an enabler. Sure, I might have given him my number in the first place, but that was out of curiosity, which wasn’t the same as encouraging him.
And yet, as I locked my phone and shoved it back into my pocket, a nagging thought pressed in at the edges of my mind.
I should have felt uneasy. This was a stalker.
A man who had evidently been watching me for weeks.
Who obviously knew my routine, who’d figured out where I lived, who had left carefully thought-out gifts at my doorstep without a single trace of how he’d come and gone.
I should’ve been on high alert. I should’ve already ordered a full security system, bought myself a real gun—something to keep myself safe.
But I hadn’t. And that was more disturbing than anything else.
I twisted my fingers around the locket at my throat, the cool silver grounding me as I focused on my breathing.
A soft thump landed beside me.
I blinked, turning to find Molly resting her chin in her palm, watching me with an arched brow. “Oh, so you are alive in there,” she said dryly. “What’s up? Existential crisis or just your regular brand of internal monologue bullshit?”
I sighed, straightening up and grabbing a book so I at least looked like I was working. “I’m fine.”
She squinted at me. “Yeah. That sounds believable.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“Yes. I’m aware. But you’re brooding like a tortured poet over here,” she tilted her head, eyes flicking over me. “Oh God, you haven’t been writing poetry again, have you?”
I smacked the book lightly against her arm. “No, I have not been writing poetry again.”
“Good,” she muttered, rubbing her arm with an exaggerated groan. “Because the last time you tried, it was—”
The chime of the shop bell rang out, interrupting whatever she was about to say.
“Lilith Whitlock?” A voice called out.
We turned at the same time, and my eyes landed on the delivery guy standing by the doorway, shifting the weight of a drink carrier and a brown paper bag between his hands. He looked about two steps away from quitting his job on the spot.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said cautiously as I approached him. “But I haven’t ordered anything.”
He glanced around the store, squinting. “There any other Lilith Whitlocks here?”
“Nope. Just the one.”
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Listen, I’ve got five more stops and a migraine forming. It’s been paid for, take it for what it is. It’s not rocket science.”
Hesitation knocked my limbs as I glanced down at the goods.
I didn’t know what was going on, but this poor guy looked about three seconds away from exploding right there all over the stacks.
“Fine,” I sighed, taking the bag and drinks.
“Enjoy your free meal,” he mumbled as he turned on his heel and stomped toward the door.
I walked toward the counter, bag warm in my hand, drinks sloshing slightly.
Molly followed like a bloodhound .
I tore open the bag and pulled out two neatly wrapped sandwiches.
The kind with good bread and crispy edges that had been kissed with actual culinary care.
In the drinks holder sat my favourite oat milk chai latte and Molly’s caramel macchiato.
Not just close. Exact. Mine had the cinnamon dusting on top. Hers had extra caramel.
I stared at them.
Then at the sandwiches again.
My stomach roiled with confusion.
“Huh? Are we being poisoned? What’s going on?” Molly asked, peeking over my shoulder.
My phone buzzed from my pocket, and I pulled it out straight away.
Mr Stalker
Enjoy your lunch.
Oh, of course it was him.
I guess we’re back to gifts again.
My lips twitched before I could stop them, the faintest hint of amusement creeping in.
I caught myself immediately.
No, no. Absolutely not.
I was not going to smile about my stalker sending me food like some deranged, reverse sugar daddy situation. It wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t cute.
“Who’s that?” Molly said.
I flinched, angling the phone away. Too late.
“Spill. Now.” She pressed, squinting at the screen before I could lock it.
I sighed, shoulders dropping. Busted.
Mumbling something incoherent, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and reached for my latte, suddenly very interested in the foam swirls.
She frowned. “Lilith.”
I took a sip, stalling.
She folded her arms, staring me down. “Hello? Acknowledge me, please?”
“It’s him,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“And what does that mean?”
I didn’t answer. Just stared down at the sandwiches like if I looked long enough, the bread would open up and swallow me whole.
Her voice came again, slower this time, laced with realisation. “No. No. Wait—how?!”
The sandwiches weren’t going to save me, but I was willing to risk severe eye strain pretending otherwise.
“Lilith. Look at me. ”
I didn’t.
“Lilith.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I peeled my gaze away from the food and met her wide, disbelieving eyes.
I was so screwed.
She tapped her nails against the counter, waiting.
My throat felt tight. The logical part of my brain screamed at me to deny everything. But I couldn’t.
I swallowed, then said, “I… may have left him my number.”
Silence.
She just stared at me for a beat, before she screeched, “You did what?!”
She looked like she’d witnessed a live exorcism. Her mouth opened and closed, completely speechless—a rare occurrence in itself.
“Look, I was curious,” I groaned. “You can’t just leave a bunch of cryptic gifts on someone’s porch for weeks and expect them not to want answers.”
I sighed, taking a sip of chai before scrolling through last night’s completely fruitless searches. “Besides, it’s not like I’m any closer to figuring anything out,” I said, showing her the blank results.
She snatched the phone from me, tapping aggressively. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.” I confirmed, taking a sip. “As soon as he texted, I plugged his number into everything. Google, reverse lookup, every social media site I could think of. Not a damn thing.”
She frowned, tapping again. “No Instagram? No LinkedIn? Not even a bad MySpace account?”
“Not even a Pinterest board,” I said, taking my first bite— fuck, it was delicious.
She let out a long whistle, tossing my phone onto the table. “Damn. Full-on shadow man.”
I shrugged. “Not that shocking. He’s been lurking for God knows how long. I doubt he’s gonna be posting Instagram stories. Or checking in on Yelp like ‘Great spot for mildly ominous surveillance.’”
“Would it kill him to at least have a Spotify playlist though?”
“He doesn’t even show up on my doorbell feed. There’s no way he’d use his real number. He probably has a drawer full of burners.”
She rested her chin on her palm, eyes dancing with amusement. “Okay, but I have to ask. What’s the vibe here?”
I blinked. “The… vibe? Molly, I’m curious. That’s it. This is a rational human response to an irrational situation.”
“Sure,” she said with a smirk. “But most rational humans wouldn’t be having their lunch delivered by their stalker whilst texting them. ”
I gave her a scowl.
“Okay, well, most stalkers don’t disappear for days just because you tell them off,” I scoffed. “And they definitely don’t wait for you to make a move before they come back.”
“I mean, yeah. That is weird,” she said through a mouthful of food.
“Exactly.” I gestured at her with my latte. “I sat on it for a few days. If he was out for something bad, he wouldn’t have dropped weapons at my door, and he definitely wouldn’t have just… left.”
“So, what?” she hummed. “You think he’s got a moral code? Like, ‘ oh no, she yelled at me, time to reevaluate my life choices?’”
“Doubtful. But that’s why I want to know more. What’s his deal? What’s the endgame here?”
That’s all I wanted. Answers.
It clearly wasn’t control. It wasn’t some desperate power play or a pervy attempt at dominance.
This was something else. I just didn’t know what.
And I hated not knowing.
I grabbed my sandwich, ready to shove the thoughts aside when my phone buzzed again.
Mr Stalker
Are you eating it?
Lilith
Ok, no. We’re not glossing over this. How do you know our exact orders?
Mr Stalker
I just do.
Lilith
That's not a proper answer.
Mr Stalker
It’s the only one you’re getting
Lilith
Ok. So what’s your real job? Private investigator? Spy? Hacker? What exactly do you do to know that I like extra pickles?
Mr Stalker
I moonlight as all three. Private investigator by day, spy by night, cybercriminal on the weekends.
Lilith
Wow. A real Renaissance man.
Mr Stalker
Some would say.
Lilith
Oh yeah? Who would say? What are their names? Where do they live? Where can I find them?
Mr Stalker
Nice try.
Lilith
Alright, Mr. Stalker.
Mr Stalker
Oh? I have a nickname?
Lilith
Do I get a real name?
Mr Stalker
Nope.
Lilith
Didn’t think so. Mr. Stalker it is.
Lilith
Wait, do I get a code name too?
Mr Stalker
Firecracker.
Lilith
Excuse me? What does that even mean?
Mr Stalker
I don’t know. You put me on the spot. I panicked. I hate it as much as you do.
Lilith
Good. It made me want to throw up. Let’s just stick to Lilith.
Mr Stalker
Glad we’re on the same page. Never again.
Lilith
You’re lucky I’m starving otherwise I’d be filing a restraining order right now.
Mr Stalker
I’ll take that as a very aggressive thank you.
Lilith
Take it however you’d like.
Molly nudged me gently, digging her elbow into my side. “Lils. Twelve o’clock.”
I barely heard her, still grinning down at my phone. He was funny. Wasn’t sure what I was expecting from a stalker, but it wasn’t that. Should I have expected that? Was that a thing?
She nudged me again.
My head snapped up.
Right across the street, leaning against a streetlight like he had nowhere else to be, nothing better to do than stand there watching me.
What the hell ?
My chair scraped against the floor as I pushed up and headed straight for the door. The bell jingled as I stepped onto the pavement, the cold air biting my skin.
He didn’t do anything. Didn’t even move an inch. Just stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, face half-covered by that damn stupid scarf.
I raised my brows at him, lifting my hands in a ‘what the fuck?’ motion.
He just tilted his head before slowly lifting his own hands in response.
A ‘ what the fuck’ back?!
Were we mirroring now?
The sheer audacity of this Phantom of the Opera, scarf-wearing, shadow-dwelling, lunch-delivering menace.
He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen.
A second later, my own phone buzzed.
Mr Stalker
Go back to work and eat your damn lunch.
I blinked at my screen, then slowly looked back up at him.
Was he serious? Like, dead serious?
I let out the kind of exhale that could’ve flattened the Seattle skyline and spun on my heel, stalking back inside.
Not because he told me to. Absolutely not.
I just happened to be done standing outside. In the cold. Staring at an apparently nutritionally concerned stalker.
That was all.