26. Lucia
26
LUCIA
L eaving Luciano at Starbucks feels like pulling away from the only solid ground I have left. I wave goodbye and force a smile onto my face as I slide into the driver’s seat. Raffaele climbs in beside me, happily munching on what’s left of the breakfast sandwich he got on our way out.
The first few minutes of the drive back to Topeka are slow and quiet. The hum of the car’s engine and the soft music from the radio fill the silence between us. I keep my eyes on the road, trying to focus on anything other than the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. Raffaele, for his part, seems content to mess with his phone, typing with quick, efficient movements.
I wish he’d stay distracted the entire drive, but after we merge onto I-70 and settle into the steady rhythm of the highway, he shoves the phone in his pocket and focuses on the road ahead. “What were you talking about back at the coffee shop?” He asks with no preamble, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of tires on pavement and the muted strains of the radio.
The abruptness of his question catches me off guard, and I feel my grip tighten involuntarily on the steering wheel. I frown, casting him a quick, sidelong glance that betrays my confusion. “What do you mean?” Raffaele sat at the table next to Luciano and me while we drank our coffee. Did he overhear something?
“You mentioned something about a stalker.” He pauses briefly before adding, “While we were waiting in line with your brother.”
My heart flutters nervously, a familiar tension suddenly resurfacing in the tips of my fingers. I grip the steering wheel tighter and counsel myself to maintain composure. I can feel Raffaele’s eyes on me, probing, and I struggle to keep my expression neutral. “That was a long time ago,” I reply in a measured tone.
Raffaele doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at me expectantly, his silence pressing me to continue. I can feel my resolve crackling under the weight of his wordless inquiry. My fingers drum nervously against the steering wheel, a telltale sign of my internal struggle. With a sigh of resignation, I reluctantly come to the realization that Raffaele will be every bit as persistent and irritating as his boss.
The memories of what happened flood back to me in a torrent, vivid and raw, as if they occurred yesterday instead of years ago. I carefully separate myself from the feelings of unease and distress that followed me around during those months, like a persistent shadow I couldn’t shake. It’s a delicate balance, acknowledging the past without letting it consume me.
“Two or three years ago, after I started at Whitson Elementary, I got this… feeling. At first, it was just that—a feeling that someone was watching me.”
My entire body shivers as I remember what it felt like, the unsettling sensation creeping over me like an icy fog. I was at the grocery store the first time it happened, innocently perusing the aisles. As I walked through produce and bread, this prickly sensation began stinging the back of my neck, as if a thousand tiny needles were pricking my skin. I kept turning around to see what caused it, but no one was there—at least, no one suspicious.
The feeling persisted, haunting me in unexpected places. I got the same sensation in the school parking lot a few times, the hairs on my arms standing on end as I made my way to my car. It was hard to pinpoint whether it was real or just my imagination running wild since hundreds of people were around when it happened. Kids were walking home, chattering and laughing, oblivious to my discomfort. Parents were in the pick-up line, engines idling as they waited for their children. Half a dozen fellow teachers were in the parking lot walking to their cars, briefcases in hand and lesson plans on their minds. Yet, among all the normalcy, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
“That’s when I started to notice weird things happening.” I swallow hard as the anxiety from those days creeps up my spine and settles in my chest. “I’d come home from school, and my front door would be unlocked, even though I was sure I’d locked it.” The first time it happened, I doubted myself; maybe I had absentmindedly left the door unlocked in my morning rush. The second time felt like an eerie coincidence; I wondered if I’d subconsciously left it unlocked to rationalize the first incident. But as it kept occurring—the third, fourth, fifth time, and onward—a chilling realization crept over me. By the twelfth time, there was no denying it: someone was breaking into my house when I wasn’t there. I began to dread returning home, afraid of what I’d find this time.
“A couple of times, I came home to find a book I was reading in a different room. Like, I remembered reading in the living room the night before, but then I found it in the kitchen.” Again, I thought it was me the first time it happened. Maybe I absentmindedly walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, set the book down, and forgot I’d done it. But when it happened two or three times after that, I realized I wasn’t that absentminded. The unsettling feeling in my gut grew stronger with each occurrence. I started marking my place in the book with a distinct bookmark, even taking photos of where I left it before going to bed. Yet, without fail, I’d find it in a different spot a few days later, sometimes with the bookmark missing entirely.
“A few times, my car window would be rolled down, even though I distinctly remembered leaving it up. It happened at school once or twice, in the crowded parking lot where anyone could have walked by.” My stomach clenches, remembering the occasions I’d walk outside to find that someone had messed with my car in broad daylight. The violation of my personal space made me sick to my stomach. “But it usually happened when my car was in the garage for the night, which was even more disturbing.” It left me with an unsettling feeling: someone was in my home while I was there, moving silently through the house, bold enough to tamper with my vehicle. The thought of an intruder so close while I slept blissfully unaware made my skin crawl and left me questioning my sanity.
Raffaele’s expression remains neutral, his face a carefully composed mask, but I can tell he’s listening intently, absorbing every word. His eyes never leave mine as I speak. I continue, the story tumbling out faster now that I’ve started it, like a dam breaking after years of pressure. My voice quivers slightly as suppressed memories resurface, each detail sharper than I’d expected after all this time. I realize, with a mixture of relief and trepidation, that I’ve never told anyone the full extent of what happened to me during those few tumultuous months. “It got worse. I’d come home, and things would be slightly out of place. Little things, like a picture frame, tilted at an odd angle or my shoes, moved from their place by the front door to the living room. It was subtle but enough to make me feel like I was going crazy. Sometimes, I’d find my favorite mug in a different cupboard or the throw pillows on my couch rearranged. Once, I even discovered my diary on my nightstand when I was certain I’d hidden it under my mattress. The changes were always small, almost imperceptible, but they accumulated over time. I started to doubt my memory, wondering if I was simply forgetting where I’d left things.”
I had a black checkered blanket on my couch that fall. One crisp afternoon, I came home from work, stepped into the living room, and felt the ground shift under my feet. My eyes darted to the couch, and my breath caught in my throat. The familiar black checks were gone, replaced by the festive reds and greens of a Christmas blanket I knew had been stored away in the attic. The sudden, inexplicable change sent a chill down my spine, far colder than the autumn air outside.
I take a shaky breath, trying to push down the fear bubbling up again. “After that, I called Dante. He and Enzo came to town and helped me pick up some stuff. Security cameras, pepper spray, a stun gun,” I list the items from memory. “The security system was for proof. I needed to know that I wasn’t just imagining it, you know?”
After a few seconds of silence, Raffaele prods. “What happened after that?”
“Nothing,” I reply, feeling defeated all over again. “After the cameras were installed and the security system set up, it stopped —just like that. No explanation, no sign of who it was, nothing. It just… ended.” It was frustrating, to say the least. Not because I wanted to be stalked by a stranger but because I never got closure.
Raffaele pulls out his phone again, his fingers flying over the keyboard. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears as I whip my head around to look at him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the blue light from the screen casting eerie shadows across his face. I resist the urge to snatch the device from his hands, desperate to know what he’s typing and to whom. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t even glance up from the screen. “Informing Saverio.”
Panic surges through my chest. “No! Don’t tell him. I didn’t tell him when it was happening for a reason. He’ll overreact.”
Raffaele’s fingers remain active, typing a message I can’t read. His expression is unyielding. “I have to tell my boss. That’s what I’m here for.”
I bite my lower lip as frustration and fear twist into a sick feeling in my stomach. I should have known better than to confide in Raffaele; I should have known his first loyalty would be to Saverio. And now, because of my big mouth, Saverio will find out about something I never wanted him to know. He’ll go spiraling off the deep end, and I’ll probably find myself with a guard dog and armed escorts wherever I go.
I stay silent for the remainder of the drive to Topeka, afraid that if I talk, I’ll spill more secrets I don’t want Saverio to discover. He’s already watching my every move and has his bodyguard following me. And now, thanks to my confession, I’ve given Saverio another reason to tighten his grip on me.