The black SUV doesn’t leave.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That it’s just a car. Maybe someone’s waiting for a friend or making a delivery. But deep down, I know better.
For three days, it shows up near the diner. Not always in the same place, but always close enough to see me. Sometimes across the street, sometimes down the block. It never stays long, never parks for more than an hour. But it’s there. Watching.
I try not to look, not to draw attention. But I can feel it — the weight of someone’s gaze, the pull of something familiar and wrong all at once.
Every instinct in me screams to run.
At night, I keep the curtains closed. I barely sleep. I check the locks again and again.
Once, just before midnight, I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my apartment. Slow. Heavy. They stop in
