Interlude
The Watcher
That Night
The house should be empty. It isn’t. Light spills through the repaired living room window, warm against the dark yard.
The watcher stands just beyond the edge of the tree line where the replaced cameras can’t see. Watching. Waiting.
The woman isn’t here. That much is obvious. News travels fast in Brookhaven.
It always does.
People talk at the diner. At the gas station. Outside the hospital.
The woman left town. Safe somewhere. Away from him. And for a little while, there had been relief.
Finally, she listened. She stayed away from the man like she was supposed to.
The break-in should’ve been enough. The notes should’ve been enough. The rocks should’ve been enough. But now….
The watcher’s gaze fixes on the truck sitting in the driveway. His truck. Xavier.
A shadow crosses the kitchen window inside the house. Still there. Still moving through her home as if he belongs in it.
The watcher’s jaw tightens. The woman isn’t even here. So why is he? Why won’t he leave her alone?
Inside, he moves across the living room, fixing things, cleaning things, and touching things that belong to her.
The watcher’s breathing roughens. This was supposed to end. She was supposed to understand. Stay away from him. That was the point.
Instead, he’s still here. Still walking through her house, still feeding her fucking pigs, and still acting as if she belongs to him.
The watcher’s fingers curl hard against the rough bark of the tree until splinters bite into skin. Barely noticeable.
Inside the house, the man disappears down the hallway before returning. Still there. Still refusing to walk away.
The anger settles colder now. Sharper. More focused.
Maybe the woman isn’t the problem anymore. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s the one who won’t listen.
The watcher watches him move through the house one more time. Then turns silently back toward the trees.
Maybe next time it’ll be clear.