Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sara
I tell myself it’s nothing.
Just a weird coincidence.
A shape in the corner of my eye. A shadow that lingers too long. A woman standing across the street from the office who looks a little too much like Rebecca in oversized sunglasses and a trench coat that screams, “Don’t look at me, I’m trying not to be seen.”
But when I turn to look again, she’s gone.
Of course she’s gone.
I stand on the sidewalk, clutching my takeout bag tightly. My heart hammers fiercely, shaking my earrings with every beat.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the early evening crowd, glancing over my shoulder even though I know it makes me look frantic. It’s unreal, like I’m trapped in a cheap thriller that lost its budget halfway through.
By the time I reach the second crosswalk, I cave. I pull out my phone and hit Laura’s name.
She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless. “Hey! Can I call you back? I’m in the middle of—”
“Wait, no, just… can I ask you something really quick?” My words come out too fast, too sharp.
She pauses. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my voice low even though I want to shout. “I just… I keep seeing this woman. I think she might be following me. Or maybe I’m losing it. I don’t know.”
“Sara…”
“I’m probably being dramatic, right?” I ask, but I don’t even believe myself. “It’s just… I saw her outside the office. Beige coat. Sunglasses. Could’ve sworn it was—”
“Okay, babe, I really have to go. Someone just dropped a tray of shrimp cocktails and the CEO’s allergic. But we’ll go for breakfast in the morning, okay? Talk it through. Lock the door. Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
Click.
Just like that, she’s gone.
I’m still here, jittery, sweating, eyes fixed down the street as if waiting for something to jump out at me.
I hate this. I hate being that girl in a horror movie who hears a noise and walks toward it, even though every instinct screams to run.
Because this time?
This time I really do feel like someone’s watching.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’m so worked up I fumble my keys twice before I get the door open. Meatball barks from the couch, welcoming me to my own anxiety spiral.
“Same, buddy,” I mumble, dropping my bag by the door.
He trots over with his ears back as if he knows something’s off.
Or maybe he’s just hoping I brought snacks.
I scratch behind his ears and try to remember how to breathe normally. Slow. In and out. No big deal.
Except it is a big deal.
Because that look Rebecca gave me at the gala wasn’t just jealousy. It was something worse. Something calculating. And those texts? The green dress. The “you think he’s different with you?”
That wasn’t someone messing around.
That was personal.
I head straight for the kitchen and pull out a container of leftover pasta I know I won’t eat. I microwave it anyway. Something about going through the motions helps. Keeps my hands busy. Keeps my brain from short-circuiting.
My phone buzzes once on the counter and I flinch.
It’s Laura.
Just a meme. A duck in a sombrero. Text says “me trying to stay positive during my villain origin story.”
I snort. Then immediately feel guilty for laughing.
Because this doesn’t feel funny anymore.
This is real. Something sharp around the edges. I keep telling myself it’s just my brain playing connect the dots with coincidences, but the more I ignore it, the louder it gets.
I reheat the pasta. I try to eat it. I fail.
Then I sit on the couch with Meatball in my lap, my emotional support bowling ball, and stare at the wall.
I keep my phone face down. I keep the lights on. I check the locks on the windows twice.
I even peek out through the peephole once. Nothing.
But when I close my eyes?
I see her.
That shape. That coat. That lipstick. Watching me from across the street, a ghost who didn’t get invited inside.
Meatball shifts on my legs. Lets out a low, sleepy snort.
“I’m being paranoid, right?” I whisper. “Like, definitely not on a government watchlist level, but maybe a WebMD page about stress-induced delusions?”
He lifts one paw and plops it on my arm, saying yes, you’re crazy, but I live here too, so you need to pull it together.
I let out a shaky breath.
Then another.
And then I say it out loud, for the first time.
“I need to tell him.”
The words fall into the silence, heavy and unforgiving. I press a hand to my stomach. Meatball shifts in my lap, exhales sharply, then settles again, absorbing the tension like only he can.
I don’t even know what I’m waiting for—maybe the right time, maybe the right way. But whatever it is, I can’t wait anymore.
I’m about to grab my phone and call Nick when there’s a soft slap at the front door.
Not a knock.
Something sliding through the slot.
I freeze.
Meatball lifts his head and growls. My pulse slams against my ribs.
I set him down, tiptoe to the door, and peek through the peephole.
Nothing.
Not a soul in the hallway. Just a flickering ceiling light and the stale smell of old carpet.
Still, I wait a second longer before unlocking the deadbolt. My fingers shake as I reach down and pick up the envelope lying face down on the floor.
It’s unsealed. Heavy stock. No address. No stamp.
Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper. No greeting. No context. Just one line typed clean across the middle:
I think we should talk. You deserve to know the full story.
Beneath it, a name:
Isla Vale—Edge Magazine
My stomach drops.
I rush to the hall and yank the door open. I scan the corridor.
The elevator remains shut. The stairwell holds its silence. No footsteps echo. No one waits in the shadows.
Gone.
Whoever delivered it is gone.
“Okay,” I whisper, backing into the apartment. I close the door, lock it again, double-check it. “Okay. Okay.”
This is too much.
This isn’t just paranoia anymore. This is real. A journalist. At my door. Uninvited. Unannounced. And no part of me believes this is a coincidence.
This isn’t curiosity.
They know where I live.
My fingers move before my brain does. I call Nick.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Sara?” His voice is alert. Tense.
“I need you to come over,” I say. My voice is shaking, and I don’t try to hide it. “Right now.”
A pause. Then, “Are you okay?”
“No.”
That’s all it takes.
“I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead.
I let the phone fall to the couch cushion beside me and slide down to the floor with Meatball curled tight at my hip.
I press the envelope to my chest, closing my eyes.
Because whoever “Isla Vale” is?
She’s not just chasing a story. She’s sending a message.
And I don’t think I’m going to like it.