Harper sat rigid at her desk the next day, barely focusing on the open spreadsheet in front of her. Ian—Eli—had texted her again that morning, a too-casual "Hope you slept well :)" that made her skin crawl. She hadn't responded.
She replayed their last conversation in her head.
The moment his hand brushed hers and lingered too long.
The way he leaned in too close, voice low and knowing, like they were sharing something secret.
"I have a boyfriend," she had said, clearly and firmly.
Ian's face didn't even twitch. "Jacob, right? I know. But I just assumed… people like you don't settle for ordinary."
She had pulled her hand away then, her voice sharp. "That's inappropriate. And you know it."
He'd laughed it off like it was nothing. Like she was the one making things awkward.
Now, sitting under the buzz of fluorescent lights, Harper couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched—even in the safety of her office.
Across the hallway, Ian strolled past with a coffee, gave her a small wave. She didn't wave back.
At school, Sofia tapped her pen against her notebook, heart hammering as Naomi passed her a folded page across the lunch table. It was a list—addresses, usernames, and fragments of data they'd managed to gather on Ian.
"Nothing's verifiable yet," Naomi said under her breath. "He could be using fake names. But I got a hit on an old forum post under the same username he used to message you. It's… bad."
Sofia unfolded the printout. Her eyes skimmed the comments.
"It's not stalking if she smiles at you."
"They like feeling watched—they just don't admit it."
"You just have to wait until they're lonely enough to need you."
Her stomach turned.
"He's been doing this before," she whispered. "He's practiced."
Naomi nodded grimly. "He knows how to stay just inside the lines. Charm. Timing. Making you feel like you're the one at fault."
"I need to tell Harper," Sofia murmured.
"Not yet," Naomi said. "You only get one shot at this. If we confront him without proof, he'll turn it on you. Or disappear."
That night, Harper turned off the hallway lights and locked the front door. The key clicked louder than usual.
Sofia hovered by the stairs. "Did you lock the back door?"
"Twice," Harper said, managing a smile. "Want to watch something? Or are you still swamped?"
"I'm okay. Just tired."
Harper lingered a moment longer. "You've been distant lately."
Sofia hesitated. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I just… I care about you. I want you to feel like you can talk to me."
Sofia's throat tightened. "Thanks," she whispered.
Upstairs, her phone buzzed. Ian again.
Ian:
You ignored me.
Ian (again):
You don't want to push me, Sofia. I've been patient.
Ian:
I want the journal. You know where it is.
She didn't reply.
An hour later, a photo appeared.
It was Harper, leaving work. Alone. Keys in hand.
Another message followed.
Ian:
You're running out of time.
Sofia threw the phone across the room. It bounced off her bedspread harmlessly, but her pulse wouldn't stop pounding.
Downstairs, Harper stood in the kitchen, unmoving.
She'd seen something through the window. A flash of movement. A figure across the street.
Watching.
She didn't tell Jacob.
Not yet.
But she double-checked the locks again that night.
And then she checked Sofia's door, too—quietly—just to make sure she was okay.