Chapter 37
Her
I wake up with my heart already racing, even before I open my eyes. The stalker’s text from last night comes back to me instantly, like it has been waiting for me to be conscious again.
His words repeat in my head, slow and cruel. It feels like they are burned into my thoughts. A heavy fear settles in my chest, making it hard to breathe normally.
Now that he knows about the masked man being involved in my life, I cannot stop wondering what he might do next. Every possible outcome feels worse than the last.
I stay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The blanket feels like the only safe thing around me. I do not want to leave this room. The thought of stepping outside, of walking into the open where he could be anywhere, makes my stomach tighten.
Going to the office feels impossible. I would be surrounded by people who have no idea what is happening, while he could be watching from a distance.
The fear feels physical, like a weight pressing down on me. For a few minutes, I seriously think about not getting up at all.
Eventually, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers tremble slightly as I unlock it and scroll to Hazel’s name. I hesitate before pressing call, hoping she will understand. The phone rings a few times before she answers.
"Hey, Iris. Good morning," Hazel says. She sounds distracted, like she’s already juggling three things at once.
I clear my throat, trying to sound normal. "Morning. I’m sorry to call this early, Hazel. I was wondering if I could take today off. I’m not feeling great, and I think I just need a day to rest."
There’s a small pause. I hear typing in the background, maybe papers moving.
"Oh no." She says quietly, almost to herself. Then more clearly, "I wish you’d asked yesterday. Today’s a bit of a mess."
My heart sinks. "That bad?"
"Yeah!" She exhales. "A local politician got arrested overnight in a corruption sting. It blew up fast. The editor wants a full background package for tomorrow’s print edition. Financial history, old allegations, links to other officials. The whole thing. We’re short on time, and everyone’s already stretched. "
I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my forehead. "I figured it’d be something big."
"It is." Hazel says, softer now. "And honestly, you’re the best person to handle the background research. You’re thorough. I really need you in on this."
For a moment, I think about insisting. About telling her the truth. But the words stay stuck in my throat.
"Okay." I say finally. "I’ll come in. Just send me whatever you have so far, and I’ll start pulling everything together as soon as I get there."
"Thank you, Iris. I know it’s last minute." She replies, and I can hear the relief in her voice. "I’ll forward the initial reports to you right now. We’ll regroup once you’re here."
"Alright. I’ll be there soon."
We hang up, and I keep holding the phone long after the call ends. The flat is quiet again. Too quiet. The silence presses against my ears. The fear is still there, settled inside me, calm and patient, like it knows I will eventually have to step outside.
After a moment, I lower the phone and let out a slow breath. I have no excuse now. I have to leave. The thought makes my chest tighten. Beyond these walls, he could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting.
I force myself to sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. They feel heavy, as if my body is trying to resist what my mind already knows. Every movement takes effort.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step under the warm water. Steam fills the space, wrapping around me, but it does nothing to ease the tension in my chest.
I close my eyes and let the water run over me, wishing it could wash away the fear, the confusion, the constant feeling of being watched. I scrub my arms harder than necessary, as if I can erase the anxiety from my skin. But the fear stays where it has been for days now, deep, unmoving, stubborn.
In the kitchen, I make toast and eggs. The routine feels automatic. I focus on simple steps so I do not have to think. Crack the egg. Flip the toast. Sit down. Eat. I barely taste anything.
My thoughts move in circles. What if he follows me today? What if he is closer than I think? The flat no longer feels fully safe. It feels temporary, fragile.
I dress in clothes that feel familiar, hoping comfort might translate into strength. It does not. I check my bag twice, phone, keys, ID, just to feel some sense of control. When I lock the door behind me, my hands are not steady. I pull on the handle again to make sure it is secure.
Outside, my mind shifts into alert mode immediately. My eyes move constantly. Every glance from a stranger feels loaded with meaning. An older man looks up as I pass, and my heart reacts before my logic can.
A woman nearby glances in my direction, and my thoughts twist it into something suspicious. I know I am overthinking, but I cannot stop. The fear has rewired the way I see everything.
On the bus, it is worse. I sit by the window and watch people board. Every small movement feels intentional. A shift in posture. A glance that lasts a second too long. Even when nothing happens, my body stays tense, ready.
I am exhausted before the day has properly started. Living like this, questioning everyone, doubting every harmless action, feels unbearable. But I do not know how to turn it off.
By the time I reach the office, my nerves are already stretched thin.
The moment I step inside, I feel the urgency in the newsroom. The noise hits me first, phones ringing, people talking over each other, hurried footsteps. Normally, I would adjust quickly. Today, it feels overwhelming.
Hazel looks up from her desk and notices me. She lifts her hand to wave me over.
"Iris, I’m glad you made it." She says, lowering her voice slightly as I approach. "It’s been hectic since early morning."
"I could tell the moment I walked in." I reply, setting my bag down beside her desk. "What’s the situation?"
She pushes a stack of papers aside and looks directly at me. "The politician who was arrested, it’s bigger than we first thought. The editor wants a complete background package by this evening. The earlier stories are scattered, and some of the older material was never digitized."
I nod, trying to focus. "Alright. Where should I start?"
Hazel grabs a notepad and hands it to me.
Several file names are written quickly in blue ink.
"These are the physical files stored downstairs.
We have digital copies of the recent ones, but the older allegations are only in hard copy.
Please check for anything related to financial misconduct, suspicious contracts, or campaign funding issues.
We need to cross-check every detail before we publish. "
"I’ll bring up everything I can find." I say. "If there’s anything urgent, call me."
"Thank you." She replies, already turning back to her screen. "We’re on a tight deadline."
I head toward the storeroom, my earlier anxiety mixing with the pressure of work. The hallway feels quieter than the newsroom, but my heartbeat is still fast.
When I unlock the storeroom door and step inside, the lighting is dim. Shelves line the walls, filled with old files and dusty boxes stacked unevenly. The air smells like paper and neglect.
I suppress a sneeze as I begin searching. I move slowly along the shelves, scanning the labels carefully. One by one, I pull out files that match the names on the list. The folders are thick, filled with reports, handwritten notes, and faded photocopies.
The politician’s history is messy. Accusations of embezzlement, questionable campaign donations, rumors of secret agreements.
I stack the files carefully in my arms, feeling a small sense of control return as I focus on the task.
For now, the work is something solid. Something real. Something I can manage.
As I continue searching through the shelves for more files related to the politician, one folder catches my eye. It does not look like the others. The label is different, written in newer ink. It reads, ‘Stalking Case. Unsolved.’
For a second, I assume it has been misplaced by mistake, probably during a rushed cleanup.
It clearly does not belong with political corruption records.
Still, something about it pulls at me. My focus shifts without me meaning it to.
I slide the folder out slowly, brushing dust off the top, and open it.
My hands are not steady as I begin reading.
The file is about a young woman named Mily. According to the reports, she was stalked for months. She received anonymous messages that described her daily routine in detail. Where she went, who she met, what she wore.
The stalker sent her photographs taken from a distance, proving she was being watched. He spread rumors at her workplace that damaged her reputation and slowly pushed her colleagues away from her. He spread her private video.
My throat tightens as I continue reading.
The pattern feels painfully familiar. The texts. The isolation. The way the stalker stayed hidden but controlled everything from the shadows. It mirrors my own experience too closely. My pulse begins to rise.
As I turn the pages, the situation in the file becomes worse. The man escalated. He broke into her flat more than once. He left small objects behind, meaningless items placed deliberately where she would find them, as proof that he could enter her home whenever he wanted.
The notes describe how she began doubting her own memory, her own sanity. She was constantly afraid, unable to feel safe anywhere.
I stop reading for a moment and press my palm against the metal shelf to steady myself. The similarity feels too exact. This cannot be random. If the pattern is similar, he will escalate too. He will get closer.