Chapter 1

I was stalked by a creep for two straight weeks.

He wore a black trench coat, haunting me like a ghost that refused to disappear.

To protect myself, I set a trap in the underground parking garage, blasted him in the face with high-concentration pepper spray, and called the police.

I thought the nightmare was over — until a woman moved in next door.

She told me with red-rimmed eyes that the creep was actually her cheating husband.

I believed her. We formed an alliance and installed a hidden camera in the hallway to catch his mistress.

But when the footage came out, I was horrified to discover that the "mistress" in the video — the one acting strangely, talking to thin air — was me.

And the man I'd been treating like a stalker, the one I'd hurt over and over again, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and said, "Abby... I'm your husband..."

The lights in the underground parking garage always flickered.

Click. Click. Click.

There was another sound beneath my footsteps.

Soft. Heavy. Keeping a steady distance of about thirty feet behind me.

I didn't need to turn around to know — the creep was back.

This was the fifth time this month.

He always wore a long black trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low, half his face swallowed by shadow.

Every time I came home after a late shift, he'd appear like a ghost on the only path back to my apartment.

I tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my pocket. My palm was slick with sweat.

The elevator bay was just ahead. If I could make it inside and hit the close button, I'd be safe.

I took a deep breath and broke into a run.

The footsteps behind me sped up too.

I practically threw myself into the elevator bay, jabbing the up button over and over.

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped in, spun around, and reached for the close button.

Just as the doors were about to shut, a large hand shoved through the gap.

The sensors caught it. The doors bounced back open.

The man in the black trench coat stood in the doorway, his chest heaving.

He lifted his head. Beneath the brim of his cap were a pair of eyes shot through with red.

"Abby..." His voice was hoarse, edged with a desperation that made my skin crawl.

He knew my name.

My scalp went cold. Every ounce of fear I'd been holding back exploded into raw, instinctive rage.

"Stay away from me, you freak!"

I yanked out the pepper spray and drove my thumb down on the trigger, aiming straight at his face.

A concentrated blast hit him dead-on.

"Ahhh—"

He let out a cry of pain, both hands flying to his eyes. He stumbled backward and slammed hard into the wall behind him.

I hammered the close button.

The doors finally shut, cutting off the sight of him writhing in the hallway.

I pressed my back against the elevator wall, gasping, my whole body shaking.

The moment I got home, I deadbolted the door and called 911.

The police arrived quickly.

Two young officers swept through the garage and came up empty.

"Ma'am, we pulled the garage footage," the taller one told me, "but that spot is a blind zone for the cameras. Don't worry though — we'll increase patrols in the area. If you see him again, call us right away."

I nodded, but the unease didn't leave me.

The way that man had looked at me was strange.

Not leering. Not predatory. It was something else entirely — complicated, pained, almost desperate. Like he was suffering.

I wasn't buying it. A creep is a creep.

I poured myself a cup of hot tea and forced myself to breathe.

Then the doorbell rang.

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the mug.

Through the peephole, I saw a woman standing in the hallway.