4. Chapter 4
LONDYN
I FINISH MY WORK FOR the day, clock out, and then gather my things.
As I navigate the cubicles toward the exit, I can't stop thinking about Marcus.
Will his photos match how he looks in person?
Will our conversation be awkward? Do I even have anything to talk about?
Of course, I need to step out of my comfort zone eventually. But is tonight the best night?
He glances over his shoulder. "Oh, hey. I saw you working on the Abbasi files earlier. I heard he was asking a million questions about Q-one again."
"Yeah," I manage, noting how his tall frame seems to fill more of the hallway than it should. His button-down shirt is wrinkled like he slept in it, and there's a coffee stain near the pocket. "He's... thorough."
Josh turns fully toward me, pocketing his phone. "Tell me about it. Last month he wanted me to break down every single—"
The elevator dings, cutting him off. As the doors slide open, another man from a different office approaches.
I've seen the guy in passing but don't know his name.
He's equally tall, equally male, equally capable of trapping me.
He enters the elevator first, looking like he has places to be and doesn't think about others much.
"Going down?" Josh asks, flashing me a friendly smile and holding the door with one arm while gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.
My throat constricts. The elevator suddenly looks tiny, like a metal box designed only to hold me captive with two men. I've worked with Josh for months and he's just a nerdy guy who loves his girlfriend, but I'm still not comfortable being in that elevator with him or any man.
"Actually," I say, taking a step backward, "I just remembered I left something on my desk. You go ahead."
Josh's eyebrows lift slightly, but he shrugs. "Alright. See yah."
The doors close, and I'm alone in the hallway. I wait, counting to sixty twice. When I'm certain Josh is long gone, I press the call button. This time, when the doors open to reveal an empty elevator, I step inside and finally exhale.
The subway ride and then walk home from work feels longer today.
I climb the stairs from the 145th Street station and turn onto St. Nicholas Avenue, passing the corner market where the owner always nods but never speaks.
The familiar climb up the hill feels steeper, my footsteps echoing against brownstone stoops where conversations drift through the evening air in three different languages.
The fire escapes of older apartment buildings create geometric shadows against brick facades, and warm light spills from bodegas and laundromats.
But the neighborhood's embrace can't reach me.
All of it feels muffled, like I'm walking through the world wrapped in gauze.
I know I decided on going through with the date, but I'm scared.
Am I really ready for this? My trauma-brain is a pretty big barrier. Even if things go well with Marcus, will I only have a huge freak-out if he just happens to brush my arm? Or stands too close?
I can't even think about kissing or foreplay or sex. Just trusting a man enough to give me a hug seems impossible. My mind has fallen into an echo chamber and I don't know what the right decision is, even if I do want to reclaim myself and my life.
I continue on my way home, getting lost in my spiderweb thoughts. I'm closing in on my block, when something creeps in —that familiar prickle along my spine that whispers you're being watched .
No. Stop it.
I am not being watched.
I'm only triggered from yesterday and the memories that bubbled to the surface. My body is running old scripts, seeing danger in empty theaters.
Deep breaths. Find my center. I'm safe.
The feeling won't go away, so I stop in front of a home decor shop with big, reflective windows. I pretend to dig through my purse while my eyes scan the street's reflection in the glass. I'm going to prove myself wrong. I'm not being—
My eyes land on a strange man.
Across the street. Baseball cap. He's watching me.
I think.
Is it the same man from yesterday? The outfit looks similar, but I can't make out his face in the reflection because it's so dark it's almost a silhouette. My heart kicks against my ribs, and my legs twitch to run.
I hold my ground.
You're imagining this, like you always do. Just go home.
I turn, forcing my steps to stay casual and controlled. But I hear footsteps matching my pace. A quick glance confirms that he's crossed the street, maintaining distance but definitely heading the same way as me.
My pace quickens. His does too.
I dart across the street at the next corner, weaving between pedestrians. He mirrors my movements, a dark echo in my peripheral vision.
My breath comes faster now, memories of other men, other threats, crashing through me.
Just when I suck in air and I'm about to scream and alert others that I'm in danger, my follower disappears.
Gone.
Like he was never there at all.
My feet carry me home on autopilot, every nerve ending raw and screaming. The hallway blurs as I fumble with my keys and nearly collide with my neighbor across from me and her tower of boxes.
"Sorry," I gasp, barely registering her startled expression.
Those look like moving boxes. Are she and her husband moving?
Great. Now I have to worry about who my new neighbor will be. Please don't let it be a man.
I don't wait for her reply as I throw myself through my door, slamming it behind me.
Three deadbolts. Chain lock. Door bar.
I pull up the app connected to my video doorbell to make sure the man from outside doesn't suddenly appear in the hallway. I wait several minutes, but there's only my neighbor shuffling boxes around.
Finally, my legs give out and I collapse on the couch. Sobs rip through me like an earthquake splitting the ground open. Everything hurts—my chest, my throat, my mind. The tears come hot and fast, blurring my vision as I pull out my phone and text Marcus.
M e: I'm so sorry. Food poisoning hit me hard. Rain check?
Marcus: Want me to bring you some medicine? Ginger ale?
God, he sounds so genuine. So kind. I feel awful for cancelling last-minute like this.
Me: That's sweet. Thank you. A friend's taking care of me . Really sorry. We'll reschedule soon.
The phone slips from my fingers as another wave of sobs hits.
I can't tell what's real anymore. Was that man actually following me?
Or is my trauma making things up? The Director's threat echoes in my head—" I'll be watching, so be a good girl and keep your mouth shut" —but that was six years ago.
Surely, he's moved on and no longer thinks about me.
I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance in the darkness. This can't go on. I'm either being stalked or losing my mind, and I need to know which.
Maybe... maybe I need someone else's eyes. Someone trained to differentiate between real threats and imagined ones. Maybe a bodyguard, some professional who can tell me if I'm going crazy or if there's actually something to fear.
I can do that. I have some savings left from when I was on TV and getting paid well. I can afford security for a few weeks. Because even if I am just paranoid, even if it's all in my head, I can't keep living in this perpetual state of fight-or-flight.
I'm tired of being my own unreliable narrator.