Chapter 3

The next day was the weekend, and Zoe wasted no time. She came back with a tiny camera disguised as a small motion-sensor night light and mounted it on the wall just outside my door.

The lens pointed straight down the hallway toward the elevator — the only way in — and it had a clear view of her front door too.

"Done!" Zoe dusted off her hands, a gleam of revenge flickering in her eyes. "If he ever dares bring that woman back here, or comes near you again, I'll make sure he regrets every second of it."

The next few days were surprisingly quiet.

The man in the black trench coat didn't show up again.

Every evening when I got home from work, I'd glance at the little night light on the wall out of habit, and it made me feel just a little bit safer.

Zoe started coming over a lot too.

We'd order takeout together, vent about our insufferable bosses, and go on long rants about terrible men in general.

I was amazed by how well we clicked.

We both loved extra-cheese pizza, we were both allergic to mango, and we even had the exact same taste in movies — we were both obsessed with twisty, mind-bending psychological thrillers.

"Abby, I feel like we're long-lost sisters," Zoe said one evening, a little tipsy on red wine, sinking back into the couch with a dreamy look on her face.

I smiled. "Yeah. Me too."

In a city where I barely knew anyone, finding a friend who just got me — that felt like real luck.

But the quiet didn't last.

On the fifth night, I worked late and didn't get home until ten.

The moment I stepped off the elevator, something felt off about the hallway.

It was too still.

Even the faint sound of a TV from next door — something I'd gotten used to hearing — was gone.

I slowed my steps and tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my bag.

As I reached my door, I glanced instinctively at Zoe's place.

No light coming from under the door.

Was she out? Already asleep?

I pulled out my keys — and then I heard it.

A sound. Coming from inside my apartment.

A soft rustling. Like someone moving things around.

Every drop of blood in my body went cold.

Someone was in there.

The first face that flashed through my mind was his — the creep in the black trench coat.

How did he get in? Does he have a key to my apartment?

I didn't rush to open the door. Instead, I tiptoed back to the elevator lobby and dialed 911.

"Hello? I think someone broke into my apartment. Yes, I'm outside right now. I'm too scared to go in..."

I hung up and stood there, eyes locked on my front door, heart hammering in my chest.

About ten minutes later, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

Two officers stepped out — the same two from last time.

"Madam, what's going on?" the tall one asked.

"I heard noises coming from inside. Someone's in there, I know it!" I pointed at the door, my voice shaking.

The officers exchanged a glance and motioned for me to step aside.

The tall officer drew his baton and approached the door carefully, reaching out to try the handle.

It wasn't locked.

My stomach dropped. I was sure I'd deadbolted it when I left this morning. I was absolutely sure.

The officer shoved the door open and rushed in.

"Police! Don't move!"

I followed behind them, peering in from the doorway.

The living room was empty.

The bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom — they swept every corner. Nothing.

"Madam, are you certain you heard something?" The tall officer put his baton away and looked at me with a furrowed brow.

"Yes, I'm certain! There was definitely a sound!" I was getting frantic. I pointed at the coffee table, which was clearly out of order. "Look — it wasn't like this when I left. Someone moved these magazines."

The officers walked over to check, then examined the windows.

"Windows are locked from the inside. No sign of forced entry on the door either." The tall officer let out a slow breath. "Madam, have you been under a lot of stress lately? Sometimes when people are exhausted, they—"

"No. I heard it. I know what I heard." There was nothing I could say to make them believe me.

After they left, I sat alone on the couch, staring at the empty apartment, a cold unease creeping under my skin.

Someone had been in here. I was sure of it.

The air still carried a faint trace of cigarette smoke — and something else. Something sharp and clean that I couldn't quite name.

It was him. That creep. It had to be.

Then it hit me — the security camera outside my door.

Of course. The camera must have caught something.

I grabbed my phone and called Zoe.

"Sorry, the number you have dialed is unavailable..."

What? Why was her phone off?

I went next door and knocked hard.

No answer.

A wave of unease washed over me, deep and unsettling.