《Kill Me With Desire》


 Chapter One

    Ever since I was a little girl, I¡¯ve loved nature. There¡¯s something about the setting sun that cleanses my psyche and makes my problems melt away. My brother and I would spend hours exploring the woods behind our childhood home. Whenever we had the opportunity, we would be outside, playing in the yard or riding our bikes. I joined the Girl Scouts in middle school because I wanted to spend more time outdoors. Boy, was I wrong about that one. But my absolute favorite thing to do was take long walks in the park with my mother, just as the sun began to set.


    The dwindling sunlight of a mid-May dusk basks the trees in a rainbow of gorgeous colors. My nose is overwhelmed by the smell of blooming rhododendrons and my eyes by the thriving cherry blossom trees. The sound of a gentle breeze rolls in and rustles the leaves of the gigantic red maple to my right. Below my sneakers, I can feel the crunching of small rocks and clumps of dried mud.


    There are hundreds of trails here, all branching off from each other and back again. I haven¡¯t even begun to explore every pathway in the park. Probably because I always find myself coming back to this one. It¡¯s Rowan¡¯s favorite path too. I wish she were here with me. I look around, wishing that she would be just around the corner, waiting for me. But she¡¯s not there. No one is. The park is unusually quiet, especially for a Friday night. On a normal day, it would be bustling with the shrill screams of playing children and the occasional bark of a walking dog. There would be teenagers throwing a frisbee in the open field and couples holding hands while traversing the paths. But today, there isn¡¯t a single person.


    I have to be honest, it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve had the chance to get out of my apartment. I¡¯ve been feeling a little depressed lately, what with all the nightmares. They¡¯ve been plaguing my dreams and have made it impossible for me to sleep. Every night, the same black figure chases me. I run as fast as I can, but it¡¯s as if I¡¯m running in place. It doesn¡¯t take long for him to catch up to me, wrapping his arms around my body, making it impossible to move. I struggle, trying to break free, but it¡¯s no use. I¡¯m weak. There¡¯s nothing I can do to fight it.


    I close my eyes, try to banish the thoughts of my nightmares, and open them again. The sun is almost set now. I pass one of my favorite spots along the walk. To my left is a small pond, riddled with algae and swimming with tadpoles. Sticking out from the land and over the water is a little dock with rotting wood boards. It looks as if it would crumble, even under the weight of a curious squirrel. On one of the nearby oak trees hangs a birdhouse, slathered in brightly-colored paints. I stop walking long enough to admire the gorgeous scenery. And that¡¯s when I notice that someone is following me.


    I quickly continue along my path, hoping that the person behind me is just another avid nature-lover. As I increase my walking speed, I hope that they¡¯ll decide to take a different path or that it¡¯ll be a runner who¡¯s about to sprint past me. I find myself racing against the daylight and away from whoever is following me. I¡¯m running now, my breath heavy and my chest tight. I can feel the strain on my ankles, but I can¡¯t stop. I tell myself not to turn around, not to look, and to focus on getting the hell out of here. But I can¡¯t help it.


    My pursuer looks to be nothing but a black mass, an apparition. It has a strange, masculine energy and an ominous aura. It¡¯s only a few feet behind me now but it isn¡¯t running on the path anymore. It¡¯s running through the thicket instead. The trees are cloaking its every move, making it harder for me to keep track of it. I glance behind me again. I no longer see it but my senses warn me that it¡¯s there. I hear faint footsteps, twigs snapping and leaves whispering. I see it once more, but this time in my peripheral vision. It¡¯s almost beside me now.


    My heart races in unison with my feet thudding along the ground. A fire creeps through my toes, into my heels and up my ankles. A resonating vibration tickles my calves and pulses through my thighs. It¡¯s not long before my entire body goes numb. I think I might die here. I think that these are my last breaths. I imagine myself standing at the entrance map, pondering all the different avenues, wondering how many paths there were. How long would it take to find a missing person? This fact hit me like a ton of bricks. It makes me stumble and struggle to find my footing. But there¡¯s no time to reflect on what¡¯s happening, only to run. It feels like I¡¯ve been running for hours, but in reality, it¡¯s been mere minutes. The fear has taken over my sensibility, my instincts.


    I try to focus my mind, to sharpen my thinking. I need to call for help. I pull my phone from the pocket of my leggings and press the lock button. The screen instantly flashes on, blinding my eyes that have adjusted to the darkness of the night. My body run, but my mind is fixated on punching in my phone¡¯s password. Before I can react, I trip over the root of a nearby tree, falling to my knees and sending my phone flying. I¡¯m petrified that the black figure will catch up, that it¡¯ll catch me. There¡¯s no time to retrieve my phone, only to run.


    I can feel its presence gaining on me. What I wouldn¡¯t do to run into an innocent couple trying to picnic a late dinner. But no such luck. Looking for anyone or anything to save me, I scan the surrounding silva. Eastern Hemlock. Sugar Maple. Eastern Red cedar. Sumac. An absolute cornucopia of glorious trees and I don¡¯t have time to take in their beauty. If you¡¯re wondering, I really am a naturalist. Some would even say a dendrophile, but my love for trees and nature itself is not enough to keep me from running. I¡¯m sure, to most people, the thought of pausing a murderous chase to think about trees is ludicrous but there is no place that I would rather be murdered.


    Maybe my time has come. Maybe being a journalist was enough for one lifetime. I mean, having my art to occupy me on the weekends definitely compensates for the fact that I hate my job. Other than living in a small, one-bedroom apartment and not having had a boyfriend in years, I think I¡¯ve achieved all that one can hope for in one''s existence. If these are my last breaths, if whatever is chasing me finally catches up, will I be at peace with the way I lived my life? With my small apartment? With my unfulfilling job? With being alone? With dying?


    Just as I¡¯m about to answer all of my own questions, I see a glowing illumination over the hill in front of me. That must be the parking lot. I feel the earth change below my feet. The matted-down dirt turns into lush, green grass. The grass turns into a sea of white and grey pebbles. And the pebbles turn into twenty-or-so parking spots. Finally, I¡¯ve made it out of the woods and onto the asphalt. The sun has set completely, but a buzzing spotlight casts a harsh glare onto a series of white-painted lines. I frantically survey my surroundings, the black figure nowhere in sight.


    I run up to each of the cars, banging on their doors and windows and pulling at their handles, hoping that someone will be inside one of them. Of course not. Somewhere nearby, I hear the crunch of gravel. My heart leaps from my chest and I spin around, fully expecting the arms of my pursuer to wrap tightly around me. For it to drag me away, back into the infinite darkness of the woods. Instead, I spy a silver Tesla, creeping into the parking lot. If it wasn¡¯t for the crunch of the gravel, I never would¡¯ve known it was there.


    I position myself under the hum of the spotlight and wave my arms desperately and uncontrollably. My chest heaves and my lungs wheeze. Sweat pours from every pore on my body. I can feel my hands shaking at the ends of my arms. My legs feel weak, like they¡¯ll collapse at any moment. I feel so hot, like a radiator bursting with steam.


    The car pulls into the spot closest to me and, from it, jumps a thirty-something man with a bewildered look on his face. Before he can even exit the car completely, I shout to him, ¡°Please, help me! Someone was just chasing me! I need help!¡± The look on his face changes from bewilderment to worry. I can see a panicked look in his eye and he freezes, not sure what to do next. I stand, doubled over, my hands on my knees, still trying to catch my breath. With labored words, I call to him again, ¡°Please, I need you to help me. Someone is after me.¡±


    He finally works up something to say as he pulls his phone from his pocket. ¡°Uhh - okay. I¡¯ll call the cops. Do you want to get in the car? You¡¯ll be safer in there than out here.¡± I think about it for a moment as I watch him pushing buttons on his phone. He does have a point, but how do I know that he isn¡¯t some creep, just like whoever was chasing me? I hear the faint rustling of leaves in the distance and I instantly make my decision. Inside the car it is.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I climb inside the Tesla, locking the door behind me. He hangs up the phone, turns to me and says, ¡°They¡¯ll be here in a few minutes. Until then, I have a blanket in the trunk of my car. I¡¯ll grab it for you.¡± I nod my head, not wanting to refuse his kind gesture. In all reality, I feel hotter than I¡¯ve ever felt. Even hotter than when I went to Florida that one summer. I hear him open the trunk and begin to rifle around, searching for the blanket. I find myself staring at him through the side mirror, watching his every move.


    I try to get a sense of who he is. He¡¯s quite tall, at least compared to me, and has light honey skin. His head is topped with a mop of jet black hair and his ears protrude slightly from underneath it. He¡¯s wearing a white t-shirt that looks to be a bit too big and a pair of grey basketball shorts with two green stripes up both sides. His sneakers are bright white and I secretly wonder how he keeps them so clean. I look down at my burgundy Nikes, which are caked in dirt.


    He slams the lid of the trunk, startling me, but he doesn¡¯t seem to notice. He approaches the door, blanket in hand, and I get a chance to observe his face. He boasts thick, black eyebrows above roundish-almond eyes. His button nose is slightly upturned and his full lips are a light blush pink. His face is round in shape but he has a square jawline and a narrow chin. He really is quite attractive. If not for the circumstances, I might¡¯ve asked for his number.


    He opens the door and hands me the blanket. He mumbles something to me, but I can¡¯t quite make it out. I just hold it in my hands, running my fingers along its rough, woven texture. It boasts bright pink and blue colors, not conforming to any specific design. I drape it across my shoulders, thinking about its resemblance to something my grandmother once knitted. As it brushes past my nose, I can smell a mixture of a pine-scented air freshener and something musty or moldy, which I can only assume is what his trunk smells like. Nevertheless, I¡¯m extremely grateful.


    He climbs into the driver seat, closing the door behind him. The car makes a clicking noise, probably the locks, and I can feel his gaze on me. From under the blanket, I can feel my hands starting to sweat. Did he just lock me in the car or does the car do that automatically? Is he trying to keep someone out or keep me in? I can feel my heart start to race and my breathing comes more rapidly. He must¡¯ve seen my discomfort because he addresses it in a worried voice, ¡°Are you okay? I mean...I know you¡¯re not okay, but you¡¯re safe in here.¡±


    It takes me a moment to steady my breathing and I¡¯m still not sure that I can trust him. But I would much rather be in this car with this strange man, than be chased all around the woods by someone that might want to kill me. I think over what to say next, wanting to thank him, but not wanting to say anything at all.


    ¡°Thank you for the blanket. And for helping me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really no problem,¡± he replies.


    We both sit there, in silence, not sure what to say to one another. I think for a moment that he might try to say something, but he¡¯s interrupted the echoing sound of the police sirens in the distance. Just over the horizon, we can see the flashing blue and red lights speeding towards us, illuminating the darkness. I feel a wave of relief wash over me and I turn to him, wanting to ask his name. I know it might sound crazy that I would want to know this man¡¯s name, but he saved me. If he hadn¡¯t pulled into the parking lot at that exact moment, I might be dead right now. And he didn¡¯t have to help me or give me this scratchy trunk blanket, but he did. And if he was really a bad person, then maybe he would¡¯ve tried something while I was sitting in his car. But he didn¡¯t and now I¡¯m going to go home without even learning his name.


    ¡°I -¡±, I stutter.


    ¡°Can I -¡±, he interrupts.


    He meets my eyes and, in that moment, I find out everything that I need to know about him. That he is kind. His facial expression changes suddenly as he asks, ¡°May I know your name?¡±


    His question hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach. I didn¡¯t expect him to ask exactly what I was thinking.


    ¡°Harper. What¡¯s yours?¡±, I reply.


    ¡°Jake.¡±


    We exchange smiles as two police cars pull into the parking lot. When they see Jake and I, they turn off their flashy lights and exit the vehicles. Three cops approach us, flashlights in their hands. The burliest one speaks first, addressing Jake specifically.


    ¡°Good evening, sir. Are you Jake Cortez?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Officer Trent Williams with the Bellevue Police Department. You said that someone was being chased?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± he looks at me and continues, ¡°This is Harper. Someone was chasing her through the woods. I looked around but I didn¡¯t see anyone. He must¡¯ve run off when he saw my car.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Well, Officer McNally will get your statement and then you can head home. Thank you for calling it in.¡±


    Officer Williams nods towards the other two policemen and the skinniest one steps forward. That must be Officer McNally. I hear the beginning of their conversation before Officer Trent turns his attention to me. He starts by jotting down all of my information: my date of birth, my address, etc. Then comes my story. It doesn¡¯t take long for me to explain what happened. It¡¯s not some in-depth piece. I was walking, someone chased me, I ended up here, Jake came along and helped me, the cops showed up. Simple. But the look on his face is eerily similar to the one Jake had when I told him. They both probably think I¡¯m crazy. But I know what happened. I know what I saw.


    Officer Trent and the third officer begin searching along the path that I showed them. It didn¡¯t take long for them to come back empty-handed, both literally and figuratively. My phone was nowhere to be found and there were no signs of my stalker, either. He¡¯s most likely been gone for a while now. On top of that, my only witness, Jake, didn¡¯t actually see the black figure. It seems like all of their questions are designed to poke holes in my story. I know they¡¯re just doing their job but it¡¯s almost like they don¡¯t believe me.


    Jake offered to take me home but I politely declined. He¡¯s already done enough for me tonight. Plus, Officer Trent is dropping me off. He said it¡¯s on his way back to the precinct. My apartment is right down the street, after all. Close enough that I walked here to begin with. In fact, the drive only takes about two minutes and I¡¯m home.


    I politely thank Officer Williams and I make my way up my apartment steps. When I get to my front door, I notice that I still have Jake¡¯s blanket wrapped around me. I feel a pang of guilt for taking it, almost like I stole it. I pull my ring of keys from my pocket, thankful that I didn¡¯t drop it like I did my phone. My hands shake as I fumble to unlock the door. It takes what feels like minutes to open all three of the locks. Then, by some stroke of God, I pull on the door handle and I¡¯m into my apartment.


    My body flushes with a mixture of adrenaline and relief and I slam the door behind me, leaning into it as I secure each of the locks. It doesn¡¯t take long before every light in the place is on. My bedroom. The bathroom. The kitchen. The living room. Well, every light is kind of an exaggeration, considering I have a total of four lights in my entire apartment. My one bedroom, one bathroom abode is a whopping 820 square feet. I have a small galley kitchen that is basically separated from the rest of the apartment. Without the small fluorescent ceiling light, there is almost no illumination there. None of the three windows in the place reaches the kitchen, so there¡¯s no natural light. And, of course, I pay much more in rent than would be expected of such a small place. But that¡¯s the price you pay to live in Bellevue.


    After I search my whole apartment and close all of the curtains, I finally feel a small sense of relief. Don¡¯t get me wrong, I¡¯m still scared out of my mind, but at least I know that no one can see inside. I think about what happened for a moment and I let everything sink in. I put my hand on the right pocket of my leggings, thinking that my phone would be in it. I can¡¯t call anyone. Not Rowan or Ben or my mom.


    I glance at the microwave. 10:06. My gaze then shifts from the microwave to the cardboard box on the opposite counter. It reads, ¡°Corbett Canyon Pinot Grigio¡±. I contemplate my options for the night. Do I drink a few glasses of wine or do I drink half a bottle of Nyquil? Either way, I¡¯m going to need help falling asleep and wine is definitely cheaper than Nyquil. I grab a delicate (mostly because it is cheaply made) wine glass from the cabinet above the dishwasher. I fill my cup, nearly to the brim, and plop myself down on the sofa. It takes me a moment to find the TV remote. Time for another reality TV show about some wives with some husbands that did famous stuff.


    I know what you¡¯re probably thinking. How can you relax and watch TV at a time like this? But I think the normalcy of TV is what calms me down. After catching up on a few episodes of various reality TV shows and downing a few more glasses of wine, I find myself dozing off on the couch. Even though my bedroom is only a few feet away, I decide to sleep on the couch. I pull down the blanket that is conveniently lying on the crest of the sofa (I put it there for exactly this reason). In a matter of minutes, I¡¯m in dreamland, being chased once again by the black mirage.

 Chapter Two

    The first day that I saw her was a mediocre one. That is, until I laid eyes on her. I wasn''t quite sure of her name yet but I did know that she was infatuating. For those first few seconds, those seconds where her looks were still fresh in my mind, I stared intently, waiting for the jig to be up. I was waiting to wake from the presumed dream that I was caught in. But it wasn''t a dream at all. In fact, it was much better than that. Before me stood the most beautiful woman that I''d ever seen. She was a few inches shorter than me, probably 5''4, and her hair was this auburn brown that shone in the light. It was riddled with highlights, both red and blonde, that sparkled as she made her way towards me. It took me a moment to make eye contact, scared of what she might read behind my stare. It was then that my breath left my body and I remained a lifeless husk of my former self.


    Her eyes. Her uniquely grey eyes. They locked onto mine and I sensed my confidence retreating, crawling into a hole that it has always been quite familiar with. But I pulled it back out, hoping that if she spoke to me that I might be able to find the words. She was still moving toward me and it seemed for a moment that she would phase right through me but she stopped. I gawked at the voluptuous figure before me and attempted to absorb every moment, quietly calculating in my mind, trying to predict what might happen next.


    "Hi! My name''s Harper."


    She stood there, her hand outstretched, waiting for me to meet it with mine. Before I did, though, I noticed another woman standing behind her, as if trailing her. Although I had little interest in meeting this other person, I definitely felt some curiosity, wondering how she fits into the puzzle of that gorgeous woman''s life.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "Hi. I''m Nelson."


    I met her hand and immediately felt an intense electricity. I was horrifically afraid to meet her gaze and I didn''t, but it left me wondering how she felt as well. Did she sense the electricity? Or was it just my imagination, wanting there to be something more?


    It didn''t take but a few more words before she moved on. I wasn''t really surprised, considering that we were at a cocktail mixer for work. But as I watched her walk away, her sidekick in stride, I secretly wished for her to come back. I wanted more than anything for her to turn around and speak more words. Her voice had this lilted quality that sang into my ears like early-morning birds. I wanted more than anything for her to return to her position in front of me and to tell me more about herself. I wanted to know everything that had shaped her into the person that she is now. I wanted to know every experience that she''d ever had. Every heartbreaking moment. Every satisfyingly grand triumph.


    But until the next time that we met, I had but one thing. Her name. Harper. And I''d never heard such a fitting name in my life. Her personality, her grace. It represented the name. It embodied the name. And at that specific moment in time, I could trace back my obsession. After that day, my life changed completely. I had never felt like that before but this is what I''m like now. Harper Torres is my obsession. She is the reason that I live and the reason that I would die. And she will be mine.

 Chapter Three

    I wake up in a sweat, my alarm having pulled me from the nightmare of the apparition. The alarm is loud enough to wake me but further away than usual. Where am I? Oh, that''s right. I fell asleep on the couch. I let out a little giggle, refold the throw blanket and place it back in its rightful spot. I stretch for a good 30 seconds and then make my way into the bedroom, where I whack off the alarm. It reads 7:02. Time to get ready for work. Friday, the day that I turn in my weekly article for Sunday''s paper. Another day, another ¡ª penny. Hahaha.


    I walk back through the living room and into the kitchen, glancing over at my makeshift studio in the corner. If there was one good thing about my job, it was that most of the work can be done from home. And that usually gives me ample time to work on my art. I am a fast writer, after all and writing is my job but painting is absolutely my passion.


    While I make myself a sugary bowl of cereal, I imagine painting, instead of going to work today. Again, I look over at my easel and my canvases and my bins upon bins of paints and supplies. Watercolor. Charcoal. Oil. Enamel. And, last but not least, my absolute favorite. Acrylic. Most of my work was done in acrylic paint, except for the occasional charcoal sketch. I love to paint everything and everyone that I see and meet. But my favorite thing to paint is nature. I love to walk through the park with my sketchbooks and some pencils, creating a replica of nature on paper. Nature is the exact reason why my "art studio" is set up next to the only window in the living room. Inspiration.


    Almost finished with my breakfast, I find myself staring out the window, taking in the brick buildings and carefully placed trees. The cracked sidewalks and fenced-in yards. The telephone poles and the wires that string from them. It looks beautiful outside today. I reach across the small table that sits in a weird spot between the living room and the kitchen, and grab my somewhat-new Dell laptop. I quickly check the weather. High 71. Low 53. I pull up the article I''ve been writing.


    Bellevue Mayor''s Sex Scandal With Secretary


    I skim it for last minute corrections and send it to my work email, along with a few pictures that I found. I slam the laptop shut, by accident, with a little too much force. I''m sure it''s fine.


    Time to get dressed. A band t-shirt, jeans and my favorite converse. One of the pros of working for a newsroom is that you don''t have to dress fancy. It''s all about the writing. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Before I leave, I grab my favorite faux leather jacket, just in case it gets a little chilly. It sits perched on the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen/dining room, where it always sits. Then I turn off all the lights, which are still on from the night before, and grab my keys to head out the door. Locking the door behind me, I head over to my assigned parking space and jump into my piece of shit car. ''80 AMC Pacer. It might be the only car I''ve ever owned but I know enough about cars to know that it sucks. Trust me, just because it was on Wayne''s World, doesn''t mean it''s a good car; that''s what I thought too.


    After a short drive, I enter the tiny newsroom, feet shuffling all around me. I have no idea how so many people can fit into such a small space and 98% probably don''t even know my name. Likewise. I make my way over to my tiny brown desk. There isn''t much here in terms of photos of family or pieces of memorabilia. I never decorated my desk like some of my coworkers. There is a desktop computer with a keyboard and mouse. That''s about it. Oh, and my mouse pad is the same one that was here when I was hired. A generic mouse pad with the company''s name on it. Allied National. We are part of a larger corporation, one that owns a few newspapers around the country. At least we get healthcare. Crappy healthcare but healthcare nonetheless. No dental though.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    While the computer powers up, I head over to the cliche water cooler in the corner and grab a brittle paper cup. I forgot my water bottle at home. Dammit. I fill the little cup with ice-cold, metallic-tasting water and return to my desk. After typing in my password and pulling up my email, I print out the article. Print, you say? I know what you''re thinking. What are we in the stone ages? I thought the same thing when I first started here, but my editor prefers to make his edits on paper. Not sure why but it definitely works for him.


    I make my way over to Josh''s desk. Josh Hale has been the editor for years, way before I started working here. He''s 5''7ish. 160 pounds, give or take. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Nice jawline. Not really a snappy dresser though.


    "Torres. Nice to see you. You finish that article on the mayor scandal?"


    "Got it right here, boss."


    "Perfect. Well, I''ll proof it and get back to you with the corrections. If I can find some. You''re one of our best writers so I expect a lot from you."


    Is he coming onto me?


    "Thanks Josh. That means a lot coming from you. Let me know what you think of the article and I''ll fix the corrections so that you can get it sent to layout."


    "Thanks Torres."


    I''ve always wondered why everyone calls each other by their last name in a newsroom. Strange. Maybe I should start calling him Hale. Nah. I turn to go back to my desk when I see it. Not it, but her. Rowan. No, wait, Wilde. Either way, I spot my best friend in the whole world. Rowan Wilde. She doesn''t see me but I wait, hoping she does. I haven''t talked to her in a few days, despite the many texts that I''ve received. Well, up until last night when I lost my phone. Between writing the article and getting chased in the woods, I haven''t really been in a talking mood. I haven''t even had any time for my painting. But it''s a little unfair that I haven''t spoken to her. She is my best friend after all.


    "Harper Torres!"


    Oh no. She practically screamed my name. I should act like I didn''t see her. Then maybe she won''t think I''m ignoring her, which I kind of am. She may be my best friend, but she''s a little intense sometimes. She''s also kind of a busy body, a gossip. I want to trust her with everything that''s been going on but I''m not sure if her mouth will stay shut.


    "Harper!"


    With the second yell, I turn around, almost pretending to wonder who was calling my name. Then, I see her again, and I put this huge smile on my face. All the while, thinking of an excuse as to why I haven''t answered her texts.


    "Oh, Rowan, I didn''t even see you! What are you doing here?!"


    "Just turning in my article. I had this cool piece about a robbery on third and I think it came out really good. What about you? What are you doing here? Why haven''t you answered any of my texts?!"


    "I just turned in an article too. And sorry about that. I''ve been super busy. With the article and my art and stuff. I also kinda lost my phone."


    "You lost your phone? Well, why haven''t you gotten a new one yet? Those are all pretty lame excuses. But I guess I can let it slide this time. That is, if you meet up with me later."


    "Uh, I don''t know. I wanted to finish up this painting I''ve been working on. And I thought I''d go for a jog through the park."


    This was a complete lie. I have no intention of going back to the park after what happened last night.


    "I was actually going to go to the gym from here. You should come. Then we can go get something to eat and you can tell me what you''ve been up to."


    I think about it for a moment. I kind of owe it to her but the gym? Of course she has a gym membership. She''s so fit and pretty. I guess I could go with her. I don''t exactly have money to throw on lunch but I can probably convince her to come back to my place instead.


    "Fine. We can go to the gym. But I need to stop by my apartment and get some clothes. I''m not exactly gym ready. And I don''t know about lunch. We''ll see." She rolls her eyes but seems super excited. I know it''s not fair that I''ve been blowing her off. And at least I''m lucky enough to have someone that cares about me. We head towards the exit and out into the parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small man, lingering near my car. I instantly feel my heart jump into my throat and my hands start to get sweaty. Who is this man? Why is he hanging out by my car? What the hell does he want?

 Chapter Four

    I keep telling myself that I''m not some creep that spies on girls, but I can''t help it with Harper. She just draws me in, leaves me guessing. After that first time that I saw her, I couldn''t get her out of my head. I couldn''t sleep. I couldn''t eat. All that I could think about was her. So I decided to search the internet. No harm, no foul, right? I mean, you can look up practically anything on the internet. It''s just an endless fountain of information. Well, maybe endless is the wrong word.


    It didn''t take me long to find her last name. The Bellevue Bugle provides a directory of all their employees and, as it happens, the list is available to the public. Who knew it would be so easy to stalk someone? At least, that''s what I thought. After hours of scanning and clicking, I still couldn''t find anything about Harper Torres. There was no Facebook profile or a blog about her life. She didn''t have an Instagram account or a Twitter. Mysterious as she was, it only made me want her more. Maybe it''s the chase or maybe I''m just a fucking psychopath, but all I know is that I want to know everything about her. Every. Single. Thing.


    By the time I''d found something about Harper it had been almost six hours. One lone article sat on my computer screen.


    Ithaca Family In Disastrous Car Accident


    And then I saw her for the second time. She was a much younger version of the woman I met, maybe 17 or 18 years old. There were photos of a mangled car and two more pictures accompanied Harper''s, Ben and Marie Torres. She was a spitting image of her mother and Ben, who I assumed was her brother, looked nothing like either of them. Maybe he looks like their father? There was no mention of a father in the article, nor was I able to find any information about him online.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    After reading the piece over and over and leeching it of information, I had learned tons of information about Harper Torres. The most obvious bits being that she, her mother and her brother were in a car accident. At the time, they were living in Ithaca, New York. I wondered what brought her to Bellevue, Washington, all the way from New York. Maybe something happened after the accident and she just needed to get out of there. Maybe it was the work at The Bugle that brought her here. Maybe she''d had a falling out with her family. No matter the reason, I was determined to find out what it was.


    The writer for this particular article was subpar, if you ask me. To this day, I have a copy of it saved onto my computer. I''ve rewritten the piece countless times. Don''t ask me why. But every time I rewrite it, I put myself in Harper''s shoes. She''s a teenage girl who just got her learner''s permit from the DMV. She''s absolutely elated to be driving a car for the first time. Her mother, although apprehensive, is exceedingly proud of her. Her annoying little brother pesters her from the back seat, distracting her. Before she knows it, the 73'' Dodge Polara is wrapped around an oak tree. Ben was in critical condition for weeks and Marie has been paralyzed from the waist down ever since.


    Imagine having a weight like that on your shoulders. For the rest of her life, she has to carry that regret. And all I want to do is help take away that pain, even if for a moment. I can''t be that bad of a person, right? Anyone that wants to help someone has to be somewhat good. Right?

 Chapter Five

    He says his name is Evan Peterson. He works for a private agency that collects old cars. Vintage, he calls them. I think about the old 1973 Dodge Polara that my mom used to have. My anxiety pangs from inside me. This man is talking to me but I''m not hearing anything he''s saying. I think for a moment about my medication. Did I take it this morning? I don''t think so. I try my best to pay attention to him, to what he wants. He''s interested in buying my car. Not sure why because it''s a complete lemon, but he offered me $15,000 for it. Apparently there were a limited number of Pacers that were made by AMC and now they''re discontinued. That gives it some sort of value, I guess. Either way, he offered me cash on the spot and of course, I accepted. $15,000 is a lot of money for someone like me.


    Rowan was absolutely floored by what happened. I mean, I was too, but she was just astonished. It felt good to be acknowledged by her. It gave me some distraction to what has been going on. I offered to buy lunch, after the gym, of course. Rowan offered to drive me there. That was a good trade, considering I just sold my car. Luckily, my apartment was pretty close to the gym so she didn''t have much time to grill me about what''s been going on. I''m not avoiding it but I don''t want to look stupid on front of her. She is my best friend, after all.


    She pulls her hybrid car up to the sidewalk, in front of my tiny apartment. I hop out and tell her I''ll be out in a flash. In a flash? Where did that corny phrase come from? Flash, like the superhero? No idea. I hop up the steps and unlock all the locks on the door. Once inside, I head over to the bedroom where I slip on some leggings and running shoes. Of course, I keep the band tee because I want everyone at the gym to know what my choice in music looks like. Haha. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and throw on some deodorant. Can''t have my pits stinking up the gym. Not completely sure why, but I spritz on some perfume. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, for a moment. I pull at the bags under my eyes. When did I let myself slip? I used to be fit and confident.


    In a rush, so as to not keep Rowan waiting, I make my way into the living room where my small dining room table sits. I could''ve sworn that this is where I left my laptop. I used it this morning to print out my article, yet, it''s nowhere to be seen. Maybe I misplaced it or took it to the office with me? Maybe I left it there by accident while I was talking to Rowan? I reach for my phone. Wait. I dropped my phone while I was running away from that maniac. I''ll have to go back and look for it after Rowan drops me off.


    I collect my thoughts and go back outside, locking the door behind me. Once in the car, I ask Rowan if I can use her phone. I dial the number for the newsroom and wait as it rings and rings. I was just there a few minutes ago. Why isn''t anyone picking up? On the last ring...


    "Bellevue Bugle, this is Josh. How can I help you?"


    "Hey Josh. It''s Harper. Did I leave my laptop at my desk?"


    "Wait, who is this?"


    "This is Harper. Harper Torres."


    I subconsciously raise my voice the second time, as if he''s hard of hearing. Rowan gives me a casual side eye, as if I''m crazy for yelling. I guess Josh wasn''t hitting on me. He doesn''t even know my first name.


    "Oh, yes. Sorry about that. I''ll check right now. One second."


    I wait, somehow knowing that it wouldn''t be there, but just needing to check.


    "Nope, I don''t see anything. Sorry."


    "That''s okay. Thanks for checking. I''ll see you next week."


    "Before you go. I looked over the article and it''s amazing. I love the way you compared the mayor to Bill Clinton and his secretary to Monica Lewinsky. I have no corrections. It''s going to layout now."


    "That''s amazing. I''m glad you liked it. Thanks Josh."


    "No, thank you. Have a good night."


    "You too."


    I hang up, proud that Josh likes my article but puzzled by my missing laptop. I put Rowan''s phone down in one of the cupholders.


    "What did Josh say?"


    "Oh, nothing. I thought I left my laptop at work, but I guess not. He says I did a really great job on my article though. No corrections. It''s going straight to layout."


    "Dude, that''s awesome! I''m so proud of you! I''ve always told you that you were an amazing writer. I hope my article turned out to be half as good as yours did."


    "I''m sure it''s amazing."


    We exchange smiles as we pull into the parking lot of the gym. It''s filled with mostly Volkswagen GT''s (the staple car of the tool that works out while looking at himself in the mirror). At least in Bellevue it is. Rowan grabs her gym bag, and we head to the locker room so that she can change. There is hardly anyone there, probably because it''s the middle of the day. Most people are at work. Not us.


    She peels off her work clothes, slowly and deliberately. She has no idea that I''m watching her every move. The long, slim lines of her body. She removes her bra and I quickly look away. She''s my best friend and I would never want to jeopardize this relationship. But there is something deeper. I want more.


    "Done.", she says, stuffing her street clothes into her bag.


    I look back at her. She''s beaming with excitement, ready to exercise. She''s wearing a matching outfit: neon pink sports bra with neon pink leggings, waist high. She''s absolutely gorgeous, with the personality to go with it. She''s one hell of a best friend and one hell of a woman.


    "Great. Let''s go.", I reply.


    We make our way out into the gym. There are lines and lines of equipment, everything that one could hope for. One that pays $20 a month, anyway. Ellipticals. Treadmills. Stationary bikes. Aerobic steppers. Weight machines. Abdominal crunchers. Everything you need to lose some weight.


    Rowan hops on the treadmill first. She cranks it up, pops in her ear buds and starts sprinting. I watch as her long legs take each step with confidence. I mirror her, stepping onto the treadmill and turning it up to match her speed. It isn''t long before I need to slow it down. I can feel my lungs popping, my breath wheezing, my legs shaking. I jump off the treadmill, hands on knees, trying to catch my breath.


    "Too much for you?"


    "No, I''m okay. It''s just been a while since I''ve worked out, that''s all."


    "Well, we can go if you want. I''m getting kind of hungry anyway."


    "No, that''s okay. You wanted to come to the gym and I agreed. I''m just going to find another machine."


    She looks into my eyes, as if trying to read what I''m thinking. She knows me. She knows me too well.


    "I''m serious, Harper. Let''s go. I''m hungry. And you know how I get if I don''t eat."


    She was right. She becomes an absolute bitch if you don''t feed her. I mean, next level crazy.


    "Okay. If you really want to, we can go."


    I know she''s doing it for me. I know she really isn''t that hungry. But I can''t say no to her. There''s just something about the look in those emerald green eyes. I can''t say no.


    I follow her back into the locker room. She lets down her autumn hair, laden with fresh highlights. I know she visits the salon every time her roots start to show, and she has to put on makeup before she leaves the house, but under all that, she''s truly gorgeous. I realize I''m staring as she pulls her car keys out of her gym bag.


    "Take a picture. It''ll last longer."


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.And that wit.


    "Sorry. Got lost in space for a second. Haha."


    "Let''s go. I''m starved."


    We head out to the parking lot. In my head, I laugh at myself for the total of seven minutes that I spent in the gym. I envied Rowan''s figure. But there''s not enough time to get into all that. I need to open the car door and get inside. Sometimes I find myself needing to think through my actions. They say that you don''t even need to think about most of your movements because your brain already knows what to do. And it sends the signal to your feet or hands, or other appendages, to move on command. This was not one of those times. I needed to notify my brain that I wanted to be seated inside the car.


    After consciously opening the door and climbing inside, Rowan and I drive to her favorite restaurant. A small Italian place on 33rd Street. They have the most delicious Veal Parmesan and incredible cannoli. I definitely should not be eating there, since I''m trying to lose weight, but I know she would throw a fit if I tried to talk her out of it. She also knows what I always get, so she''ll probably call me out about that too. Am I saying this for me or for her?


    I glance down at the tiny analog clock. 11:43. A little early for lunch but I just couldn''t say no. It takes a minute or two for Rowan to find a parking spot. It''s surprisingly busy but I guess that''s the "lunch rush", as the wait staff might call it. We are immediately greeted by a perky, young blonde. Her voice is high-pitched and lilted as she asks us for the number of people in our party.


    "2 please.", Rowan says.


    "It''ll be about a 10 minute wait. Is that okay?"


    Realistically, would I have said no? Does anyone ever say no when they''re asked that? I mean, I wouldn''t be here if I didn''t want to eat here. Rowan quickly chimes in.


    "Of course."


    "And what name?"


    "Uhh, Wilde."


    "Great, Ms. Wilde. I''ll call you when your table is ready. Thank you."


    There are small benches lining the walls by the entrance with metal feet and red fabric. The fabric is somewhat worn, probably from all the butts. This is where my mind goes on one of its fun tangents. If over 100 people eat here per night and about 20 of those people sit on these seats and the restaurant has been open every night for the last 15 years and these benches have not once been cleaned, then that means that there are approximately a fuck ton of germs. I gross myself out enough that I excuse myself from Rowan to use the bathroom.


    I really want to wash my hands but I also want to see how I look in the mirror. A few strands of my hair are falling out of my makeshift ponytail. The bags under my eyes are a little yellow. You can clearly see my double chin. This shirt has a hole in it. I''m definitely not satisfied with the way that I look. I put my hair up again, twisting it into a bun this time. I pull some concealer out of my purse and glop it below my eyes. I promise myself that I won''t look down too often, so as to not accentuate my double chin. And I remind myself that when I get home, I need to sew the hole in my shirt.


    I find myself obsessing about my appearance. I never used to. And if there''s anyone on this planet that I don''t need to impress, it''s Rowan. She''s my absolute best friend of over 15 years, and she''s been by my side through everything. When the boy that took my virginity broke my heart. When we got into that terrible car accident. When I found my first love cheating on me with an old friend of ours. She''s been there for me through thick and thin, and I am eternally grateful. But, most of all, I love her.


    Just as I''m washing my hands, I hear a voice over the intercom.


    "Wilde, party of 2. Your table is ready. Wilde, party of 2. Your table is ready."


    Rowan pokes her head into the bathroom, clearly excited to eat.


    "Hurry up, slowpoke. Our table is ready."


    We follow the hostess, who always seems to walk extremely fast or extremely slow, and she sits us in a windowed corner with low light. Kinda romantic, if you ask me. She hands us menus and says, "Paul will be your waiter today. He''ll be right over. Enjoy your meal." We both peruse the menu, acting like we''re going to order something other than what we always order. Finally, I settle on the Veal Parmesan and Rowan on the manicotti. Oh how she loves the manicotti. I''ve never met a skinny girl that can put away as much food as she can.


    I''m looking for a way to start a conversation. Things should flow naturally with us but don''t. She''s just staring at me, waiting for me to say something. Anything. I decide to tell her what''s been going on. Though, I''m not quite sure how to say it. Will she believe me? Will she think I''m crazy? What will she say? What will she think?


    "Hey, Rowan?"


    "Yeah?"


    "I -"


    "Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Paul and I''ll be your server today. Have you been here before?"


    Frustrated, I answer, "Yes, we have. And I think we''re ready to order."


    "Sure. Go ahead when you''re ready."


    "I''ll have an unsweetened iced tea with Sweet N'' Low and the Veal Parmesan."


    "What kind of pasta would you like? We have linguine, spaghetti, angel hair -"


    "Angel hair, please."


    "And for you, miss?"


    "I''ll have a water with lemon and the manicotti, please. Extra sauce."


    He smiles at both of us and takes our menus.


    "Great, I''ll put in your order now and I''ll be right back with your drinks."


    Reluctantly, I reply, "Thank you." If you can''t tell, I hate being interrupted. Rowan looks at me and grins. "What were you saying?"


    "Well, there''s been something going on."


    "Is that why you haven''t been answering my texts?"


    "Actually, I lost my phone, remember?"


    "Oh yeah. You mentioned that. How did you lose your phone?"


    "It''s kind of a long story."


    "Well I have nothing but time."


    "Don''t judge me, okay?"


    "Of course I won''t judge you. Just tell me what''s going on."


    "Well, last night I was walking in the park, just trying to get out of the house. It was like 7:30 but the sun was setting. It''s my favorite time to go out because it gives me so much inspiration for my art. So I was probably halfway through the Coal Creek trail when I saw something coming up behind me. Whatever it was, it followed me for a while until the sun went completely down. I figured it was just another hiker or an animal. But when I started to walk faster, I noticed that it was keeping up with me. I ran and I ran, looking behind me and always seeing this black figure. Finally, I came to a parking lot. There weren''t very many cars but someone happened to pull up and saw that I was freaking out. He called the cops and we sat in his car while we waited for them. When they finally showed up, they took our statements and they drove me home. Anyway, I have no idea what it was but since then, I feel like someone is always watching me."


    By the time I finish my story, I realize that I''m tearing up. My hands are shaking. I''m sweating. A lot. Across from me, Rowan sits in silence. I can''t read the expression on her face. We sit there for a moment, her mulling over my story, trying to decipher each and every piece. Neither of us see the waiter approaching and we both jump out of our seats when he begins speaking.


    "Here is your unsweetened iced tea and some Sweet N'' Low. And here is your water with lemon."


    In unison, "Thank you."


    "Your food should be out soon."


    I nod and he disappears into the kitchen. I''m not sure if I''m even hungry anymore, not after reliving what happened. I wait for Rowan to say something. Anything. But she doesn''t.


    "Rowan?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Are you okay? You''re not saying anything."


    "I''m just taking it all in. I can''t believe that happened to you. I''m so sorry. Are you okay?"


    "Yeah, I''m fine. Just a little freaked out. And wishing I had my phone."


    "Wait, so what did you tell the cops?"


    "That a black figure was following me."


    "But did you actually see someone chasing you?"


    "No, but -"


    "And it was dark out, right?"


    "Yes, but what -"


    "Did the guy in the car see anything?"


    "Not that I know of. I didn''t really think to ask him."


    "So it was dark out and you thought you saw someone chasing you? Did the cops find anything? Did they find your phone?"


    "No."


    "Did you call your phone to see if anyone would pick up?"


    "No, but I didn''t have access to a phone."


    She sat there for a moment, stewing in her own thoughts. What she said next caught me completely off guard. It hit me like a truck and it shattered something inside of me.


    "I thought you were done with all this. With all this make-believe shit."


    I couldn''t say anything. I was completely dumbstruck. I couldn''t do anything but plant my feet firmly on the red carpet beneath them. I tensed up my whole body, as if to keep it from exploding. We sat there for what felt like forever, never meeting each other''s gaze. And then I did.


    There she was. A look of terror in her gorgeous jade eyes. They were welling up with tears. On any normal afternoon, I would imagine staring into those green eyes, trying to read Rowan''s soul. But on this dreadful fall afternoon, there was nothing but misery, in her eyes and in her heart. She felt something. Something she hadn''t felt in a long time. She exits the booth and practically sprints out of the restaurant.


    Dammit. I knew telling her was a bad idea.

 Chapter Six

    The third time that I saw Harper Torres was a complete coincidence. I was shopping for groceries at the Safeway near my house when I saw her. She was browsing contently in the snack aisle, adding, what I''m assuming to be her favorite snacks, to her cart. I casually follow her through every aisle until she makes her way to the pharmacy. My mind runs wild with ideas, wondering what prescription she could possibly need. From the outside, she seemed perfect and well put together.


    By the time Harper was at the pharmacy counter, I was within earshot, supposedly looking for cold and flu medicine. I just couldn''t help but listen. And listen I did. The technician asked her for her full name, her date of birth and the name of the prescription. All valuable information. Harper Torres. August 24th, 1995. Xanax. So she has depression or anxiety, huh? Maybe both. But my mind flashed back to the article. It was her fault. She crashed the car into the tree. And ever since then, her own mother has been paralyzed.


    Using the information that I found in the article, I tracked down Ben Torres and Marie Solis. Marie was a teacher for a short time, before the accident, and she continued the work after the accident as well. The school''s website flaunted a newsletter that was available to the public. One of the entries had a piece about her, stating that she retired in June of 2018 due to her disability. She''s married to Charles Solis and they''re both members of The Country Club of Ithaca. There isn''t much more on the internet about Marie and Charles.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    As for Ben, after his recovery from the accident, he graduated high school, went to college and eventually attended law school. He moved to New York City to become a lawyer and, at some point, met his now-wife, Olivia Torres. He has tons of social media content. Facebook. Instagram. Twitter. LinkedIn. And that''s just the beginning. His online imprint is much larger and more significant than Harper''s. I scanned every inch of every profile that he owned, looking for information about her.


    I wanted, more than anything, to know what made her the person that she is today. But after scouring all of Ben''s posts and shares and retweets, I didn''t find a damn thing. Harper was a ghost, according to the internet. That is, until she started writing articles for The Bugle. Week after week was a new story, written by the greatest writer I''ve ever known. I wait day after day to read her perfect words, to see a trending topic through her gorgeous grey eyes. And her writing has never once disappointed me. Her writing is something that I can count on. Something that brings me comfort.


    Suddenly, a clashing noise came from beside me. An elderly woman stood to my right, glaring at me through her bifocals. Apparently my cart was too close to the middle of the aisle. I whipped around, hoping to still see Harper at the pharmacy counter. But she was gone. I wondered how long I''d been in a trance of my own thoughts and memories. I''d been engulfed in her story, in how she became who she is.


    It didn''t take me long to check out and pay for the few things that were in my cart. Thankfully, the Safeway was close to my house. At home, I''d decided to spend the night browsing the internet once more. But this time, with new information about her. Her date of birth.

 Chapter Seven

    Is it still Friday? That can''t be right. God damn, it''s been a long ass day. I look around, trying to find Paul, the interrupting waiter. I sit in the uncomfortable booth, squirming for what feels like forever. Finally, Paul emerges from the kitchen, ordered food in hand. My Veal Parmesan with angel hair pasta and Rowan''s manicotti with extra sauce. I bet he''s going to be upset when I ask him to box it up. At first, he looks a little puzzled that Rowan isn''t at the table. He sets down her lunch in the void space where she once sat. For some reason, an overwhelming sadness hits me.


    He lays my no longer mouth-watering food in front of me. I work up the courage to ask him to bring two boxes. There''s no way I can eat this without Rowan, no matter how hungry my miniscule workout made me. He turns to head back to the kitchen, but I decide to ask him one more thing.


    "Excuse me, Paul?"


    "Yes, ma''am?"


    Rowan always gets "miss" and I almost always get "ma''am". No time to dwell on that, though.


    "May I use your phone?"


    "Of course. Just ask the hostess up front. In the meantime, I''ll get those boxes."


    "Thank you."


    I instantly feel bad for how I treated him earlier. For my frustration. I grab my wallet from my purse and pull out my severely weathered and broken debit card. I leave it on the wobbly table for Paul to take when he comes back with the boxes. The sooner I get out of here the better. I make my way over to the hostess desk and ask again to use the phone.


    "Ma''am, I''m sorry, but we don''t let customers use our phone."


    "Paul said it would be okay. I just need to call for a ride."


    "Okay. But try to keep it short."


    "Thank you."


    I dial the number that I''ve dialed so many times before. It rings three and a half times before she picks up.


    "What do you want, Harper?"


    "Rowan, just listen to me. I didn''t mean to upset you."


    "God, this sounds just like the old you. I thought you were done with all this."


    "I''m not lying. I swear someone was chasing me. I can''t believe that you don''t have my back!"


    Before I knew it, I was shouting, all the restaurant staff and the customers were staring at me. I can''t believe that she doesn''t believe me. I mean, I could understand if this was 3-years-ago-Harper but it isn''t and I''m not and I can''t believe she doesn''t believe me.


    "I don''t have your back?! Who was there when you were in that car accident? Me. Who was there for you when you joined the police academy? Me. And then when you failed? Me. Who was there when you wanted to kill yourself? Me. And who got you a job at the paper when you didn''t have any other options? Me. It was all me. I''ve been there for you through everything. And now you''re doing this bullshit again? I can''t believe you, Harper. You''re so much better than this. I know you''re better than this."


    I feel a tap on my shoulder. This twenty-something hostess is staring at me, moving her mouth, probably talking. I can''t hear her. I can''t hear anything. There''s a long, irritating ringing in my ears. Something is bubbling inside me. I can''t tell if it''s anger or sorrow or jealousy. I just spit it out.


    "Fuck you, Rowan."


    I slam the phone down. I realize now that the bubbling was anger. I''m so livid that she doesn''t believe me. I''m not that person that I used to be. Not anymore. I''m scared and worried for my life, but she doesn''t believe me. I avoid eye contact with anyone and everything, sprinting from the restaurant and down the street towards my apartment.


    This time, I don''t feel the tightness in my chest. I''ve been running for what seems like miles, and nothing. I''m not out of breath and I don''t feel like I need to take a break. Maybe it''s because I feel like I''m running from something. No, that can''t be it. I was running from the black figure before and I feel completely different now.


    I round the final corner and I can see the front steps of my apartment now. I practically pole vault over the stairs and through my apartment door. I close all the windows and the blinds and turn on all the lights, even though it''s daytime. I fall back into my normal routine, filling my cheap wine glass to the brim and flopping down on the secondhand couch. I''m shaking, or maybe it''s shivering, but all I know is that my body is quivering. I take three huge gulps of wine and set my cup down on the coffee table. I grab the blanket from behind me, wrap myself up tight and close my eyes, mulling over the day''s events.


    It has definitely been a long day. Turning in my paper, selling my car to that weird guy, going to the gym with Rowan, lunch. I stand up and stride over to my purse, which is now lying on the floor. I threw it down when I came in the front door, unaware of what I was doing. I wanted nothing more than to drown my sorrows in alcohol. I pick up the small, olive green clutch. It looks like it''s going to bust open with the amount of money I packed inside it. $15,000. And to think that I paid for lunch with my debit card? Force of habit, I guess. I pull out the stacks of money jammed into my purse. I lay it out on the coffee table. But something doesn''t look right. Wait, where is my debit card?The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Fuck. I left it at the restaurant. I left it on the table for Paul to grab and then I went to talk to Rowan on the phone. But I ran out, not thinking about my card. Shit. I guess I have to go back and get it. Hopefully Paul didn''t charge me extra or something. I was pretty mean to him. I wouldn''t blame him. I would do it if I were him.


    I throw the blanket back onto the couch, pull myself together and stuff 1,000 or so dollars back into my clutch. The restaurant is pretty far away and I don''t have a ride. Nor do I have a phone that I can use to call a cab. Then again, I did run here. I mull over my options for a moment, which happens to be only one, and I decide to walk.


    It takes me about half an hour to return to the restaurant. A line of people, waiting to be seated, begins to pool in front of the hostess stand. I apologize my way to the front of the line, not really caring if everyone thought I was budging. Budging was so third grade anyway. The hostess looks at me as if I have two heads. She must recognize me from when I bolted out of here earlier. Or maybe Paul had already told everyone that I had left without my card. I politely ask her if I may speak to Paul but apparently his shift ended at 1:30. I look at a clock on a nearby wall. 1:52. I must''ve just missed him.


    "Well, did he say anything about a debit card? I forgot I left it on the table."


    "Ma''am, Paul told everyone that you dined and dashed. Your card isn''t here."


    I felt a slight ringing in my ears and I think I heard someone behind me tell me to hurry up. Of course, this only made me angrier. That rat stole my fucking debit card. How dare he?! And if he thinks he''s going to get away with it then he has another thing coming. To think I felt bad for how I treated him.


    "I would like to speak to the manager, please."


    "Sure, right away."


    Moments later she returns with a 5''10, mid-thirties man, wearing a dress shirt and tie with nice slacks. The dirty apron threw off his whole look though. He removes the apron and extends his hand.


    "Piero Ricci. Nice to meet you."


    I instantly recognize his name. After all, it is plastered all over the restaurant. Ricci''s.


    "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ricci. My name is Harper Torres. Do you have a moment to talk? I think there might be some kind of misunderstanding."


    He gestures me towards the interior of the restaurant. I follow him to a nearby booth, not too far from the one that Rowan and I argued in earlier. We sit, a hint of awkwardness in the air.


    "How can I help you, Ms. Torres?"


    "Well, I was eating in here earlier with my friend, and we got into a little fight. She kinda stormed out, and I was upset, so I asked Paul if I could use your phone while he boxed up our food. I left my debit card on the table while I called my friend, and I was so upset about our conversation that I left without thinking twice. I came back to get my debit card and the hostess said that I''d dined and dashed. I definitely left my card on the table. I was hoping to talk to Paul but apparently his shift ended at 1:30."


    "Wow, that is a very interesting story, Ms. Torres. We don''t appreciate people who skip out on the bill but I''m not sure why you would return to explain yourself if your story wasn''t true. Please, wait here while I phone Paul. Maybe he can shed some light on this. Just a minute."


    He uses the wobbly table to help himself to his feet and disappears behind a door labeled, "Employees Only". I wait for what feels like a century, having watched waiter after waiter pass through the door. When Mr. Ricci emerges from the bustling kitchen, I half expect to see my silver Capital One debit card catch the fluorescent light. He approaches the table with a sunken head and I can tell immediately that he is about to hit me with some bad news.


    "I apologize, Ms. Torres, but I just spoke with Paul, and he said that when he came to pick up your check that there was no card. He just assumed that you''d dined and dashed."


    "Well either Paul is lying or someone stole the card off the table after I got up to use the phone. Do you have video cameras in here?"


    "I''m afraid not. I will ask all of my staff if they''ve seen anything. I will cover the bill this time, Ms. Torres, but if this happens again, I''ll have to ask you not to return to the restaurant."


    "Mr. Ricci, I assure you that this is some kind of misunderstanding. I would never run out on my bill, especially not here. This is my and my best friend''s favorite restaurant in town. I have no problem paying for our food."


    I pull out a hundred dollars from my now stretched-out clutch and hand it to Piero. He looks at me in surprise. With my debit card gone and no money in the bank, what option do I have other than cash?


    "Let me go make change for you, ma''am. I''ll be back in just a moment."


    "No, that''s okay. This is for the bill and for your trouble. I absolutely love eating here and I couldn''t spend that money in a better place. Let me give you my cell number as well, just in case one of your employees did see something."


    I grab a napkin off a nearby table and begin to jot down my cell phone number. Halfway through I realize that I don''t have my phone. I make a mental note to go buy a new one before I head home and I crumple up the napkin in my hand. Mr. Ricci looks astonished that I didn''t finish writing my number.


    "So sorry, Mr. Ricci. I completely forgot that I lost my phone and I haven''t gotten a new one yet. I''m actually on my way to go buy one right now. I''ll be sure to stop by on my way home and leave my new cell number for you."


    He nods and thanks me generously for paying my bill twofold. I give him a humble smile and make my way outside. He didn''t say much of a goodbye. I guess the thought of someone dining and dashing and then returning to pay the bill was a little too much for him. Of course, that''s not even close to what happened. But at least I feel like I did the right thing.


    After all the dust settles from my conversation with Mr. Ricci, I begin to feel the reality of the situation. If Paul didn''t take my debit card off the table then that means that someone else had stolen it. It could''ve been another member of the wait staff or maybe another diner. But no matter who it was, my first priority was getting a new cell phone, dropping my number off at Ricci''s, and calling Capital One to report my debit card as stolen.

 Chapter Eight

    To my own surprise, someone''s date of birth wasn''t exactly juicy information. I couldn''t find a single thing about her. I hated so much that she was inaccessible on the internet. But now, I feel completely different. She is a stranger in the eyes of others. They can''t stalk her on Facebook or figure out her humor through retweets. They had to get to know the real her. The real Harper Torres. And that''s exactly what I had to do too.


    The first time I stalked her was the first time I''d stalked anyone. That is, if you don''t count the grocery store. I don''t. That was more "listening intently", if you ask me. But the first time I stalked her, I ran into her at the liquor store. It was a complete coincidence. She was browsing through the boxed wine aisle and I was buying a fifth of Jack Daniel''s for my mom. I know what you''re thinking. Who buys alcohol for their mom? And a fifth at that? Well, my mom is bedridden and her only pleasure in life is Jack. So who am I to tell her no? She raised me after all.


    Back to Harper. She chooses Corbett Canyon Pinot Grigio and makes her way to the checkout counter. I stopped pretending to browse and grabbed the fifth of Jack from a nearby shelf. I stood behind Harper in the checkout line and scanned her, just like they were doing to her wine. I memorized every inch of her body and engrained it into my brain. I wasn''t sure when I would be able to see her again. I wanted to remember her. Forever.


    By the time I had gotten into my car, she was already pulling out of the parking lot. It was as if some mysterious entity was forcing me to pull out after her. To this day, I''m still not sure why I followed her, but I''m glad I did. She made a right and then a left and then a left again. While she was stopped at a traffic light, I had time to catch up to her. A few cars behind, I tailed her for miles, waiting for her to stop somewhere. Luckily, this was my route home so I knew it very well. After about ten minutes of driving, we passed the road that I would turn onto to go home. Less than a minute later, she turned into a parking spot with a number on it. 123.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I pulled up to the curb, waiting for her to exit her car. To my left was row after row of townhomes. They all looked exactly the same, except one. Harper walked up the cracked stairs of townhome 4H and inserted key after key into the lock. Knowing where she lived was absolutely exhilarating. I can''t describe the feeling but watching her in her apartment, away from the public eye, she was a different person. She changed into something more comfortable almost immediately. She poured herself a glass of wine and she sat down on the sofa, huddled in a fuzzy blanket.


    There were so many things that I learned that day. The first day that I stalked Harper Torres. I knew so many more things about her. Things that I''d been longing to know since I first met her. I learned her favorite wine. I learned what kind of car she drives. I learned where she lives. I learned what her afternoon routine looks like. I learned what felt like a fountain of information at the time. And then I learned something about myself.


    I wasn''t going to stop until I learned every piece of information there was to know about her.

 Chapter Nine

    The AT&T store isn''t far from Ricci''s, maybe 5 or 6 blocks. When I arrive, there is just one customer and no one in line to be helped, thank God. The sooner I get my new phone and call Capital One, the better. The thought of someone else having my card makes me shiver. I wait in the mostly blue store for about twenty minutes, trying to decide what kind of phone I would purchase and what case I would buy with it. Obviously it would be much cheaper to buy a case on Amazon once I got home, but I''m notorious for being a klutz. Fingers crossed that I don''t drop the phone the second I leave the store.


    The worker and customer quickly finish their transaction, and she leaves the store. After a few moments of shuffling around some paperwork, the tall, blue-eyed gentleman behind the counter greets me. It takes me a moment to locate his name tag, which reads Kevin.


    "Hi Kevin. I am in the market for a new phone, and I was wondering if you could help me with that."


    "Of course I can, miss. Do you have a trade-in?"


    Finally, someone that calls me miss and not ma''am. I think about his question for a moment.


    "Actually, my phone was stolen and I''m here to get a replacement."


    "Oh, I''m sorry to hear about that."


    To my own surprise, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I admitted to this man that my phone was stolen and he didn''t second guess what I said. He didn''t ask if I''d seen who stole it. He didn''t chalk it up to me just being me. He actually looked somewhat concerned. I can feel the emotion welling inside me but I shove it down.


    Kevin asks for my phone number to pull up my account. After spending the last two days feeling like something is missing, it''s nice to actually be able to provide something. I rattle off my phone number, and he pulls up my account.


    "Can you please confirm your first and last name and date of birth?"


    "Yes, my name is Harper Torres and my date of birth is August 24th of 1995."


    "Thank you so much, Ms. Torres. And, may I see your driver''s license as well?"


    "Of course."


    I rifle through the wads of cash, searching for my license. At least I didn''t lose this too. Haha. I hand it to Kevin, waiting for him to size me up and compare me to the information on the card. It always feels like people are analyzing you when they look at it. Like they''re trying to figure out your whole life story through a piece of cheap plastic.


    "Great. Well, I''m looking at the only phone on your line and it looks like someone is still using it. They are receiving plenty of inbound calls and texts. The good thing is that they don''t seem to be making any outbound calls or answering any of the texts."


    I''m absolutely dumbfounded by this information. Just hearing him speak about the thief using my phone makes my blood boil. Knowing that he could read all of my texts and even answer the phone on my behalf, it makes my skin sizzle. Hopefully there''s a way to deactivate it. He notices my lack of response, and he looks like he wants to say something but doesn''t know what. I force myself to snap out of it.


    "Wow, okay. Thank you for letting me know. Is there a way to deactivate the phone from here?"


    "Yes, we can deactivate the Sim card, but we won''t be able to disable anything else on the phone. The person will no longer have access to any of the information saved on the card but will still be able to see any information saved directly to the phone. They also won''t be able to make or receive calls."


    I feel an overwhelming relief rush over me. I didn''t have anything super important on there anyway.


    "Great, let''s do that."


    "Also, you have the option of changing your phone number. Would you be interested? I definitely wouldn''t want some creep having my phone number."


    I look at him in surprise, almost as if he''d read my mind.


    "That would be great. It would make me feel a lot better about some stranger still having my phone."


    "Okay. I''ll change it right away. In the meantime, what phone were you looking to purchase? We no longer carry the iPhone 5c, so you''ll have to switch to something a little newer."


    "Actually, I was looking at the Samsung Galaxy Note20."


    "Awesome, that''s a great phone. We only have the 128GB in stock and you get to choose between three colors: Mystic Bronze, Mystic Green, or Mystic Gray."


    "Mystic Bronze, please."


    "Great. I''ll deactivate the Sim card and go grab your new phone."


    "Thanks."


    Now we wait. Behind me is a weird, round seat and I decide to take a load off. It''s not until I get off my feet that I realize how bad they hurt. Going from zero exercise to running home to walking around town really makes a girl tired. My stomach grumbles from beneath my band tee. In the midst of everything, I hadn''t eaten and, on top of that, I left my leftovers at Ricci''s after Rowan stormed out. I make a mental note to pick up some food on my way home. Nothing too fattening. This walking thing has me feeling inspired. Maybe I don''t need a car. Maybe I can just walk everywhere. Or maybe I could buy a bike!


    Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow walk past the employee area. Hopefully that was Kevin with my new phone. I''ve never really been that person that is always attached to their cell, waiting for someone to call or text me. I don''t really download apps or play games or surf the web. That''s what I have a laptop for. Shit. My laptop. Where did I leave it?


    "Okay, Ms. Torres. I have successfully deactivated the Sim card on your stolen phone. I also have your new phone here, for you to look at. Now, did you want to buy the extra insurance for the phone, in case something happens to it? It''s an extra $10 a month and it covers up to $500 worth of damages."


    "Wow, this is awesome. Thanks. And I''d better get the insurance. I''m a total klutz. Haha."


    He laughs with me and his eyes linger on mine for just a millisecond too long. I think he''s into me. Then again, that''s what I thought about Josh, and he couldn''t even remember my first name.


    "Alright. You''re all set up with the insurance. Did you want to buy a case today? Since you''re buying a new phone, you get 20% off of all our cases. I personally recommend an OtterBox. They are bulky, but they''ll offer the most protection."


    I grab the phone case that I had been eyeing earlier and hand it to Kevin. He scans the barcode, as well as the one on the back of the phone''s box.


    "With the phone, the insurance, the case and all fees and taxes, your total comes to $1,349.99. Did you want to pay that up front or make monthly payments?"


    My jaw drops to the floor and I think Kevin notices. I mean, it''s not like I don''t have the money but I wasn''t aware of how much phones cost these days. It takes me a moment to pick my jaw up off the floor and pull the rest of the cash out of my bag.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Here is $900 as a down payment and you can just put the rest on my account."


    "Making a down payment actually brings down some of the fees and taxes. Give me just a moment while I calculate the new total. It is $1,249.99."


    I don''t quite know what to say at that point, so I just nod my head, hoping he''ll make it all go away. I didn''t want to think about it anymore. With the whirlwind of events that happened today, the last thing I wanted to do was to be standing here, talking to a lanky AT&T associate. Feeling bad about my comment, I look him over once more. He''s actually kinda cute and I can tell from earlier that he has a sense of humor. I guess I''m secretly hoping that he asks me out.


    "So the remaining balance on your account will be $349.99 and you''ll be billed monthly at a rate of $25 a month. If everything sounds good, I''ll just need your signature on the pad here."


    As I sign, hoping that this is the last thing I need to do, I can feel him staring at me. My face flushes but I pray that he can''t tell. I look back up at him, waiting for more direction. It''s funny how obedient we can be when we want something.


    "There. All done. Do you want me to put the case on?"


    "Sure, that would be great. Thank you."


    We stand there in silence for a moment and you can feel the tension. Both of us are wondering when the other is going to speak. Well, you guessed it, Kevin speaks first.


    "Hey, I know this is a long shot, but I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime."


    I knew he liked me! My head is all jumbled and my brain is trying to decipher my thoughts. I should probably give him an answer before he thinks I''m not interested. But it''s been so long since someone has asked me out, especially since I put on some extra weight. I know it shouldn''t matter but in my mind, it does. And now this tall, cute guy is asking me out and I''m just badgering myself in my head.


    "If you can''t, it''s no big deal. It definitely seems like you have a lot going on, with your phone getting stolen and stuff. I''m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or -"


    "I would love to."


    We exchange smiles and I''m immediately thinking about where we''re going to go and what our date is going to be like. It''s been so long since I''ve been out of the house with anyone except Rowan, let alone a date. Rowan. I need to call her the second I leave.


    "When I''m done with this, I''ll put my number in your phone, okay?"


    I couldn''t wipe the smile off my face, even if I tried. I give him a shy nod, to let him know that I agree. But I have absolutely no idea what to say to him. I hope he calls tonight. I hope we can go out this weekend. I hope that I make an actual connection with him. I hope that his personality is remotely similar to hers. And if it is, I''ll definitely feel the connection.


    He programs his number into my contacts, texts himself so that he has my number as well and hands my phone back to me. We exchange a slightly awkward goodbye and I thank him before I head out of the store. It''s only a minute or two before the cab I ordered comes to pick me up. As the car pulls away from the curb, I feel a weight on my chest that wasn''t there before. Or at least I didn''t notice it. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Rowan''s number. She doesn''t pick up but I wonder if it''s because she can sense that it''s me or that she just doesn''t answer numbers that she doesn''t recognize. I wait for her lilt voice to finish the voicemail speech before the beep sounds.


    "Hey, Rowan, it''s me, Harper. I just got a new phone and of course you''re the first person that I called. I know we are supposed to be mad at each other but I can''t do it. I don''t want to fight. I''m sorry. Please call me when you get this. I have something I want to tell you. Okay, bye."


    After I hang up, I save her contact info into my phone. I catch a glimpse at the time. 4:13. It''s a lot later than I thought it was. My next call is to another number that I know by heart. The Bellevue Bugle. Josh picks up on the first ring and he quickly jots down my new phone number. When I hang up, I breathe a sigh of relief, feeling like I''ve accomplished something.


    The rest of the ride from the AT&T store is fairly short. The cabbie has a habit of looking at me in the mirror every few minutes. Creepy. We pull up to my apartment and I open my clutch, under the impression that there would be money in there. Shit. I spent all my cash at the phone store and I don''t have my debit card.


    "Give me just a sec. I''m gonna run inside and get some cash. I promise I''ll be right back."


    The cab driver rolls his eyes and throws the car into park. It''s not like he has much choice anyway. I sprint up the steps and bust into my apartment, determined to grab the money as quickly as possible. The only thing that I hate more than people wasting my time is the thought of me wasting theirs. The cash is still sitting on the coffee table. I look around and notice that I''ve left all the windows open. I don''t necessarily live in a bad part of town but if I walked by someone''s apartment and saw this I would consider becoming a felon.


    I fold a hundred dollar bill into my hand and make my way back outside. The cab driver is impatiently waiting for his money, plumes of smoke puffing out of the car''s tailpipe.


    "Can you break a hundred?"


    He nods and hands me my change. I tip him $5 and hope that the next time I call a cab, he''s not my driver.


    Finally, I''m home and I can relax for a moment. I sit down on the couch and turn on the TV, hoping that something good will be on without me having to search for it. I pull the plush blanket from behind me and snuggle up, trying to imitate a feeling of security. A few minutes into a rerun of Criminal Minds, my stomach starts to rumble again. Dammit. I forgot to pick up food on my way home. It''s just one thing after another.


    I let out an audible sigh, for no one to hear, and come to the conclusion that there''s no way I''m going out to get food. That leaves one option. Delivery. I thought about downloading a food delivery app like DoorDash or GrubHub but that would mean creating an account and then looking for a place to eat and then putting everything into my cart just to realize that it''s way too expensive and then finally deciding on a place but then realizing that DoorDash only takes cards and not cash. So I head to the kitchen, where I open the junk drawer full of various sauce packets and takeout menus. There''s also a few thumb tacks, a pen, some junk mail and three keys that have no home.


    Everyone knows that when you order takeout, there are only two options. Pizza and Chinese. Pizza is definitely easier to eat but, depending on the place, Chinese food usually tastes better. After the day I''ve had, I think I need Chinese food. Luckily, I''ve eaten at King''s like twenty times, so I know exactly what to order. I dial the number that I almost have memorized and read off my order. Two egg rolls, an order of pork fried rice, and General Tso''s chicken, extra spicy. I give them my address and let them know that I''ll be using cash.


    It''s Friday around dinner time and I''m expecting a pretty long wait. The voice on the phone tells me it''ll be about 45 minutes. That''s not terrible. After all, if you fast-forward through the commercials, an episode of Criminal Minds is about that long. I get comfy on the couch for the second time, and scroll through my new phone while I watch. I''m not exactly sure what made me pick the Note20. I mean, it''s gorgeous, but it''s so expensive. Money always did burn a hole in my pocket. But I take a long look at the phone, admiring its craftsmanship. I ponder how much it costs to make it, thinking of the wide profit margin that Samsung must be raking in.


    Who knew there were so many apps? There must be millions! I download a few to start. Candy Crush. Facebook. Snapchat. The Bellevue Bugle even has an app! I quickly download it, wondering what it might entail. I scroll through past issues and look at my own articles in an entirely different format. I find myself lost down a rabbit hole of apps when there''s a knock at the door.


    Thank God my food is here because I''m absolutely starving. I yell toward the door that I''ll be there in just a moment. I stand, tucking my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. I grab another $100 bill off the table and answer the door. A strange man stands there, staring at me, no Chinese food in hand. I''m not sure if I should slam the door in his face or tell him I''m not interested in whatever he''s selling. I don''t get very many visitors at my apartment. I take a step back, just shy of the doorway and analyze him once more. He has dark hazel eyes and light brown hair. He is of medium stature and looks to be pretty fit. He stays perched on my stoop, clasping his hands together and smiling.


    "Hi. How can I help you?"


    "Hello, miss. My name is Nick. Are you Harper Torres?"


    How the fuck does this dude know my name?! I''m absolutely baffled. I can''t speak. I don''t want to. I just want him to go away. To never come back.

 Chapter Ten

    I went weeks without seeing her and it drove me fucking insane. I thought about her day in and day out. Every morning I would start by looking at her picture in the car accident article. It was somewhat of a family portrait. Marie was standing behind her and Ben was beside her. She was sitting, feet and hands crossed, like a polite young woman. Her mother''s hand rested calmly on her shoulder. This was the image that stayed on my mind throughout my day. When I thought of her, I pictured this younger version of Harper.


    After I had followed her home from the liquor store, I was reeling with excitement. All I wanted to do when I got home was write down every single detail so that I wouldn''t forget it. What she was wearing. What she was doing. What she was drinking. What she was watching on TV. What her apartment looked like from the driver''s seat of my car. Having it written down, in a tangible form, made it real. Absolutely real.


    When I''d finished reading the article for the millionth time, I would go over the notes in my journal and relive every moment. I would play it back in my head like a play. Harper was the leading role, of course, and I her prince charming. I would rescue her from the evil dragon, from people that were only in her life to hurt her. People like Rowan Wilde. And it would end "happily ever after", with Harper and I riding off into the sunset. The vile dragon was slain by me and we lived in peace for the rest of eternity.


    I hate to admit how childish these fictional plays were. When I first started stalking her, I used whatever means I could to supplement my Harper fix. Now, of course, I''ve upgraded to actual photos and video footage of her. There''s no longer any need to dream up scenarios in my head. No. I have an entire collection of memorabilia to view at my own free will. Although, nothing compares to seeing her in person, in the flesh. Nothing compares to smelling the scent of her body wash right after she gets out of the shower. Nothing compares to touching the laptop that she pours her energy into when she works. And nothing compares to hearing the angelic sound of her honeyed voice.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    But it took me a long time and a lot of work to get to where I am now. I''ve spent countless nights, perched outside Harper''s apartment, like a vulture waiting for some helpless animal to die. I''ve gone through notebook after notebook, filling it with valuable information about her. I can confidently say that I know more about her than she knows about herself. I know her likes and dislikes. Wine and brussel sprouts. I know the ins and outs of her personality. She''s very kind but gets annoyed easily. I know everything that the internet and her phone conversations have to offer about her family. Marie and Charles are doing fine. Ben and Olivia are trying to have kids. The only thing that I don''t really know about her is why she''s here, in Washington.


    She never talks about why she made the move from Ithaca to Bellevue. She never talks about her past or the car accident or any of her ex boyfriends. A part of me wants to believe that she''s never dated anyone, but how could that be true? She''s everything. And I know what you''re thinking. Why not just work up the courage to ask her out myself? Maybe she''ll like me for who I am. But there''s no way that a woman like her could ever love someone like me. I know in my heart that I''m not good enough for her. I am infinitely imperfect and Harper''s just the opposite. She''s perfect in every way.


    But there is one thing that I must make perfectly clear. I''m definitely not good enough for her and if I''m not, then no one is.

 Chapter Eleven

    A dress shirt with a geometric tie and khaki-colored slacks is staring back at me. I''m frozen still, unable to move, even though my brain is telling me to go. I immediately think the worst of everything. Anxiety will do that to you. But this man that I''ve never seen before knows my name. My full name. It''s absolutely terrifying. Just when I think I''m about to be mugged, he pulls something out of his pocket.


    It''s amazing how long it takes to describe how you feel or what you''re thinking. Something that could take minutes to transcribe happens in milliseconds in your mind. The brain works so quickly that it''s almost hard to comprehend. I''m bringing this up because, in that moment of suspense, in the time between him saying my name and him reaching into his pocket, my brain posed thousands of scenarios. Maybe he''s a mail carrier. Or someone from the church. Or someone from the government, to take that Census survey thing. Or a long-lost cousin of mine. Or the guy from the woods. But he didn''t exactly look like the stalker type. He''s so well put together and handsome. Plus, I''ve never heard of a stalker with the name Nick. It''s just such a trustworthy name, if you ask me.


    He breaks the silence, hopefully to reveal why the hell he''s here and why he knows my name.


    "I found this card on the floor at Ricci''s today and I tracked you down to give it back. Thank God for the Yellow Pages, huh?"


    He chuckles lightly, probably his attempt at lightening the mood. I''m still in shock but this time because this was the last thing I expected. Everything clicks into place. He knows my name because it''s on the front of my card. But why does he have it? And if he found it, why didn''t he just call the card company? Why bring it to me in person? No matter the reason, I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that it''s no longer lost. And even more grateful that I don''t have to call Capital One and wait on hold for like two hours just to speak to a rep.


    I reach out to grab the card, making a mental note to order a replacement. It''s pretty much falling apart. So much for not having to call. I wonder if I could just order a new one online. Oh, maybe there''s a Capital One app that I could download! If you can''t tell, I''m easily distracted but I remind myself to thank him.


    "Oh my God! I''m so glad you found it! I''ve been freaking out about it all day. I was actually going to call Capital One right after I finished eating dinner. Your timing couldn''t have been more amazing."


    I try to analyze him, to get a sense of what kind of person he is. His facial expression is so neutral. I wait for a response, hoping that his reply will give me some insight.


    "Yeah, well, I would be worried too."


    "If you don''t mind me asking, why didn''t you just call Capital One and report it as missing?"


    "To be honest, I was eating at a table near yours at Ricci''s and when I saw you, I just thought you were the most beautiful girl I''ve ever seen. I was going to come talk to you but then your friend stormed out and I thought it probably wasn''t the right time. So when you dropped your card and didn''t come back for it, I thought it would be a good excuse to come talk to you myself. I''m sorry if I worried you."


    I''m a sucker for romance and I think that was just about the most romantic thing I''ve ever heard, especially from a stranger. My heart melts and I instantly feel a connection with him. My second connection of the day. Two more than I''ve had in the last six months, I''d say.


    "Wow. I don''t really know what to say."


    "That''s okay. No response necessary."


    There''s a long, awkward pause and I so want him to ask me out. But that''s never really been my thing. Rowan, on the other hand, would totally do it. That''s when it hits me. Maybe I''ve been living my life all wrong. Up until now, I''ve let everything and everyone control what happens to me. If I want to see change, I need to enact it myself. He interrupts my train of thought.


    "Well, you have a good night, Harper."


    He smiles at me and turns to leave. He looks eternally disappointed, like he was waiting for me to make the next move. Now is probably my only chance to speak with him. After all, I don''t have his number. Only his first name. And I can''t imagine how many Nicks there are in Bellevue. I need to make a decision. And I need to do it now. I can''t let him go.


    "Wait! Nick, was it?"


    He faces me once more with a confident smile. It''s almost as if he knew that I would respond this way. But I didn''t care.


    "Yeah, Nick Fairfield. Nice to meet you."


    "Yeah, you too."


    He reaches out his arm, offering a handshake and I meet it with the firm shake that I''ve always had. Then another long pause. Oh my God, I''m blowing it. He stares down at the sidewalk for a moment, probably thinking of what to say. I need to say something, anything. It did seem a little strange, though, that he had the courage to come all this way and return my card but that he hasn''t asked me out yet. Even after as bold a statement as the one he''d said.


    "I really appreciate you returning my card. And everything you said. That was really sweet."


    "Yeah, of course."


    "Hey, uh, would you maybe wanna hang out sometime?"


    His eyes light up with excitement and his thin lips curve into a large smile, revealing perfectly straight teeth. I''m guessing he had braces as a kid. I imagine him in his teens, metal braces filling his mouth, giving him a slight lisp. Thank God I never needed braces. Everyone always talked about how much they sucked.


    "I would love that."


    "Cool. Why don''t you put your number in my phone?"


    I hand him my new Note20, watching as his greenish-brown eyes flicker in the light of the screen. He hands back the phone and shoves his hands into his pockets. He seems nervous.


    "There you go."


    "Thanks."


    I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there, as if he''s waiting for something more.


    "Well, I gotta go. My food should be here any minute. Thanks again for bringing my card back."


    "Any time. And don''t forget to call."


    I blush and can''t contain my smile. He reads me like an open book and reciprocates the smile.


    "Oh, I won''t."


    As he turns his back to me, I slowly close the door and sit back down on the sofa, card and phone in hand. The butterflies in my stomach feel as though they''ll try to make an escape, flying up my throat and out of my nose and mouth. Or maybe I just feel like I''m gonna throw up. I hear a car in the distance, hoping that it''s the Chinese. I walk over to the window but alas, no food. Just another stranger, driving past my apartment. Probably on their way home from work. Thank God it''s Friday.


    The relief of having my card back is overwhelming. I don''t need to worry about calling the company to cancel it, or wondering if a stranger is using it to buy a new flat-screen TV. I look down at my phone and instantly remember my idea of searching for the Capital One app. The Google Play Store probably has an infinite number of apps, most of which I''m sure you have to pay for. But, thankfully, the app for my bank is not one of them. It''s the first one of the search results and I quickly hit the "download" button. It downloads a lot faster than I expected and in just a few minutes, I''m already ordering a replacement debit card. How convenient. I can''t believe I lived without this before.


    Hopefully I don''t become one of those people that''s constantly staring at their phone, waiting for a new Instagram like or a DM from some hot guy. I mean, I should be able to control myself, but it''s just so enticing, having everything at your fingertips. Anyway, I never really believed in having all these social media accounts. It turns normal people into complete narcissists, always looking for recognition and attention, with no shortage of options. Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter. TikTok. VSCO. Tumblr. Myspace. I''m definitely dating myself with that last one. But I''m sure there are more, countless more. Just another outlet for us to supplement real conversation. And don''t even get me started on texting. Sure, it''s convenient but just call me on the damn phone. Why text for thirty minutes when you could talk on the phone for five?


    A quiet knock comes from my front door. I practically sprint to it, my stomach reminding me again of just how hungry I am. Finally, no more surprises. I open the door and see King''s delivery man holding a bag of food. I grab a hundred dollar bill from my clutch and hand it to him. He almost looks surprised. I probably should''ve asked if they could break large bills when I called in my order. Oh well.


    "Your total is $54.85. Out of $100, your change is $45.15."


    I did the math in my head, just to be sure. I think that''s correct. Either way, it''s close enough. He hands me my change and I give him a twenty dollar bill. He grins ear to ear, thanking me over and over. With $15,000 in my pocket, or in my living room rather, I think I can spare twenty dollars for someone that I''m sure is severely underpaid. I wish him a nice night, close and lock the door, and make a beeline for the living room. I set the brown paper bag on the coffee table, next to the stacks of money that I still haven''t put away, and take out the much-anticipated food.


    While watching even more reruns of Criminal Minds, which I can''t complain about considering how great the show is, I scarf down my egg rolls and my pork fried rice and my General Tso''s chicken. I''m unsure whether it''s the food or just my thinking over the day''s events that reminds me of Ricci''s. I promised Piero that I would drop off my phone number on my way home from the cell phone store. I should probably call and let him know that my card was returned to me, safe and sound. I pull up his Google page on my phone and press the call button. Another convenient feature. It rings for a while before someone picks up. A woman with a mousy voice answers, sounding like she''s in a rush. I turn around to face the kitchen where the stove reads 5:32. Wow, time flies. Ricci''s must be in the middle of their dinner rush. I''ll have to make it quick.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "This is Ricci''s. How can I help you?"


    "Hi. I was wondering if I could speak to Piero, please."


    "May I ask who''s calling?"


    "My name is Harper Torres. I spoke to him earlier about my lost debit card."


    "Oh, yes, Ms. Torres. One moment please."


    I''m on hold for about five minutes before Piero answers the phone.


    "This is Piero. How can I help you?"


    "Hi, Mr. Ricci. This is Harper Torres. I spoke to you earlier about my debit card."


    "Ah, yes. What can I do for you, Ms. Torres?"


    "I was just calling to let you know that I found it. A man that was dining in your restaurant a few tables away from me said that it fell on the floor. He actually returned it to me in person."


    "Well, that''s great. I''m glad you found it."


    "Thank you for all your help. And I''m sorry if I caused you any trouble."


    "No, that''s okay, Ms. Torres. You have a nice night."


    "You as well. Bye."


    I hang up and return to my Chinese and Criminal Minds. I finish all my food in a little over half an hour. I guess I really was hungry. Then again, when am I not? I decide to pour myself a glass of wine, to wash away the day''s troubles. After that, the rest of the night goes by fairly quickly, with the aid of glass after glass of Pinot. Before I know it, my head hits my pillow and the rest of my body hits the mattress. I forgot just how comfortable it was. That''s probably just the wine talking, though. Not even thirty seconds pass before I fall into a deep sleep.


    .....


    Have you ever woken up from a night''s sleep and you can''t move? Some extremely frightening seconds pass before your brain can connect back with your body. Maybe it''s just me, but lying there in fear isn''t exactly the greatest start to your morning. You know what is, though? A missed call from Rowan Wilde. My phone says that she called at 9:22. It''s 12:06 now. I guess the wine aided my sleep a little too well.


    I quickly hit the redial button, wanting more than anything to make up with Rowan. I want to explain myself, to explain the situation. But that''s not what our friendship needs right now. She picks up on the third ring. The sound of her voice sends chills through my body.


    "Hey. I was wondering when I''d hear from you. Did you just wake up?"


    "You know me all too well. Haha."


    "I got your voicemail. I''m sorry that I stormed out yesterday. I didn''t really give you a chance to explain."


    "No, it''s okay. You don''t have to apologize. I know it sounds crazy."


    "Yeah, it does."


    "Let''s not talk about it then. Come over tonight, and we''ll have a girl''s night, just like we used to in high school."


    "Oh my God! I forgot about that! Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! I''ll bring some wine, and we can play Truth or Dare!"


    "Truth or Dare? What are we, twelve?"


    "Please, Harper? It''ll be fun."


    She knows I can''t say no to her. Especially when she says please. And when she says my name like that.


    "Okay, we can play Truth or Dare. I have some stuff to tell you anyway."


    "Yay! It''s gonna be so fun! I''ll be over at eight."


    "Okay, see you then."


    We hang up and my mind is left reeling. I so badly want to explain to her everything that''s been going on. But I definitely don''t think she''s going to believe me. Ever since Ryan and I broke up and I dropped out of the academy, she hasn''t trusted anything I''ve said. I guess it''s up to me to prove her wrong and I think tonight is the night to do it. Now I just need to kill eight hours until she gets here.


    My first thought is painting. It''s been quite a while since I''ve finished a painting. My supplies have been collecting dust in the corner of my living room for what feels like forever. In reality, it''s only been a few weeks but to an artist, that''s like a lifetime. I look inside myself for some sort of inspiration. Normally I have a habit of painting landscapes and anything related to nature. But today I''m feeling different. I feel like someone who is ready to take control of their life. If Rowan can do it, then why can''t I?


    Before I know it, I find myself putting brush to canvas, striking stroke after stroke of pale, peach-colored paint. The thick acrylic streaks across the cotton surface, shaping a face. Almond-shaped eyes and a pixie nose. I mix three different shades of green to fill in the irises. I mix four different shades of brown to create the hair. She''s a natural blonde, you know? I never understood her decision to change it. But blonde or brunette, the paint could never do her justice. With her intense cheekbones and subtle jawline. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows and her soft, orange-tinted lips. A face with no makeup. True beauty. When I finally finish the painting, it''s almost four o''clock. Any true artist can relate to getting lost in their work. I did for nearly four hours. I guess you could call Rowan my muse. I can''t wait to show it to her. She''s gonna love it.


    I should probably get something to eat. She won''t be here until eight so dinner alone again. On my way into the kitchen, I spy the stacks of money still perched on the coffee table. Right next to it, the remnants of last night''s dinner. I must''ve forgotten to throw it away. I toss the plastic containers in the trash, feeling a slight pang of remorse for not recycling. But I console myself with excuses, like always. My apartment doesn''t have a designated area for recycling. Plus, I would have to wash it first and then take it somewhere to be properly disposed of. And the only thing that trumped me wanting to help the environment, was my laziness.


    I guess now is as good a time as any to come up with a hiding spot for the money. I''m not really sure who I''m hiding it from but it probably shouldn''t stay out on the coffee table. I could hide it under my mattress. How cliche. I could buy one of those fireproof safes. Too much work. I settle for an old shoe box that I toss onto the top shelf of my closet. That is, after I put a few hundred dollars into my wallet. Now to figure out dinner. Last night was Chinese so tonight should be pizza, from Pagliacci''s of course.


    Just as I pull out my phone to call in my order, a notification pings on my screen. To my surprise, Kevin is texting me, wondering what I''m doing tonight. This, my friends, is one of the downsides to texting. Back in my day, people would call to ask you out on a date or, even better, ask in person. But this guy that I just met, who works at a PHONE STORE, is texting me instead of calling. I begin to type, not sure what to say. Text or not, it''s been a really long time since someone asked me out. I might be a little rusty.


    "Hey, Harper. It''s Kevin. I was wondering what you''re doing tonight. If you''re free, I''d like to take you out to dinner."


    "Hey, Kevin. I was actually just about to order some pizza but dinner with you sounds way better. Pick me up at five?"


    "K. I''ll see you then."


    The "k" seems extremely informal and a little passive aggressive. But if I''m going to take control of my life, I have to think about what the new Harper would do, not the old one. The old me never would''ve texted him back. But the new me is open to almost anything and being asked out over text certainly falls under "anything".


    I click the little circle at the bottom of the screen and stare at my home page. A cluster of newly-downloaded apps, just waiting to be organized. My inner OCD is telling me to fix it but I see the time instead. 4:12. I have less than an hour to get ready. Lucky for me, I''m very low-maintenance. Maybe the new me should kick it up a notch, though.


    I head into my room and slide open my closet doors. It''s rather small but my even-smaller collection of clothes fits perfectly. Kevin didn''t say where he was taking me but I really only have two or three outfits that are acceptable for a date. A blue and pink floral sundress that I pair with white wedges. A red blouse and black skirt that I pair with black stilettos. And a black cocktail dress that I pair with silver pumps. I lay them all out neatly on my bed, placing the shoes underneath each outfit. While I think it over, I head to the master bathroom, and only bathroom, to take a shower. I can''t remember the last time I showered. That sort of goes along with my depression.


    By the time I get out of the shower, it''s already 4:26. I quickly towel off and figure out what to do with my hair. I''m thinking some sort of updo but my knowledge of hairstyles is slim. I blow dry it and brush it back into a low bun. I secure it with hair ties and bobby pins. Sleek and sophisticated. Hopefully it sends the right message.


    I head back into the bedroom and take one last look at the three outfits. I reluctantly settle on the blouse and skirt. Not too formal but not too casual. Hopefully I''ll be ready for anything Kevin throws at me. I slip into the outfit, which is a little tighter than I remember. I''ve definitely put on some weight since the last time I went on a date. Nevertheless, Kevin asked me out, so he obviously doesn''t care.


    Just as with hairstyles, I''ve never known much about makeup, nor have I cared to learn. I''ve always believed that more is less and that makeup is for accentuating your natural beauty, not hiding it. My thoughts shift to Rowan, who tends to slather on makeup. I just wish that she could see herself from my perspective. Maybe then she wouldn''t try to hide under all that foundation and eyeliner. Oh, and the eyelashes. I hate the fake eyelashes. But maybe then she wouldn''t dye her hair or visit the nail salon every week to apply expensive acrylics. Maybe then she could embrace her natural beauty.


    I start by covering my acne with concealer. I don''t have much but all the wine is probably why I have any at all. Next is my foundation. It''s from Maybelline and I bought it at CVS like ten years ago. I know what you''re thinking. It''s definitely expired by now. But who actually pays attention to that? That shit''s expensive and I seldom use it. I reach into my makeup bag and grab the liquid eyeliner. It takes me at least ten minutes to get something close to a cat eye and by the time I''m finished, my eyes feel red and inflamed. I take a step back and look in the mirror, mildly satisfied with my handiwork. For someone that never does makeup, it''s not half back.


    I top the look off with a reddish-pink lipstick. Just as I finish applying it, I hear a knock at the door. I yell in the direction of the living room that I''ll just be another moment and I slip into my black stilettos. I head into the kitchen, searching for my clutch. I find it sitting on the kitchen table but the color is all wrong. Olive green with black and red? No way. I rummage through my closet for the black purse that I know is there. Hiding in the back of my closet, I see it hanging on a small hook, dangling by its thin strap. I quickly shove a few hundred dollar bills inside it, along with my phone that was tossed onto my bed, and my keys which are in a bowl by the door.


    Waiting patiently on my front porch is Kevin and, boy, is he underdressed compared to me. He is wearing what I believe to be the same pants that he was wearing when we met. Brown cargo pants. His shirt is a burgundy polo with short sleeves and those three awkward buttons at the top. I think to myself: I''m going out with the AT&T guy. For some reason this is his defining characteristic. Maybe it''s because that''s the only thing I know about him. Without much time to talk, there was no way for me to know if I was truly into him. I guess that''s what tonight is about, though. About seeing if there''s a spark or a connection or whatever you wanna call it. All I know is that anyone that can take my mind off Rowan, is someone that I want to spend time with. The new Harper, the one that is taking control of her life, needs to move on. I''ve spent 15 years pining after her and I''m not even sure if she knows it.

 Chapter Twelve

    The second time I stalked Harper was sort of a revolutionary event for me. I could no longer deny that I was doing something wrong. I''d purposely driven to her home and sat outside, in my car, waiting to see her. I was waiting to observe her. On the passenger seat of the car was my notebook, the one that I''d been recording my memories of her in. Now, I could record everything she did.


    After hours and hours of watching her from the street, I had almost filled the entire notebook. My hand and wrist hurt pretty bad and even though I had all this information, there was something missing. Photos. I needed to buy a camera. So I hurried to the closest store that sold cameras, a Walmart to be exact, and I returned to that same spot that I''d been in all day. I flipped the switch on the top of it, by the shutter button, and fooled around with it until I was confident with my photo-taking abilities. By then it was almost dark and the sun was setting behind me. I angled the camera toward her living room window, with my finger ready to hit that button and take that first picture of her. But then, a pang of guilt. I couldn''t do it.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I wasn''t at my nephew''s soccer game. I wasn''t taking my niece to the zoo to see the gorillas. I was taking pictures of an innocent woman. One that had no idea that I''d been sitting out there for hours, spying on her. I felt guilt and remorse. And before I knew it, I had sped off and was already in my driveway. My hands were shaking and my breath was heavy. I couldn''t understand my conscience.


    That day, I had learned tons of new information about her. I learned that her favorite cereal is Coco Puffs. I learned that she loves to paint. And she''s good at it too. I learned that her favorite show is Criminal Minds. I learned that she spends almost no time on her phone. But on the contrary, she spends most of her time on her laptop. I bet it''s just a wealth of information, all about the life of Harper Torres. I fantasized about what I might find. But what I learned, most importantly, was that I still felt guilt.


    I''ll give you one guess as to how long that lasted.

 Chapter Thirteen

    After I lock up the apartment, Kevin walks me to his car. Parked a few spots away is his black Ford Focus, which is riddled with stickers that insinuate that the car is fast. There''s also a few on there that boast sexual innuendos and allude to his hobbies. He climbs into the driver''s seat, and as I make my way around to the passenger''s side, I can make out the silhouette of a snowboarder near one of the taillights. Snowboarding isn''t really my thing. I''m not really into sports at all. But hopefully we''ll have other things in common. Hopefully.


    The drive to the restaurant lasts about seven minutes. I would know considering that I checked my phone about a hundred times. After all, I was sitting awkwardly in a car next to a stranger. Who wouldn''t check their phone every ten seconds? For some reason, neither of us was willing to break the silence. We both listened to the extreme absence of sound, except for the quiet shifting of his car. I know I said it was only seven minutes but it felt like a lifetime.


    I get flashbacks of sitting in Jake''s car, waiting for the police to arrive. I didn''t feel the same awkwardness then, but maybe it was the circumstances. Or maybe it was Jake''s personality. I find myself wondering what Jake is doing on a night like this. Where would he take me on a date? I think about something I saw in a movie once. This woman fell for the man that saved her from a serial killer and I think they called it "Florence Nightingale Syndrome". Could this possibly be what I''m feeling when I think of Jake?


    When the restaurant finally comes into view, I instantly recognize the gaudy decor of America''s favorite Italian restaurant chain. Olive Garden. I try not to judge him by his choice of restaurant but I guess Italian is a safe bet, considering he doesn''t know me at all. Because, who doesn''t like Italian food? But it dawns on me that that''s why he is dressed so informally. I''m definitely going to stick out like a sore thumb during dinner.


    Kevin quickly pulls into a parking spot, about as far away as you can from the restaurant. Friday night at 5:30 was prime time for couples to have dinner at their favorite restaurant. I mean, I can''t imagine Olive Garden being anyone''s favorite restaurant, but to each their own. I sit quietly, puzzled, because even as packed as the restaurant is, there are spots much closer. As I exit the car, I realize that he didn''t park far away because there were no spots. He''s one of those guys that always parks far away because he doesn''t want anyone to hit his "expensive" car. Bro, it''s a Ford Focus. Calm down.


    I roll my eyes as we head into the restaurant and eventually to our table. Still, there isn''t much going on in the conversation department, so I try to break the ice.


    "So, Kevin, what do you like to do for fun?"


    "I like snowboarding, going to the track, drinking with my friends, riding dirt bikes and four wheelers, hunting. Wait, did I say snowboarding?"


    "Yeah, I think you mentioned that."


    "What about you? What do you do when you''re not getting your phone stolen by random guys."


    I force a laugh, trying to decide whether or not it was actually funny.


    "Well, I like to paint and I''m a journalist for the Bellevue Bugle."


    "Wow, that''s cool. So you''re the creative type."


    He phrases it as more of a statement than a question. A statement that he doesn''t seem very pleased with. It was evident, just from the stickers on his car, that we were not each other''s type.


    "Yup, that''s me."


    Another long, awkward pause. But then, as if sent from the heavens, our waiter approaches to provide us with some relief from this terrible conversation. Kevin perks up as well, clearly feeling the exact same way.


    "Good evening. My name is Miguel and I''ll be your server tonight. Is this your first time at Olive Garden?"


    In unison, we both reply, "No". I mean, who hasn''t been to Olive Garden?


    "Great. Well, have you decided on drinks?"


    "I''ll have a Pinot Grigio and a water with no ice, please."


    "I''ll take a Rolling Rock."


    "Great. And are you two ready to order or do we need a few more minutes?"


    "I think I''m ready, if you are."


    "Sure. I''ll have the Tour of Italy."


    "That is a wonderful choice, Sir. It''s one of our most popular dishes. And for you, Miss?"


    "I would love a bowl of Zuppa Tuscano and a side caesar salad, please."


    "Sounds wonderful. I''ll take your menus and I''ll be back with your drinks in a few minutes."


    "Thank you."


    We hand Miguel the menus and exchange forced smiles. How are we going to fill the silence until the food comes? I guess we''ll have to talk until we find something we have in common. At least, that''s what I thought. Needless to say, we waited for our food, received and ate our food, skipped dessert, and waited for the check and boxes, all without speaking a word to each other. Even Miguel could sense the tension between us and my conversation with him was ten times better than the one I had with Kevin.


    After what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only an hour and a half, Miguel drops off the check and our boxed-up leftovers. We both wanted more than anything to pay the bill and get the hell out of here. But, it wasn''t until he looked at the check that he claimed he "accidentally" forgot his wallet at home. I think I can safely say that this is the worst date I''ve ever been on. On top of having absolutely nothing in common, he makes me pay the bill?! The only thing that''s keeping me from kicking this guy in the shins, is the thought of Rowan, waiting for me at my apartment.


    I reluctantly foot the bill, leaving Miguel a generous 30% tip. Takeaway boxes in tow, we make our way to the car, the impending silent car ride in the back of both our minds. Finally, we arrive at my apartment and Kevin doesn''t even bother to walk me to my door. We exchange goodbyes in the car, a goodbye that consists of nothing more than sad smiles and awkward waves. As I ascend the stairs, I pull my phone from my purse and delete Kevin''s number from it. I don''t think either of us is going to be calling or texting the other anytime soon. I delete the texts as well, for good measure. No reason to have them haunting my inbox.


    My apartment feels warm. The kind of warmth that envelops you and comforts you after a terrible night. I kick my heels off as I make my way into the bedroom. Seconds after walking in the door, my clothes are already off and I''m in the shower, more than ready to purge myself of the terrible evening. After about fifteen minutes of hot water raining down on my skin, I finish up and wrap myself in my favorite robe. It''s pink and plush and warm. Perfect for a night like tonight. With a second towel, I do that weird twisty thing that all girls do with their hair. It looks like soft serve ice cream on the top of my head.


    I exit the bathroom and instantly hear a noise coming from the kitchen. I stop dead in my tracks, waiting for the sound again. A melodic ringing and tremorous vibrating indicates that it''s my phone. I shuffle over to the countertop, where I discarded it the second I walked in. I have one missed call. Rowan. I put the call on speaker and take note of the time. 7:47. She should be here any minute. I wonder why she''s calling.


    "Hey. I was wondering what kind of wine you wanted. I''m at the store now."


    "Chardonnay is fine. What about you?"


    "You know me. I''m getting White Zin. But I''m gonna check out. I''ll see you in like ten minutes."


    "Okay, bye."


    Rowan will be here any minute, so I should probably get dressed. I want to be comfortable but I want to look cute. I''m sure Rowan will show up looking amazing, like always. And then I''ll be standing there looking like a pumpkin, in my own house. I rifle through my wardrobe and find some patterned capri leggings. These always did make my ass look amazing. Then I throw on a baggy band tee, the one with Rowan''s favorite band on it, and step back to look at myself in the mirror. My brown hair hangs damply around my shoulders. The bags under my eyes are enormous. I quickly towel dry my hair, add some product to it and scrunch it, creating subtle waves. Plus, the product smells amazing.


    I hear a loud knock at the door, no doubt Rowan. I toss the towel and my robe into the hamper, take one last quick look at myself and run to open the door for her. She''s standing there, in my doorway, in biker shorts, her favorite jogging sneakers and a tight camisole. Over it, a dark gray pea coat that she didn''t bother to close. She must be freezing. The sun set almost two hours ago and the temperature outside was starting to drop. But then again, she always was hot-blooded.


    Rowan practically screams my name when I open the door. Wielding two bottles of wine, one in either hand, she shoves her way into my apartment and sets them down, loudly, on the coffee table. She strips off her coat and throws it over the back of one of my kitchen chairs. She grabs two glasses from a nearby cabinet and plops down on the couch, clearly ready to play Truth or Dare. I was more than reluctant to play. It was always Rowan''s favorite game in high school and usually someone ended up getting hurt, emotionally and/or physically. Though, I''m sure there won''t be too much damage because it''s just us.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    "Hurry up! I''m soooo excited!"


    The look on her face says it all. It has been a while since we''ve hung out and I can''t go too long without needing a healthy dose of Rowan. And there she was, sitting on my couch, waiting for me to join her. She sits cross-legged, using the arm rest to support her back. I do the same, mimicking her position. I have no idea how she sits like that. It''s so incredibly uncomfortable. It must be all the yoga she does.


    Meanwhile, she pours two glasses of wine and hands me one, holding hers in the air and expecting me to do the same.


    "To old friendships."


    "To old friendships."


    Friends. We''ve been friends for 15 years. Just friends. I clink my glass against hers, and we both say "cheers", Rowan a little more enthusiastically than me. She takes a generous sip while I take several generous gulps. I think she noticed.


    "Rough night?"


    "Oh, you have no idea."


    "You can tell me about it later. Let''s play. Truth or dare?"


    "Woah, relax. This game was your idea so you have to go first. Truth or dare?"


    "Dare, of course."


    I think for a moment. Rowan is the kind of person that isn''t afraid of anything. I could literally tell her to jump off the roof of my apartment, and she would do it. This is my favorite and my least favorite thing about her. Don''t get me wrong, I love that she will take a chance and try anything once. But by the same token, she will take things way too far just to say that she did it.


    "There''s a bottle of hot sauce in the fridge. I dare you to drink the whole thing."


    She doesn''t even blink. I probably shouldn''t be surprised. She shoots up from her spot on the couch, walks over to the fridge, grabs the bottle of hot sauce and chugs it.


    "Easy. Don''t be so soft, Torres. You''d better give me something harder next time."


    She returns to her seat, breath reeking of hot sauce, but it doesn''t seem to bother her at all.


    "Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?"


    Just as I''m about to answer "truth", my phone pings from the kitchen. Before I can object, Rowan jumps up and grabs my phone off the counter.


    "You got a text from some random number. It says, ''I had a great time tonight. We should do it again sometime''. Who the hell is this from?! Did you go out on a date and not tell me?!"


    I let the information sink in for a moment before answering her.


    "Yeah, I just got back like 20 minutes before you got here. It was the rough night I was telling you about. I met this guy at the AT&T store when I was getting a new phone. He asked me out and we went to dinner AT OLIVE GARDEN. It was terrible. We had absolutely nothing in common, and he conveniently forgot his wallet at home, so I had to pay for dinner. We didn''t even say a word to each other on the car ride home."


    "Oh my God, that''s terrible. I can''t believe he made you pay. Hahaha."


    She starts laughing hysterically. I''m not sure what''s so funny but Rowan''s laugh has always been contagious. She''s just standing in the kitchen, holding my phone, doubled over, laughing so hard that I swear I saw tears come out of her eyes. I guess it was pretty funny. I mean, who makes the girl pay on the first date? We both cackled at my misery for about five minutes before Rowan sits down again, my phone in her hand. She gives it to me, the screen still showing the text from Kevin.


    "I dare you to text him back."


    "What? Why?"


    "Because you had a terrible time."


    "What would I even say?"


    "Tell him that you had a shitty time and that he''s an asshole for making you pay!"


    "No, I couldn''t do that. That''s mean."


    "After the night you''ve had, the only one that''s mean is this guy."


    "Kevin. His name''s Kevin."


    "Well tell Kevin to fuck off."


    Situations like this always make me extremely nervous. She''s right, I did have a terrible time, and he did make me pay. But what if I run into him on the street or I need to go into the AT&T store for something? On the other hand, it is a dare and I kinda dared myself earlier to act more like Rowan. I need to stop giving a shit about what people think. I start typing, unsure of what exactly I''m going to say. It takes me a little over ten minutes to come up with something actually worth sending. Of course, Rowan helped.


    "I''m sorry but I have to be honest. We didn''t have a single thing in common and it was kinda awkward. Also, you''re a dick for making me pay. I don''t think there''s gonna be a second date. Have a good night."


    Rowan called me soft for not being more mean to him, but I was satisfied. I stare at the text for a moment, debating whether I should send it. I''m not really the straightforward, mean kind of person. Rowan, on the other hand, is exactly that person. She doesn''t really care who she''s hurting, as long as she''s telling the truth. But, reluctantly, I hit send and lock my phone, placing it on the coffee table.


    "There, done. You turn. Truth or dare?"


    "I did dare last time. So this time I''ll do truth."


    I didn''t need to think about this one for very long but I pretended to. There was something I''ve been wanting to ask her since we first became friends. We''ve never really talked about it and I thought tonight would be the perfect time. Lucky for me, we''re both two glasses into our bottles of wine. Asking it is a little easier with the help of some liquid courage.


    "Have you ever done anything with another girl?"


    She giggles and blushes slightly. No matter what the answer, I know that she won''t lie. Because, not only am I her best friend, but Rowan never lies about anything. She always owns up to everything, mistake or not.


    "I made out with Claire Dawson in tenth grade at a party and I fooled around with one of my college roommates. But that''s it."


    I never knew that about her. And Claire Dawson? I always hated her but this fact made me hate her even more. Or maybe it was envy.


    "Okay. It''s your turn and I''ve already picked for you. Have you ever done anything with another girl?"


    Oh. My. God. I can''t believe she just asked me that. She''s looking at me with those crazy eyes that she gets. The indication of curiosity. Does she know that I like her? Has she known this whole time? For the last fifteen years and just didn''t say anything? My heart is beating out of my chest and I can feel the heat radiating off my face. I need to come up with an answer before she suspects something more.


    "No, I''ve never done anything with a girl."


    "Well, I dare you to kiss me."


    "Hey, that''s two -"


    Rowan kisses me so powerfully and with so much intention, that I can''t help but think that she has feelings for me. But I don''t know. Maybe it''s the wine or my terrible date. Or maybe it''s Rowan''s need to constantly feel spontaneous and interesting.


    "There. Now you can''t say you''ve never kissed a girl."


    I''m not sure what to say and I still can''t tell if she even wanted to kiss me or if she was just doing it to prove a point. Nevertheless, it was the most amazing kiss that I''ve ever had and, unfortunately, it just solidifies my feelings for her.


    "Okay, it''s your turn."


    "Truth."


    "You already picked truth last time. You know the rules. You have to pick dare."


    "Fine. Dare."


    "I dare you to chug the rest of your bottle of wine."


    Without hesitation, she downs the entire thing and it doesn''t take long for the effect to set in. She begins slurring her words and swaying back and forth.


    "Your tu- turn."


    "Okay, truth."


    As if she already had this question stored in her back pocket, she asks me something that I didn''t expect. It throws me off and my body sweats with anxiety.


    "Why did you drop out of the police academy?"


    "Rowan, I don''t want to talk about that. Pick something else."


    "It''s been years. Why can''t you just tell me?"


    "Because I don''t want to."


    "I promise, if you te- tell me, I''ll tell you my biiiiigge-sst secret."


    She is pretty drunk now, so I doubt if she''ll even remember. And, I''ve never told anyone why. It would be nice to finally get it off my chest.


    "Fine but you have to promise not to tell anyone and you''d better tell me your secret when I''m done."


    "Okay, okay. Now tell me."


    "Well, the truth is, that I dropped out because Ryan was blackmailing me."


    She looks stunned, like someone sucker-punched her or something. Maybe the alcohol is just making it harder for her brain to process what I said.


    "What do you mean he was blackmailing you? What could he possibly have to blackmail you with?"


    "He had a sex tape. He must''ve hidden a camera one time when we were having sex, and he recorded the whole thing. He threatened to show it to everyone if I didn''t drop out. So I did."


    She giggles slightly and hiccups before she replies.


    "Good one. You had me going there for a minute."


    "Rowan, I''m serious. Ryan is the reason I dropped out."


    She looks mad now, maybe even irate. I''ve never seen her face with this expression before. She''s definitely drunk but her eyes and nose and forehead are all scrunched up. She looks disgusted with me. Disgusted that I would lie about something like this. But I''m not lying. It''s the truth.


    "You always use Ryan as an excuse to solve all your problems, Harper. Why can''t you just admit that you dropped out because you failed?"


    "Rowan, I''m not lying. I would never lie to you. Ryan was really blackmailing me. I''ve always wanted to be a cop. I would never have dropped out unless I had to. He made me! He didn''t want me to stay at the academy because he thought that I would stop letting him push me around. He thought that I would find someone else."


    "You know, I really thought we were done with this childish shit. When are you going to stop hiding behind your relationship with Ryan and accept responsibility for your actions? You''ve been using this excuse for way too long."


    She starts to untangle her legs from under her and rises to her feet. She stumbles slightly before she turns her back to me. She only makes it a few steps before she turns around and looks deeply into my eyes. I was hoping that she would apologize or tell me she had feelings for me or something. Anything but what she actually said.


    "By the way, my big secret is that I fucked Ben in high school."


    She storms out, grabbing all of her belongings and slamming the door behind her. I wanted to go after her, like I''ve always done. But what she said left me reeling. I couldn''t move from my current position on the couch, even if I wanted to. So I just sat there, letting the information sink in.


    Rowan. Had sex. With Ben. My brother.

 Chapter Fourteen

    Let me make something completely clear. I never intended to chase Harper through the Coal Creek woods. I must admit, it was a real fun time, but I didn''t go there to stalk her. It was actually a total coincidence that we were there at the same time. Did I need to chase her? No. Did I want to chase her? Totally. But she noticed that I was following her and she just started running. I didn''t know what to do so I ran after her. At one point, I said to myself: "Why are we doing this? She must be terrified." But I couldn''t stop. There was something about the chase that drove me wild and I was infinitely rewarded for doing so.


    At some point while we were running, Harper dropped her phone. I saw it fly out of her pocket but I couldn''t stop chasing after her. To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to do when I caught up to her. But it didn''t matter. The chase was the only thing that mattered in that moment. Eventually, the sun started to set and we reached a parking lot. That''s when I knew that it was all over. There was bound to be a whole lot of cars ahead and getting caught was definitely not on my to-do list.


    So I cut my losses and went back to search for Harper''s phone. It took me about fifteen minutes to find it, but when I did, it all became worth it. The screen was slightly cracked and the whole thing was covered in mud. Luckily, it still worked. I made my way back to my car and grabbed some old Wendy''s napkins from the glove compartment. After a few minutes of damage control, I''d unlocked her phone. Who makes their pin their birthday? Harper Torres, that''s who.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    It was an old iPhone. Many generations have proceeded it since and she clearly didn''t use it much. One of the first things that I checked was her text messages. Rowan. Ben. Mom. Josh. She doesn''t have very many friends. But that was something that I always liked about her. Next was her Google search history. Lucky for me, it was linked with her laptop so everything she searched on there was also on her phone. It was somewhat short but definitely interesting. Mayor Gibbins. Mayor Gibbons secretary. Alicia Wadsworth secretary. Mayoral sex scandals. Rowan Wilde. Why was she searching for information on Rowan? Doesn''t she know all there is to know about her? She is her best friend, after all.


    I had her phone for less than a day before she deactivated it. In that time, Rowan texted her about a hundred times and, of course, I didn''t reply. I felt like that would be rude. But after she saw that her texts went unanswered, she began to call. After a while, she gave up, but it felt good to make her worry. She doesn''t deserve Harper, anyway.


    After the SIM card was deactivated, I didn''t really have any use for the phone. So, I backed up a copy of it''s contents onto my computer and sealed it away in a box of Harper''s things. Since then, my collection has grown substantially. One day, I hope to show it to her. It''ll be like she''s touring a museum of her own life. I think she''ll be ecstatic.

 Chapter Fifteen

    How could she not believe me? Then again, she never believes me. She didn''t when I told her that Ryan was hitting me. Or when I told her that I was being chased. Or just now when I told her Ryan blackmailed me with that sex tape. And on top of all that, she had sex with Ben. My whole world is spinning, probably with a little help from all that wine. But right now, the wine is going to give me the courage that I need to run after her and tell her how I feel.


    I jump up from the couch and out my front door, which she left open when she stormed out. To my surprise, Rowan is laying on the ground, trying to pick herself up. The wine may have given me courage but it gave her something completely different. I rush over to her, grabbing her arm and hoisting her into a standing position. She leans against me, hard, and I can see by the look on her face that she''s not okay.


    Her forearms and elbows are skinned, small spots of blood pooling at the surface. That clingy outfit didn''t offer much protection, but damn, did it look good on her. Even now. I look down at her knees, also skinned. The palms of her hands too. She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes, and I can''t help but feel bad. I mean, I know I didn''t do anything wrong and she''s the one that doesn''t believe me but knowing that she''s so vulnerable right now; it makes my heart hurt.


    I lead her inside, determined to clear her up and get her to bed. This wouldn''t be the first time that she''s slept over at my apartment so there was no doubt that she would be comfortable. I also don''t have a car to drive her home and I probably shouldn''t be driving anyway. I would call her a cab but you never know with those weird cab drivers. Anything could happen. So I slowly walk Rowan up the steps of my apartment and sit her down at one of the tables in the kitchen. There''s no way I''m letting her get blood on my couch.


    The first aid kit is under the kitchen sink, waiting to be used. I''ve never needed it until now. I remove a few alcohol wipes from their individual packages and wipe the blood clean. I use a cotton swab to rub antibacterial cream on each of the cuts and throw a few bandaids on. Done. Rowan sits almost perfectly still, not having said a word the entire time. I can''t tell if she''s doing it out of spite or if she''s just lost in drunk thought.


    She plops down on the couch and I throw my favorite couch blanket on top of her. It''s a little small for sleeping but I don''t think she''ll mind. I feel completely sober now, even after drinking as much as I did. Someone getting hurt is the kind of thing that makes you clear-headed all of a sudden. I take one last look at Rowan before I turn off the lights and head to the bedroom. Just as I climb into bed, I remember that I didn''t lock the door on my way back in. I throw the covers to the side and make my way through the living room.


    "Harper?"


    Her voice scares the shit out of me and even makes me jump. I put my hand over my heart, as if to stop it from beating so hard.


    "Yeah?" I reply.


    "Thanks."


    I think about it for a moment, wondering where this is coming from. She was so angry with me before, that a "thank you" was the last thing that I expected to hear. I wanted to ask her so many questions at that moment, but I decided to reply with, "You''re welcome." And I locked the door and went to bed.


    .....


    When I woke up, she was already gone. She had grabbed her coat from off the kitchen chair. She refolded the blanket and replaced it on the back of the couch. She even cleaned up last night''s mess. I wonder if this was her way of thanking me. For cleaning her wounds. I check my phone, wondering if I would have a text from her, maybe some sort of explanation. Nothing. I decide to give Rowan some space. After all, the ball is kinda in her court after last night. So instead of texting her, I text Ben.


    "Hey. Call me when you can. I need to talk to you about something."


    I hit send and put down my phone, determined not to look at it, at least until I''ve had some coffee. On a more positive note, it''s Sunday, my favorite day of the week. By now, I''m sure this week''s issue of the Bugle is sitting on my doorstep, waiting for me to grab it. Reading the newspaper always has a way of transporting me away from everything. Every article, each of a different topic, throws me into the world of the writer. Seeing it from their perspective is my favorite thing about it. Without their point of view, the world would never know what the topic looks like through their eyes.


    I retrieve the paper from my front step and place it on the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. In the meantime, it''s been a while since I checked the mail. I grab my keys and head down to the cluster of post office boxes close to the center of my neighborhood. As I approach the paved area, I spot another resident looking through their mail, tossing junk letters into a nearby trash can. It''s a young man, about 5''7, with sandy blonde hair and a wiry frame. He seems to be in his teens, standing with most of his weight on his left leg. His hip is sticking out, baggy shorts almost falling off his waist. I unlock my box and the door practically busts open, filled to the brim with mail. I guess it''s been more than a while since I checked it. Haha. I pull everything out and juggle it into a comfortable position, getting ready to return to my apartment. The boy turns to me, watching in amusement as I struggle to carry it all.


    "Need some help?"


    I make eye contact with him and try to read his intentions. Is he just being a helpful kid or is there something else? This whole "being chased thing" is making me paranoid. He seems honest, though.


    "Haha. Yeah, I guess I do. Would you mind locking my mailbox for me?"


    He nods as I hand him the key and I run an alternate scenario in my head. One where he sprints off with my keys and I never see him again. While he locks the box, I make a little squinty face at myself. I shift the mail around again, trying to balance everything as my arms start to get tired. He gives the keys back and I look at him once more.


    "Thanks. I really appreciate it."


    "Any time."


    He walks in the direction of the neighborhood playground and I walk the opposite way, towards my apartment. When I finally get back, I dump the mail onto the table, scattering letters everywhere, a few of them falling onto the floor. I look at the coffee pot, which isn''t quite finished brewing, and then return my attention back to the pile of mail. Most of it is junk. I spy offers for car insurance, envelopes with pre-approved credit lines inside and a few notices from my dentist, reminding me to come in for a cleaning. I rip up the junk, place the note from my dentist on my fridge and pick up the few letters that fell on the floor.


    The non-junk mail consists of three pieces. First, a bill from Capital One, letting me know that my minimum payment is due by the 1st. Second, a bank statement, also from Capital One, outlining my spending over the last month. And lastly, a letter from someone named Jim Campbell, which I''m still not convinced isn''t junk mail. The front of it features jagged, but somehow neat, handwriting. It slightly piques my interest and I make a note to look at it later but I wait six days every week for the newspaper. The letter can wait. I turn my attention back to the paper, lying folded on my cheap, particle board table. Next to it, the Capital One bill and statement are nagging me, begging to be put away. I hate clutter.


    I put the Capital One correspondence in a box of documents that I keep hidden in the back of my closet. Right next to my new box of cash. Usually I love being organized, but I didn''t have the time or the energy to go through ten years of bills and statements. I head back into the kitchen and just as I''m about to open the mysterious letter, the coffee maker beeps. Finally. I pour myself a cup, add the necessary accoutrements, and sit down. I unfold the black and white tabloid, laying out each of the different pages, which I love to read in sequential order. On the front page sits my article about the mayor. Josh did say that he loved it. I read through my own writing, but not to view it from my own perspective. After all, I''m the one that wrote it. But I''m searching for mistakes, as I always do when I read my own work. Lucky for me, Josh is an amazing editor and I, an amazing writer, so there are no mistakes. Haha.


    I read every passage of every article and study every picture, hoping to gain some insight from an inside perspective. I''m almost finished, but I always save the best for last. My favorite writer to read every Sunday. The Raven. They''re a silent contributor for the paper. I''m told that there are quite a few. Usually their articles rotate, one week will be one writer and the next week a different one. But the only one that remains a constant is The Raven. I''ve been reading their work for years, even before I started work at the paper. They have been my inspiration throughout my work as a writer. I have to admit that their writing is almost the sole reason that I am subscribed to the paper. It''s absolutely fascinating and wonderfully written. Their submissions are typically related to art, whether it''s reviews of local plays or visiting a new art exhibit downtown. No matter what they write about, they always make connections to the world''s most well-renowned works of art. Hemingway. Picasso. Thoreau. Michelangelo. Shakespeare. Poe.


    I think for a moment about their unique signature, The Raven. Most of the silent contributors have signatures, such as this one, that usually relate to their genre of work. It keeps their identity hidden but gives people something to remember them by. The Raven is definitely fitting for them, as they love to talk about Edgar Allen Poe. It must be one of their favorites. This week''s article, though, is a review of a ballet that premiered last week at the local theater. The Black Swan. The way that they compare the play to the book is an incredible display of their knowledge of literature. This wasn''t a person that read the book in anticipation of the review, but someone that has read it more than once and knows it on a personal level.


    I''ve imagined on more than one occasion that I would meet The Raven. After reading their articles every Sunday, I feel an almost personal connection to them. Their writing is so complex and descriptive that it''s as if I''ve known them for most of my life. This is someone that you can have an intellectual and challenging conversation with. Someone that I share interests with. Someone that I long to know. I find myself comparing a friendship with this faceless person to the relationships that I currently have in my life. Or should I say, the dwindling relationships. As much as I love talking to Rowan, she doesn''t exactly have a passion for the arts. I daydream about debating with someone like The Raven, about the controversies of 19th century literature. I guess I just long to be intellectually challenged.


    My phone buzzes from the couch, where I threw it after I texted Ben, and as I jump out of my seat to grab it, the mysterious letter slides off the table and onto the floor. Lost in thought about who could be calling my phone, I disregard it and rush over to the living room. It''s a number that I don''t recognize but it has a Washington area code so I answer it.


    "Hello?"


    "Hey, Torres. It''s Josh. Did you read the paper yet?"


    "Oh, hey Josh. I forgot to program the office number into my contacts so I didn''t know it was you. I''m actually reading the paper right now. Is everything okay with my article? I mean, you printed it but do you have some sort of correction or something I should work on for next week?"


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation."No, your article is perfect, actually. I wanted to let you know that I received a phone call from another paper this morning, asking for your contact information."


    "Oh, really? Who?"


    "The Post."


    "Wait, what?"


    "Yeah, I got a call around 8:30 from a rep for The Washington Post."


    "Oh my God, I can''t believe it! Well, what did they say?"


    "They just asked for your phone number. Of course, I gave it to them, but just remember where your loyalties lie, Torres."


    I sense the sarcasm in his voice and we share a laugh. I can''t believe that The Washington Post called about my article. That''s amazing news! I almost can''t contain my excitement but I bottle it up. I wouldn''t want to make Josh feel bad.


    "Well, I just called to congratulate you and let you know that they''ll be calling soon. Oh, and I found your laptop. It looks like someone moved it onto one of the supply shelves and some papers got stacked on top of it. But we have it here."


    "Thank God. I''ve been looking for it everywhere. Thank you so much, Josh."


    "You''re welcome, Torres. And congrats, again."


    I hang up the phone and do an actual happy dance. The Post asked for my contact information. That''s insane! As amazing as the news is, though, it dawns on me that I have absolutely no one to share it with. I haven''t checked my phone since I texted Ben this morning. Nothing yet. I decide to search through my contacts, wanting someone, anyone, to share the good news with. I pass by old friends and coworkers, long-lost cousins and aunts that never call. I see my mom''s phone number, the one that she''s had since she first got a cell phone. I consider calling her but she never really supported my being a writer anyway. There isn''t one person that I actually want to speak to. Except Rowan, that is. But I''m trying to give her space.


    I reach the "N"''s and there''s his name. Nick. The guy who brought back my debit card. I think, for a while, about calling. I also consider sending him a text. But I''m not the kind of person to ask a guy out. I''m not exactly Ms. Confident or anything. Then again, he doesn''t have my number, so if I ever want to see him again, I have to call him.


    I spend the next twenty minutes going back and forth before I decide to paint my feelings instead. I make my way over to my easel, a fresh cup of water in my hand. I set it down on a small end table that I use for my supplies. I take down the canvas that boasts Rowan''s gorgeous face. I didn''t even get to show it to her. I turn the painting to face the wall and let it lean there, taunting me from just a few inches away. I try to block the image out of my brain, try to forget the feeling of passion with which I drew that painting. I grab a fresh canvas and place it on the easel, eager to paint my emotions, for lack of a better option.


    Painting has always been a hobby of mine. That and writing. I never intended to make writing my career and, honestly, I kinda hate it. Of course, I love reading my work in the paper every Sunday, but it''s not what I truly want to do. My creativity, my writing and my artwork, is more of an emotional outlet. No, ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be a cop. I would strut around the house, wearing a little plastic badge on my shirt, wielding a pop gun like I was actually going to fight crime. That''s probably why my mom was so disappointed when I dropped out of the academy. I still haven''t told her why but I''m sure you can imagine how devastated I was when my ex showed up with that sex tape. What was even worse than having to abandon my dream was having to break the news to my mom.


    I wanted to join the force to make a difference in the world. I''ve always idolized policemen and their ability to defend themselves and do what''s right. After my relationship with Ryan, I needed the academy more than ever. I needed to feel power and I needed to feel in control. For years he pushed me around, beating me and abusing me. The mental, physical and emotional damage that I suffered is enough to keep me from doing what I love. I never truly got over the trauma of that relationship, considering that there was no one to talk to about it. Rowan doesn''t believe me and it''s not something that I would want to reveal to my mom.


    I stare at the blank canvas, trying to gain inspiration from nothing. I add a coat of primer while I ponder my subject and turn my attention to the many acrylic paints. Maybe the colors will spark some ideas. I pick up my favorite brush and touch paint to canvas. I''m still not sure what I''m going to paint but I feel the creativity coursing through my veins. Stroke after stroke, I feel the stress of the Rowan situation melting away. After over an hour of painting, I step away from my canvas and stare at what I''ve created. It''s a masterpiece.


    I''ve always thought of myself as an impressionist. My work as an artist mostly consists of landscapes and the occasional portrait, like the one of Rowan. But this was something completely different. It is abstract and vibrant and modern. Much more so than what I usually paint. It boasts contrasting colors and images, so complex that it could be compared to a Picasso or an O''Keefe. Then again, I could be tooting my own horn a little too much, but there''s something about it that screams "masterpiece".


    I take a deep breath and stand up from my chair, heading to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I definitely feel emotionally drained. I pull out my phone and the time reads 12:22. As if on queue, my stomach grumbles, signifying that it''s lunch time. I grab some ham and cheese from the fridge and some Italian bread from the bread basket. I try to ignore the mold on one of the pieces of bread while I spread on some creamy mayonnaise. I neatly place four tangy pickles on the top piece of bread and layer ham and cheese on the bottom piece. It takes me less than five minutes to devour my sandwich and I decide that now is as good a time as any to pick up my laptop from the office.


    It takes me a few minutes to choose to walk, instead of calling a cab. I need to be more dedicated to losing weight. I put on appropriate walking attire and grab some money from the shoebox in my closet. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that I haven''t used in a while. When I was 18, my mother gave me this beautiful crossbody bag, an expensive one that I''d been asking for for years. We weren''t exactly poor when I was growing up but this purse was definitely out of my mom''s price range. I''d never really worn it because I was afraid to get it dirty or to lose it. But now just seems like the perfect time to wear it. I pull it out of the closet and sling it over my body, letting the strap lay in between my boobs. I have to admit, it looks a little weird, but it makes it pretty damn hard to steal my purse.


    I shove the money into my new but old bag and transfer over some of the stuff from my overused clutch. My I.D., my debit card that has no money linked to it, my credit card and a few punch cards from different frozen yogurt places. Satisfied with my outfit and purse, I leave my apartment, locking it behind me. I trot down my front steps, with a newfound bounce in my walk. My whole life seems to be crumbling around me, but I''m in an ecstatic mood. Even though Rowan won''t talk to me and Ben still hasn''t called me back, The Washington Post asked for my number. It feels like much-needed validation of my talent as a writer.


    And now that I think about it, maybe Rowan is a part of my past that I need to leave behind. We''ve been friends for so long and she knows everything about me, but sometimes it feels like she doesn''t truly understand me. I''ve been in love with her since I met her but I know in my heart that she doesn''t feel the same way. And I don''t think she ever will. I''m lost in my thoughts about Rowan when someone or something crashes into me. To no one''s surprise, I lose my balance and fall face forward, catching myself on my hands. My bag falls off my shoulder and tumbles to the ground nearby. A voice comes from behind me, along with a gentle hand on my shoulder.


    "I''m so sorry, miss. I was looking at my phone and I didn''t even see you. Are you okay?"


    I look up at him, the gawky teenager from this morning, as he grips my shoulder harder. He helps me up and I brush myself off, flecks of gravel falling to the pavement. I instantly feel a stinging sensation coming from my hands and I turn them over to find streaks of blood patterning my palms. The boy sees them as well and he looks as if he wants to jump out of his own skin.


    "I can''t believe that I did that. I''m so sorry."


    "It''s okay. Don''t worry about it. Accidents happen."


    "No, I was being completely careless. Let me make it up to you."


    He hands me my bag and I quickly look it over, hoping that it fared the fall better than I did.


    "Seriously, it''s okay. It''s just a scrape."


    "Are you sure? I have some peroxide and bandaids at my place. I could -"


    "It''s really okay. My apartment is right around the corner. I''ll be alright."


    "Okay. Well, I''m still really sorry. Just - just let me know if there''s anything I can do."


    "I will. Thanks."


    He seems like a sweet kid but there''s something about his overwhelming hospitality that annoys me greatly. I return to my apartment and remove the key from my purse, it''s cold metal briefly soothing the sting of the cuts. That was extremely awkward and kind of the icing on the cake of a terrible string of events. But whatever. C''est la vie. I''m trying not to let things bother me and this should be the start. Once I''m in my apartment, I make my way to the kitchen and clean my wounds, trying to fend off flashbacks of last night. The burning of the rubbing alcohol brings me back to reality. I always forget how much that shit stings. After I''m all bandaged up, I decide to call a cab. I''d rather not take my chances walking again. Haha.


    I leave my apartment, for the second time, and take a seat on the first of three steps, waiting for the yellow cab to pull up. I browse through my phone and check again to see if Ben saw my message. Nope. I decide to call him, instead of waiting for him to call me. I hit the phone icon at the top of the messages window and wait as it rings and rings and rings. His voicemail jumps on the line and a part of me thinks he actually answers.


    "This is Ben. Leave a message." Beep.


    "Hey, it''s Harper. I don''t know if you saw my text or not but I really need to talk to you. Please call me back."


    I hang up just as the cab pulls in front of me. I climb inside, hoping that it isn''t the same cab driver from last time. Thank God it''s not. It only takes a few minutes for us to reach my office. After all, it''s only five miles away from my apartment. Of course, that doesn''t seem like a lot when you''re driving but imagine if I''d actually walked? Screw exercise. It''s too damn hard.


    I exit the car and ask the cabbie to wait as I enter the building. He gives me an agreeable nod and I head inside, excited to retrieve my long lost laptop. Josh is sitting, perched at his desk, as always. He''s typing away, seemingly working on something important. He doesn''t notice as I come inside and make my way over to him. He must be super into his work because he still has no idea that I''m standing here.


    "Josh!"


    He jumps out of his office chair, a look of astonishment on his face.


    "Holy shit, Torres! You scared the crap out of me!"


    "Sorry. I actually just came in to pick up my laptop. I''m so glad you found it. I''ve been looking for it everywhere."


    "Yeah, I think Michelle might''ve moved it over by the filing cabinets and then someone stacked some papers on top of it. But it looks like it was here the whole time."


    "Thanks. I really appreciate it. I was so lost without it. Haha."


    "I can imagine. I don''t know what I''d do without mine."


    There is a short pause before he picks up again.


    "Hey, did The Post ever get in contact with you?"


    "No, they haven''t called yet. I''m hoping they''ll call tomorrow."


    It feels a bit awkward talking about it with Josh. I''ve gone over it a few times in my head; you know, what I would do if they offered me a job. I know it''s The Washington Post and everything but The Bugle has been my home for years and I don''t know if I could do that to Josh. I''m still kind of mulling it over in my head. That is, if they''re even interested in employing me.


    "Josh, I -"


    "Hey, I -"


    We stumble for a moment, asking each other to continue. Inevitably, neither of us continues and there''s another long pause. I look down at the floor and I can feel his eyes on me. He speaks first.


    "I was just preparing the assignments for tomorrow. I was wondering if you wanted yours early."


    "Actually, that would be great. It''ll give me something to do while I wait for them to call."


    I realized after I said it that that was probably a little insensitive. I try to rebound.


    "Even if they offer me a job, I don''t know if I would take it."


    He looks genuinely surprised, like a carpet was pulled out from under him or something. I can read his thoughts, or at least I think I can. Who gets a job offer from The Washington Post and turns it down? He''s probably right. Most people would be insane to do something like that. But I like The Bugle and I like working with Rowan and I like routine. If I work for The Post, that means change. And I hate change.


    "I know what you''re thinking. I would have to be crazy to turn down a job offer from The Washington Post. But I love it here and you guys have been so good to me. It''s hard to think about leaving and starting new somewhere else."


    Josh doesn''t say anything. He just stares at me.


    "So, about your assignment..." He pauses. "I think you''re going to like this one."


    He does some clicking on his computer before he turns it around to show me. He waits for my reaction as my eyes run across the screen. It''s an article from The Washington Post that is dated this morning. My cheeks flush and my eyes start to water. My whole body starts to tingle and I feel light-headed. The article reads:


    Bellevue Woman Found Dead On Coal Creek Trail

 Chapter Sixteen

    I used to be a total amateur when it came to stalking and the like. It''s easy to look back at the things you did and point out your mistakes. Hindsight, right? For example, the first time I broke into Harper''s apartment. Granted, it was my first time ever breaking and entering but I made tons of mistakes. To my surprise, though, she had absolutely no idea that anyone had been there while she was at work. I was baffled when I saw her come home and act like nothing had happened. Maybe she didn''t notice or maybe she didn''t want to. But all I could see were my many mistakes.


    One of the clips on the screen in the living room window wasn''t clipped shut. I tracked in a little bit of mud on her carpet. Nothing too crazy but enough to drive a neat freak crazy. Lucky for me, Harper was not a neat freak. I left her bedroom door open, even though it was closed when I got there. The shoeboxes in her closet got mixed around while I was looking through them. Some of the drawers of her dresser were slightly ajar. In the bathroom, her toothbrush was flipped upside down and her shampoo bottle was left open.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Take each of these things by itself and they might not be noticeable. But I moved around almost everything in her apartment and she couldn''t even tell. The more I think about it, though, they weren''t really mistakes. I wanted her to see me. I wanted to get a reaction out of her. And it was frustrating that she didn''t notice. Now it''s different. I know she sees me now. After I chased her through the woods, she really started to open her eyes to what was happening. Now she knows that I exist. She can''t ignore me anymore. And now, whenever I break into her apartment, it isn''t so that she notices me. It''s to get something that I want.


    Something like her laptop.

 Chapter Seventeen

    It''s as if I''ve been hit by a bus, all the while reading the article''s headline over and over in my head. Bellevue Woman. Coal Creek Trail. Dead. I just can''t believe it. I must be showing it on my face because I think Josh is starting to catch on to my disbelief.


    "Harper, are you okay?"


    It takes me a moment to work up an answer, one that doesn''t reveal too much but that explains why I''m so freaked out.


    "Yeah, I''m okay. I was just on that trail the other day. So it kinda freaked me out."


    "Oh, sorry. I didn''t mean to scare you."


    "That''s okay. I''m fine."


    I stand up straight and compose myself before he begins talking again.


    "Are you gonna be okay to do the article?"


    Shit. The article. I need to write about it in next week''s paper. I think about it for a moment. I weigh my options. On one hand, this might actually be a great opportunity to look more into what''s been going on. On the other hand, it scares the shit out of me. Either way, I already start to feel like a detective. The intense feeling that I used to get when I was in the academy starts rushing back. It''s a feeling of unquenchable curiosity. A thirst for knowledge, to find out the truth and bring it to light. It''s the feeling of serving a purpose.


    One of the reasons that I chose to go into journalism after I dropped out was because of the amount of research that goes into each article. That and Rowan pretty much found this job for me. For us. But it''s almost as if I''m a P.I., trying to gather evidence for a case. Instead of catching the criminal, I expose them in the paper. It''s definitely not the same thing but it helped me cope for a very long time. And now I see this as a chance to get justice for myself and for that poor woman.


    "Harper?"


    "Oh, yeah, sorry. I''ll do it."


    "Are you sure?"


    "Yeah."


    "Okay. Well, I''ll send you the link to the article and just let me know if you need anything, okay?"


    "Sounds good. Thanks."


    I grab my laptop off the nearby counter and practically sprint out of the building. My heart races in my chest with equal parts excitement and terror. When I make it out to the parking lot, the cab driver is getting ready to leave. I can see the annoyed look on his face from here. I must''ve been in there a little longer than I thought I would be. I catch him just in time and hop into the cab, determined to get home and start my research. On the way, I crack open my laptop, eager to take a deeper look at the article on The Post. Unfortunately, my computer is completely dead. I slam it shut, a little too hard, in disappointment that I couldn''t do some quick research. I can still feel adrenaline coursing through my veins, almost twenty minutes after reading the headline. I check my phone. Nothing but the time. 1:37. The car comes to an abrupt stop, I hand the cabbie a small wad of cash and I casually tell him to keep the change. There is too much anticipation, too much riding on this, to count the money. His mood instantly changes from disgruntled to utterly pleased and he waves me goodbye as I scale my apartment steps.


    I swing the door open and my eyes immediately scan the living room and kitchen for my laptop charger. Of course, it''s sitting on the kitchen table, where I normally leave it. I kick the door shut with my foot as I rush over to plug in my computer. A blue light indicates that it''s charging and I sit down in front of it, waiting for it to power on. I stare at the blank, black screen, at each intricate letter on the keyboard. I sit in silence for a moment, letting my body catch up to my mind. I feel a tingling sensation all over, starting in my toes and traveling into the tips of my fingers. My body feels warm and my face hot. The adrenaline is gone but the feelings remain. Excitement. Terror. Excitement. Terror.


    I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it again. Before I even punch in my pin, I notice the text symbol on the screen. My heart leaps into my throat. Is it Rowan? I doubt it. Is it Ben? Hopefully he heard my voicemail and is checking in. I''m getting kinda worried that he''s not answering. I wonder if he''s avoiding me. But there''s no time to wonder. I get past the lock screen and click on my messages icon. My heart stops racing. It changes pace. It slows down. It''s just Josh, texting me the link to the article.


    My laptop still isn''t on. It must''ve been super dead. I turn my attention back to my phone. Let''s try Ben again. It rings and rings and rings and finally, his voicemail. Again. Time to bring in the big guns. I dial a different number instead. One that I still know by heart, but that I haven''t used in a long time. It rings and rings and on the final ring, she answers.


    "Hi Mom. It''s been a long time."


    "Hello Harper. It has been a long time. It''s so nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"


    "What, a daughter can''t just check in on her mother?"


    "Of course she can. It was just a little...unexpected."


    "Well, how have you been?"


    "I''ve been fine."


    "And Charles?"


    "Charles is fine."


    Who is Charles, you ask? Just my asshole stepdad. After my father left, we were alone for a while, just the three of us. Me, Ben and my mom. Those were the years, the golden years, the best years of my life. Then I guess she got lonely. She met some rich hedge fund manager at the country club and they''ve been together ever since. He''s always tried to take on the role of my father, Ben''s too. He, just like my mother, never approved of my decision to become a journalist. Hell, he didn''t even want me to be a police officer. He told me that a job in an office was more my speed. But that just inspired me more, pushed me more, to do something else, to be someone else than the person that he wanted me to be.


    Ben, on the other hand, quickly took to the idea of Charles being his new daddy. He lacked a father figure and Charles was the perfect replacement. After all, he and my mom doted on Ben like he was some kid genius. In fact, he wasn''t all that smart when he was a kid but now he''s filled those shoes. He is exactly who they wanted him to be. He''s successful and well-managed and has his own perfect little version of a family. And I''m living paycheck to paycheck with no friends, no family and no change in the foreseeable future. That''s why mom calls Ben a few times a week and me a few times a year. But I squashed my resentment for all this years ago, or so I thought. Ben and I are on great terms, or so I thought. Him not calling me back makes me rethink how close we really are.


    I make my way over to the bathroom while engaging in pointless small talk with my mother. I miss her and I miss the way things used to be, before she met Charles. But I don''t want her to think that I''m just calling her to check on Ben, and a part of me isn''t. Since my decision to leave the police academy, I''ve seen our relationship take a turn and change. It morphed from a symbiosis of attention and validation to a constant parasitism. She leeched every ounce of energy I have and destroyed my confidence in the process. All of the feelings of my childhood come rushing back and I feel this hatred, this animosity towards her, in this moment. So I turn back to our conversation and I wait for her to stop spewing stories about the girls at the country club or about Charles'' job. And finally, she stops.


    "So, what''s new with you, honey?"


    "Why have you never believed in me or supported me?"


    She takes a long breath, probably thinking about what I''ve just said. Or maybe it''s a sigh that says that somehow she knew I would bring this up. Maybe that''s why she never calls.


    "Harper, where is this coming from?" She replies.


    "What do you mean: ''where is this coming from''? It''s coming from my whole childhood. It''s coming from every time you''ve told me that I''m doing the wrong thing. Every time you''ve told me that I''m making the wrong decision."


    "You''re acting crazy, Harper. Why are you bringing up the past so suddenly?"


    "Because I never had the balls to tell you how I felt. And now I do. I want to know why you never supported me. When I dropped out of the academy, when I decided to become a journalist, when I moved to Washington. You never supported me in any of it and I want to know why!"


    I can feel my blood boiling under the surface of my skin. I can feel the anger rising from the bottom of my feet up to the tip of my head. I just want to scream at her and tell her how she failed me. I want her to know how terrible of a mother she''s been, how she neglected me while she was spoiling Ben. But the words just won''t come out. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I can feel the snagging in my throat, the words caught. So I wait for her to say something. I wait for an explanation to come out of her mouth. But the phone is silent on the other end. I wait and wait and wait. Nothing.


    "Mom?"


    I hear something faint on the other end but I can''t make out what it is. Is she crying? Is she laughing? Did something happen to her?


    "Mom? Are you there?"


    Still nothing. Maybe she''s waiting for me to apologize. Maybe she''s taking it all in. Maybe she just doesn''t know what to say.


    "I''m sorry. I''ve just been a little on edge lately and I definitely have some unresolved feelings that I need to talk out. I''ve been thinking about going to see a therapist. But I''m sorry that I sprang all of this on you. It''s just...you were talking about Charles and the girls at the club and it seems like you have this perfect life. And I''m glad you''re happy. I''m glad that you and Charles are happy. But I''m still not happy. I mean, when''s the last time that you called me first? It''s been a long time. And I don''t know if it''s something I did or if everything I''ve done has disappointed you. But, after all this time, I''m still just looking for your approval. I just want you to tell me that I''m doing a good job and that you''re proud of me. I don''t know. I just want...validation."


    I pause and wait for her to respond, again.


    "Well, shit, Harper. I don''t know what you want me to say."


    That is probably the last thing that I wanted to hear. There''s no validation there, no acceptance. Just more disappointment. So, I ball up my feelings and change the topic.


    "Have you heard from Ben? I''ve been trying to get a hold of him but I haven''t heard back."


    "Actually, I just talked to him earlier. He''s perfectly fine."


    Like I said, she calls him all the time, but me? Nope.


    "Good. Well, can you tell him to call me?"


    "Of course, sweetie."


    "Thanks."


    Another pause. I guess it''s my job to break the silence again.


    "Well, it was nice talking to you, mom, but I need to go. I''m writing an important article and I need to get back to it."


    "Okay. I''ll tell Ben that you asked about him and to give you a call."


    So we''re just not going to talk about it? I guess not.


    "Thanks, bye."


    And without waiting for her to say goodbye, I hang up the phone. But instead of doing what I said I was going to do and starting the article that I was so excited about, I decide to search up something else on my computer. I find myself researching therapists in the area and before I know it, there''s a name. Dr. Liza Gorran. She has glowing reviews on Google, she''s only 0.7 miles away and, most of all, she''s a "she". I thought about going with a male therapist but with these daddy issues, there''s only so much that he could help me with. Plus, I feel like it would be a little bit awkward. So I dial the number of her office, listed on Google. After a few rings, a male secretary answers the phone.


    "Dr. Gorran''s office. This is Henry. How may I help you?"


    "Hi. I would like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Gorran."


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site."Of course. And has she seen you before?"


    "No."


    "Okay. Well, I need some information before we can get you booked. What is your first and last name?"


    "Harper Torres."


    "Great. And your date of birth?"


    "August 24th, 1995."


    "And what insurance do you have?"


    "Actually, I don''t. It''ll be self-pay."


    That was sort of a lie. I do have insurance but I definitely don''t have a policy that''s good enough to cover therapy sessions. Anyway, I would probably have to see my primary doctor first and that just sounds like a lot of work.


    "Okay. Well, Dr. Gorran will be seeing you for one hour during every session and usually patients prefer to do one session per week. Each session costs $120, as long as you don''t go over your allotted time. Do you have any questions?"


    "No, that all sounds great."


    "Awesome. How soon are you looking to come in?"


    "Preferably, as soon as possible."


    "I can get you in on Tuesday at 11:00. How does that work for you?"


    "That''s perfect. Thank you so much."


    "Of course. Now, please be sure to bring a valid, government-issued I.D. and the $120 fee for your session is due at your time of arrival. You''ll need to show up about 15 minutes early to complete your paperwork. Is there anything else that I can help you with today?"


    "No, I think I''m good. Thanks again."


    "Glad to help. Have a great day, Ms. Torres."


    "You too."


    The other line clicks off before I can hit the big red button on the screen. Tuesday at 11. That''s perfect. I only have to wait 2 days and then I''ll have someone to talk to. Someone to confide in. I turn my attention to my computer, the screen still black. It must''ve timed out while I was on the phone with my mom. I move my finger frantically along the mousepad, waiting for my lock screen to appear. I pull up the notes app that I have pinned to the taskbar and I type in all of my appointment information. This app is a life-saver because, without it, I would probably forget my own head.


    Now it''s time to start doing some research for the article. I begin by bringing up the link that Josh texted me and scouring it for information. The story is eerily similar to what I experienced. The time. The place. The woman. Rachel McCormick. But there''s no information on the suspect. It seems that the police have no leads. I grab a sticky note from the clutter of office supplies on the kitchen table and make a to-do list of everything that needs to get done for this article. I know what you''re thinking. Why did I use the notes app on my computer to keep track of my appointment but then use a sticky note for my to-do list? Well, the answer is, I have no fucking idea. It''s just what works for me.


    Call Bellevue P.D., find out what detective is on the case and find out what they know


    Go to the scene to take pictures


    I think about my own version of this story. There''s no way that I could write about it in the article. I wouldn''t want to diminish this woman''s story. This woman. Who was she? I add to the list:


    Find out who Rachel McCormick was


    Was. That''s so definitive. She was alive. She was a woman. Am I going to be a "was"? Will what''s happened to Rachel happen to me? No. I won''t let it. I need to track down every bit of information about this guy. This stalker. I know this was him. The same man that was chasing me. And now I''m going to make it my life''s work to find him. Another task pops into my head.


    Go to the craft store


    If I''m going to catch this bastard, I need to see every detail of this article with my own eyes. I need a posterboard and thumbtacks and red string and index cards. I need to print out pictures and articles from news websites. I want this to look like something out of a Sherlock Holmes novel. I need every bit of information to be tangible. I can''t miss anything.


    .....


    The craft store is rather large, almost like a Costco for art supplies. It takes me what feels like forever to find what I need. Posterboard? Check. Red string? Check. Thumbtacks? Not check. Index cards? Also not check. Someone in a blue apron walks casually by me, so casually that I barely even notice. Or maybe it''s because I have so much going on in my head? Nevertheless, my social anxiety has a quiet, internal battle with my desire to solve this mystery. Well, both mysteries: who killed Rachel McCormick and where the hell are the thumbtacks?! It takes me a moment to work up the courage to ask for help.


    "Excuse me?"


    "Yes, ma''am, how may I help you?"


    "I''m looking for the thumbtacks. Do you know where they are?"


    "Aisle 16."


    "Great. Thank you so much."


    Without saying a word, without a "you''re welcome", she gives me a faint smile and makes her way towards the front of the store. Dammit. I forgot to ask her about the index cards. The intercom plays what I imagine are today''s "top hits" before it''s interrupted by an extremely loud man''s voice.


    "Becky to register 9. I repeat, Becky to register 9. Thank you."


    The intercom clicks off and the music resumes. I find myself at aisle 16. Both sides are lined with craft supplies, mostly different sized corkboards and whiteboards. Towards the end of the aisle is an entire column of thumbtacks. There are tons of different colors and sizes and shapes. I choose the cheapest ones, the most generic ones, and move on. On my way to find index cards, I pass the acrylic paints. This store is like a wonderland for artists. They have all of the most popular brands as well as some cheaper generic versions. I spot the "Liquitex" paints and strongly debate buying them. The painting supplies that I have at home are terrible and I find myself imagining what I could do with expensive supplies. But now is not the time. I have to focus on the task at hand. Rachel McCormick.


    I find myself wandering around the store, once again, until I happen upon an aisle full of binders, dividers, assorted kinds of paper and the like. I think about the shoebox full of old bank statements and I instantly become determined to organize it. I toss a large, black binder into my cart, followed by two sets of neon page dividers. Next to it, is one of those three-hole-punch things, which I definitely need. At the end of the aisle is pack after pack of paper. The choices are absolutely overwhelming. Thank God I''m not here for paper.


    I toss a college-ruled notebook into my cart, because who doesn''t need another notebook? Across the aisle are the index cards. Hallelujah. I grab three packs of the ones that have all blue lines except for the one red line at the top. I wonder why they''re like that. From there, I can spy the fire-proof safes and the lockboxes. A safe might be overkill, so I choose a simple metal lockbox that comes with it''s own set of keys. This will be perfect for my cash and my most important documents, like my birth certificate and my social security card.


    Satisfied with what''s in my cart, I wait in the checkout line, wondering how many people actually work in this store. It''s almost like Walmart. You pass dozens of workers while you''re shopping, but when you get to the register, there''s only one lane open. God, is it frustrating. Customer after customer rings up their cart full of goodies. The cashier stands behind a counter, chewing gum and rolling her eyes. If she would just hurry up, I could get out of here and start my research.


    From under my shirt, my stomach grumbles. It must be almost dinner time. I pull my phone from my back pocket. 4:34. It''s as if my body forgot that I ate lunch four hours ago. While I wait, I ponder what I''ll have for dinner. I had takeout the last two nights. Maybe I should actually go to the grocery store. Lucky for me, it''s on my way home.


    Finally I''m all checked out and I decide to call a cab to the supermarket. There''s no way I can carry all these bags and the ones that I''m about to buy as well. I stare at my phone for the few minutes that it takes for the cab to pull up. I''m still absolutely fascinated by the number of apps that you can download. I know I''m a little late to the game but it''s incredible.


    I climb in the car and, you guessed it, take out my phone again. I scroll through the hundreds of apps that I''ve downloaded on a whim and decide to sort them into folders. We have "Games", "Finance", "Social Media" and then a "Random" folder for the apps that don''t quite fit any of those categories. Also, I probably deleted about half of what I''d had before. Not sure why I downloaded them in the first place.


    I tap on the "Social Media" folder and browse my many options. I''m still not sure if I even want to participate in whatever Facebook and Instagram have to offer. I''ve always thought of it as a breach of one''s privacy. On the other hand, you do control what content is available to the public. I''ve just never been that person that needs the world to see what my life is like. I don''t really go on fancy vacations or do anything interesting enough to post pictures of. The only thing that comes to mind is my art and even so, I''m not sure that it''s good enough. But maybe I''m thinking too much into it. Maybe that''s not what social media is about.


    Before I can make a decision, the cab comes to a halt in front of Safeway. I debate asking him to wait for me but they leave the meter running the whole time, you know. It''s kind of a ripoff. So I pay my fare, grab my bags and watch him drive off as I enter the grocery store. I''ve never done it before but I have to say, it''s weird to walk into a store with full bags. Nonetheless, I grab a cart, throw my bags inside and make a beeline for the frozen aisle. I know exactly what I want for dinner and I know exactly where to find it. "Salisbury Steak Hungry Man". It was always my favorite frozen dinner when I was growing up and it still is, to this day.


    I grab three out of the chilly cooler and rush to the register, eager to get home. As I''m checking out, I call another cab. Hopefully it''ll be there by the time I get out of the store. It takes me less than five minutes to scan my food at the touch screen POS system. Self checkout is always much quicker and I don''t have to talk to anyone. Social anxiety 101.


    Lucky for me, the cab is waiting and surprisingly, it''s the same guy from earlier. Not the one that just dropped me off but the guy that drove me to work this morning. I can see a look of excitement and annoyance on his face. His eyebrows say it all. But I climb in and a few minutes later I''m home. With all of my bags in tow, it takes me longer than usual to unlock my front door. Just before I get the last key in the last lock, one of the bags breaks, scattering push pins all over the stairs and pavement. I stand there for a moment, holding my breath, trying to keep myself from screaming. When will I catch a break? I finally get the door unlocked and I throw everything on the kitchen table.


    After almost twenty minutes of picking up multi-colored thumb tacks, I''m in my apartment with the door locked and I can finally take a breath. I stand in my living room, with my eyes closed, and focus on my breathing. That was quite the debacle. I put two of the frozen dinners in the freezer and pop the other one in the microwave. I proceed to unpack everything I bought at the craft store, spreading everything out on my coffee table. The couch is definitely going to be the most comfortable spot to do my research. From the nearby microwave, I can hear the salisbury steak sizzle and pop. The savory aroma makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I''m starving.


    By the time the microwave dings, I have all of my supplies laid out, including the lockbox. Looking at the binder, I feel a sense of excitement. I''ve always loved being organized and the thought of that cluttered shoebox of papers has bothered me since I moved in. I grab my to-do list and cross off "go to the craft store". I love the sense of accomplishment that comes with completing stuff like this. That''s probably the only reason I even make lists. That and if I didn''t, I would probably forget everything two minutes later.


    I practically sprint into the kitchen, grabbing a fork out of the drawer and my food out of the microwave. With my laptop perched on the kitchen table, I scarf down my food and start researching the article that Josh sent me. Finally. I pull up Google, which is always my best friend when I write. I mean, obviously you need to verify your sources, and never use Wikipedia, but that''s just common sense. I begin by typing the victim''s name into the search bar. "Rachel McCormick". I can''t imagine how many Rachel McCormick''s there were in the world. I''m guessing a ton. But I scroll through the Google entry anyway, looking for valuable information, before I narrow down my search. "Rachel McCormick Bellevue, Washington". That definitely refined things a bit. We''ve got a few news articles, some blogs and countless Facebook profiles. I narrow down my search again. "Rachel McCormick Coal Creek Trail murder".


    The first entry is the article that Josh sent me. Of course I''m already familiar with it. And unfortunately, it didn''t contain a picture of Rachel. I found that a little weird, considering the article was written by The Post. The next few entries are articles from smaller, local newspapers and I read through them, hoping to find more information than what was written in The Post. But, alas, all of these editorials seem to be dumbed down versions of the one Josh sent me.


    So I continue my search. At the bottom of the first page of entries is another news article, but this one is from the nineties. There was another murder on the Coal Creek Trail in January of 1993. Creepy. I click it and read to see if there are any similarities to what happened to Rachel. From what I could tell, it wasn''t related but there was something about it that gave me an eerie feeling. Maybe it''s because they never found the murderer. Maybe it''s because the girl in the picture kinda looks like me. Whatever it is, I feel like this isn''t the last time I''ll be reading it. I download it onto my computer for safekeeping until I need it again and I print it to add to my Coal Creek Murder board.


    Back to Google. The third entry is an obituary. I click on it, hoping that it''ll be the Rachel McCormick that I''m looking for. Hopefully it''ll contain some information that''ll be useful in my article. The page boasts a picture of a beautiful young woman. She looks to be about my age. She has brown hair, about the same length as mine. She''s slightly heavy-set, just like me. Her eyes are a greyish blue color, kinda like mine. And then the wheels begin to turn in my head. I quickly pull up the most recent picture that I have of myself on my computer and I put the photos side by side. It takes me a minute to compare the minor details but then it dawns on me.


    Rachel McCormick looks almost exactly like me.