Chapter 3
Nora stared at her computer screen, her stomach churning with a familiar sense of wrongness.
The Morrison file was different.
Not obviously different. Not in a way she could point to and say there, that’s wrong. But the formatting was slightly off. Sections she’d carefully organized yesterday were now out of order. And the notes she’d made in the margins? Gone.
She scrolled through the document, pulse picking up speed with each page. Everything was there. All the data, all the audit findings, all the conclusions. But the structure she’d spent three hours perfecting had been...rearranged.
You’re imagining things.
Except she wasn’t. She knew her own work. Knew exactly how she’d left this file when she’d closed her laptop last night.
Nora glanced around the open office space. Cubicles stretched in neat rows, punctuated by the soft clicking of keyboards and low murmur of phone conversations. Normal. Everything looked completely normal.
Dan Morrison sat three cubicles down, hunched over his desk. He’d been with the firm for two years—quiet, competent, kept to himself. She’d maybe had a dozen conversations with him total.
But last week, he’d approached her in the break room with an odd intensity in his eyes. “You used to smile at me,” he’d said. “In the mornings. You don’t anymore.”
The accusation in his tone had made her skin crawl. She’d mumbled something about being busy and practically fled back to her desk.
Now she watched him work, wondering if he’d somehow accessed her files. But that didn’t make sense. Everything was password protected. IT had assured her the system was secure.
Unless IT was wrong.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Detective Black: Checking building security footage today. Will contact you with updates.
Relief flooded through her. He was actually investigating. Actually taking her seriously.
She typed back: Thank you. Something else happened—work files were changed. Not sure if it’s related.
His response came quickly: Save everything. Don’t delete anything. Document what was changed if you can.
Nora opened a new document and started typing out exactly what she remembered about the Morrison file’s original structure. Her hands shook slightly as she worked. Even this small action—documenting, reporting, trusting that someone would believe her—felt foreign.
In seven different foster homes, she’d learned that speaking up about problems only made things worse. The squeaky wheel didn’t get the grease. It got moved to a new home.
But she wasn’t a child anymore. And Detective Black had looked her in the eyes and said he believed her.
That had to count for something.
“Nora?”
She jumped, nearly knocking over her coffee. Her supervisor, Patricia, stood beside her cubicle with a concerned expression.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” Patricia was in her fifties, always professional, always kind in that distant way supervisors managed. “I wanted to check in. IT said you called about a security concern with your files?”
Nora’s heart sank. She’d hoped the IT ticket would be handled quietly. “Just some formatting issues. I think maybe my laptop glitched.”
“Hmm.” Patricia’s expression suggested she didn’t quite believe that. “You’ve seemed stressed lately. Is everything okay? I know the Morrison audit has been demanding.”
There it was. The gentle implication that Nora was the problem, not the situation.
“I’m fine,” Nora said automatically. “Just want to make sure everything’s secure.”
“Of course. Well, if you need anything, my door’s always open.” Patricia smiled and walked away.
Nora waited until she was gone, then pulled up the IT ticket she’d submitted that morning. Status: CLOSED. Resolution: “No security breach detected. User error likely cause of file discrepancies.”
User error.
Her jaw clenched. They hadn’t even investigated. Just assumed she’d screwed up and closed the ticket.
She forwarded the ticket closure to Detective Black with a short message: They don’t believe me either.
***
Lunch with Lila should have been a relief. Her best friend since college, the one person who’d stuck by her through therapy and bad dates and the general anxiety that colored Nora’s world.
But sitting across from Lila at The Brew & View, watching her friend’s skeptical expression, Nora felt that familiar isolation creeping back in.
“So let me get this straight,” Lila said, poking at her salad. “Someone’s stalking you, messing with your work files, and moving things in your apartment. But there’s no actual evidence.”
“The parking garage—”
“Someone walked toward your car. That’s not a crime, Nora.”
“It felt wrong.” Even as she said it, Nora heard how weak it sounded. “And things in my apartment have been moved. Little things. Like my coffee mug was on the wrong side of the sink, and I know where I left it.”
Lila set down her fork, her expression softening into something worse than skepticism—pity. “Honey, you’ve been under a lot of stress. The Morrison audit, this new promotion you’re going for...maybe your anxiety is acting up again?”
There it was. The gentle dismissal wrapped in concern.
“I’m not imagining this,” Nora said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I know what anxiety feels like. This is different.”
“Okay.” Lila held up her hands. “I’m not saying you’re making it up. I’m just saying...maybe you’re seeing patterns that aren’t there? Remember sophomore year when you thought your roommate was stealing your clothes, but it turned out you’d just misplaced them?”
Nora’s face burned. She’d forgotten about that. The embarrassment of accusing Sarah, the awkwardness that had followed. The way her therapist had gently suggested that Nora’s trust issues from foster care sometimes manifested as suspicion.
Maybe Lila was right. Maybe she was spiraling, seeing threats in normal situations, letting her traumatic childhood make her paranoid.
Except for the parking garage. The footsteps behind her. The voice calling out.
That had been real.
“I filed a police report,” Nora said quietly.
Lila’s eyes widened. “You did what?”
“I talked to a detective. He’s investigating.”
“Nora...” Lila leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You could get in serious trouble for filing a false report.”
“It’s not false!”
Several people at nearby tables turned to look. Nora felt her face flush hotter. She never raised her voice. Never made scenes. Never drew attention.
“I’m sorry,” Lila said, gentler now. “I just worry about you. I don’t want to see you go down this rabbit hole again.”
Again. As if Nora’s valid concerns were just another episode of instability. Another manifestation of her broken childhood.
She picked up her sandwich, no longer hungry but needing something to do with her hands. “The detective believes me.”
“What detective?”
“Carson Black. He worked with my dad.”
Lila’s expression shifted, concern mixing with something else. Calculation. “Carson Black. The one whose sister disappeared?”
“I...yes, I think so.”
“Nora.” Lila reached across the table, gripping Nora’s hand. “He’s known for being...intense. For going after cases other cops would let go. I’ve heard stories—he bends rules, pushes too hard. Are you sure he’s the right person to trust with this?”
Doubt wormed its way into Nora’s chest. What if Lila was right? What if Detective Black was seeing connections that weren’t there, feeding into her paranoia instead of helping?
But then she remembered the way he’d looked at her in the coffee shop. Not with pity or skepticism. With belief.
“He’s helping me,” Nora said firmly. “That’s all that matters.”
Lila squeezed her hand once more, then let go. “Okay. I just want you to be careful. Promise me you’ll keep seeing Dr. Kim? That you’ll at least consider that this might be anxiety?”
“I promise.”
It was easier to lie.
***
Dr. Kim’s office was designed to be soothing—soft lighting, comfortable chairs, a small fountain burbling in the corner.
Nora had been coming here for three years, working through the trauma of losing her parents, the instability of foster care, the persistent anxiety that made normal life feel like walking through a minefield.
Usually, this space felt safe.
Today, it felt like another place where she wouldn’t be believed.
“You seem tense,” Dr. Kim observed, her pen poised over her notepad. She was in her forties, Korean-American, always professionally dressed. Always carefully neutral.
Nora shifted in her chair. “I’ve been having some...issues.”
She explained it all again. The parking garage, the files, the things moved in her apartment. With each word, she watched Dr. Kim’s expression, trying to read whether the therapist believed her.
Dr. Kim’s face remained neutral. Professional. Concerned.
“Have you been taking your medication regularly?” Dr. Kim asked when Nora finished.
The question felt like a slap. “Yes. Every day. This isn’t a panic disorder episode.”
“I’m not suggesting it is. But anxiety can manifest in many ways. Hypervigilance, a sense of being watched, difficulty trusting your own perceptions...”
“I know the symptoms of anxiety,” Nora said, hearing the edge in her own voice. “I’ve been managing it for years. This is different.”
“Different how?”
“Because it’s real!”
The words burst out louder than she’d intended. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to breathe slowly. To not lose control.
Dr. Kim set down her pen. “Nora, I believe that your fear feels real. What I’m questioning is whether the threat is external or internal.
Your history—the foster care, the lack of stable attachments, the trauma of losing your parents—these things can create patterns of thinking that feel very real but aren’t based in current reality. ”
Nora felt something crack inside her chest. Even her therapist. Even the one person whose job was to help her navigate her broken brain.
“What about the detective?” Nora asked. “He’s investigating. He found something wrong with the security footage at my building.”