Chapter 38
Her
I stand in front of Mily's house, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and fear that makes my stomach twist uncomfortably as I think about what she might reveal to me today.
The bus ride here took nearly forty minutes through winding countryside roads, and every mile stretched my nerves tighter as I kept wondering if the stalker was somehow tracking me even out here in this remote area.
I finally gather my courage and ring the doorbell. The sound echoes inside, and I wait, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as doubts flood my mind about whether this meeting will bring answers or just more questions that haunt me.
The door opens, and a girl a little older than me stands there.
She studies me carefully, her posture guarded, her eyes alert in a way that feels practiced rather than natural.
It is not suspicion exactly. It is caution.
The kind that comes from learning the hard way that even a simple knock on the door can carry risk.
My chest tightens. We are connected by that look. The quiet, measured awareness of someone who has already been watched once and refuses to be caught off guard again.
I force a small smile and introduce myself, my voice coming out steadier than I feel inside.
"Hi, I’m Iris Whitlock. We spoke on the phone."
Mily studies me carefully for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she is assessing whether I am trustworthy or just another complication in her life. She doesn’t step aside immediately. Her fingers remain hooked around the edge of the door.
"Yes." She says at last. "I remember. Come in, Iris."
I step into the house, feeling a wave of relief wash over me because being inside feels safer than standing out in the open where anyone could be watching. The door closes behind me with a firm click.
The living room is neat but not staged. Books stacked in careful piles, curtains drawn just enough to let light in without exposing too much of the interior. Mily gestures toward the sofa but remains standing for a second longer than necessary, watching me take in the room.
"You came alone?" She asks casually.
"Yes."
"No one knows you’re here?"
The question is softer, but sharper.
"I told my editor I was following up on a lead." I reply. "But no one knows the address."
She nods once, absorbing that.
We sit down across from each other. There’s a noticeable distance between us. Not just the coffee table. At first the conversation is light and cautious, like we are both testing the waters before diving into the deeper topics that brought me here.
Mily folds her hands neatly in her lap. "Forty minutes drive just to make a conversation. You must really want something from this meeting."
There’s no accusation in her tone, but there is calculation.
I force a smile, trying to hide the desperation I feel inside because I need answers more than I can express right now. "I guess I do. It felt important enough to make the trip."
A silence stretches between us.
I meet her gaze directly, feeling the weight of her skepticism but hoping my honesty will bridge the gap. "Some stories do not really end, even if people want them to. They just go underground and keep affecting lives in ways no one sees."
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"You think you see something." She says quietly. "But you don’t know what it cost."
"Then tell me." I say, more gently this time. "Tell me what it cost."
She looks away first. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. Her gaze drifts toward the window, scanning the street as if checking for movement. Old habit. Old fear.
"You’re very direct." She says.
"I don’t have the luxury of circling around it."
"And why is that?"
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to answer, but because I don’t know how much to reveal yet.
"Because someone is still out there." I say carefully. "And I think what happened back then might not be as finished as everyone believes."
"Would you like some tea?" She asks abruptly, standing up with a small sigh. "I have snacks too if you are hungry from the drive."
The shift in subject feels intentional. A retreat, but not a rejection.
I allow it. "Tea would be great, thank you. No snacks for me, but I appreciate it."
She nods once, already moving toward the kitchen. "Black or green?"
"Black is fine."
She brings over two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits anyway, setting them on the table between us. The ceramic makes a soft clink against the glass surface. The small domestic sound feels almost surreal.
"I thought you might change your mind about the biscuits." She says quietly. "Long drives drain more than people realize."
"Thank you." I reply.
I pick up my mug, but my hands tremble slightly as I hold it, the warmth seeping through the ceramic but doing little to steady the nerves that make my fingers shake. I try to hide it by taking a careful sip. The tea is strong, almost sharp, but grounding.
The normalcy of this gesture feels strange and out of place compared to the dark topic we are here to discuss, like we are pretending everything is fine when both our lives have been shattered by similar horrors.
Mily notices the tremor in my hands. Her gaze flickers to it, then back to my face. She doesn’t comment on it, but something in her expression softens.
She sits back down and takes a measured sip of her tea before asking directly, her voice cutting through the cautious politeness.
"So, why are you really here, Iris? What do you hope to get from talking to me about something I’d rather forget?"
There is no hostility in her tone now. Only exhaustion. A boundary being tested.
I hesitate for a moment, feeling the weight of the question press on me because admitting my own vulnerability feels exposing. For weeks I have been pretending I can handle this alone.
"I came because what happened to you is happening to me now.
" I say. "Not all the details at once, but enough to scare me deeply. The anonymous texts that know too much, the photos proving he is watching, the rumors at work that isolate me from everyone. I thought maybe you could help me understand how to deal with it or spot something I’m missing. "
Mily goes very still.
Her mug pauses halfway to her lips. A faint shift passes across her face. Recognition first, then something darker. Not surprise. Memory.
"Similar to what I went through?" She repeats slowly. "That is terrifying."
Her eyes narrow slightly, not at me, but at the implication.
"Tell me more about what has been happening to you." She says, placing her mug down with deliberate care. "I need to hear the pattern."
I nod and draw in a slow breath.
"It began with texts commenting on my clothes or where I was." I explain. "Like he was always nearby. At first, I convinced myself it was someone I knew playing a twisted joke."
Mily’s jaw tightens. "They always start small. Just enough to make you doubt yourself."
"Yes." I whisper. "Exactly. Then a video of me in a private moment was spread at my university. It ruined my reputation. I was off from uni before I even had a chance to defend myself."
She closes her eyes briefly. "And then?" She asks.
"Then rumors at my job to make everyone avoid me." I continue. "It feels calculated. Like he’s systematically isolating me from support."
Mily leans back slightly, her posture no longer guarded in the same way as before. It’s no longer suspicion in her eyes. It’s recognition.
"That sounds exactly like how it started for me." She says quietly. "I used to live in the city during university. It began with anonymous texts that felt observant but not threatening at first."
I lean forward without realizing it, drawn in.
"What kind of texts?" I ask. "Were they about your daily routine or something more personal?"
She nods slowly.
"Comments about what I was wearing that day." She says. "Or places I had just left, like he was tracking my every move without me knowing. Photos of empty spots where I had been minutes before, proving he was close but never showing himself."
She pauses, fingers tightening slightly around her mug.
"At first," she continues, more cautiously now, "I told myself it was coincidence. The city is full of cameras. Full of people. Anyone could have seen me."
"Did you go to the police?" I ask.
Her lips press into a thin line.
"I did." She says after a moment. "They told me there wasn’t enough evidence. Anonymous numbers. No clear threats. Just ‘admiration.’"
She almost spits the last word.
"I remember the officer saying, ‘He hasn’t hurt you. Block the number.’"
I swallow hard.
"That’s what they told me." I admit. "As long as he doesn’t make a direct threat, they won’t act."
Mily studies me again, but this time it isn’t skepticism. It’s calculation mixed with concern.
"Has he escalated?" She asks carefully. "Beyond humiliation?"
I hesitate. "Not physically. Not yet."
Her gaze sharpens at the ‘yet.’
"You think he will."
"I don’t know." I answer honestly. "But the way it’s progressing, it feels deliberate. Strategic."
Mily exhales slowly, as if releasing something she has held for years.
"That is the part that frightened me the most." She says. "Not the messages. Not even the rumors. It was how patient he was."
She glances toward the window again, instinctively checking the outside.
"They do not rush." She adds quietly. "They study. They wait for you to feel alone."
I nod, my throat tightening.
"That’s exactly how it feels."
Silence settles between us again, but this time it isn’t strained. It’s heavy with shared understanding. Mily wraps both hands around her mug, as if steadying herself.
"When the photos started," she says slowly, "I realized it wasn’t coincidence anymore."
She meets my eyes. "It was control."
I feel a chill run through me because it matches so perfectly.
"That is exactly what he does to me." I say quietly. "Did it escalate from there? How did he make it worse?"