desertion

119

LYDIA

The cold night air bites at my skin, but I barely notice. My hands won't stop shaking. I grip the edges of my sleeves, trying to steady them, but it's no use.

The flashing red and blue lights outside the Wilson residence cast eerie shadows across the yard. Miles stands beside me, his arm brushing against mine, but neither of us speaks. Nathaniel is pacing a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

The police officers are standing by one of their cars, talking in hushed tones. I keep glancing over at them, trying to make out what they're saying, but it's no use. Their words are muffled, drowned out by the pounding in my ears.

He was in the house.

That thought loops in my head like a broken record, each repetition making me feel sicker. My stomach churns, and I press a hand against it, trying to calm the unease.

I wasn't crazy.

I wasn't imagining things when I heard my name that night.

I close my eyes, the memory rushing back like a flood. The faint whisper of my name, the way it sent chills down my spine, the moment I thought I was losing my grip on reality.

But I wasn't insane.

I was logical.

A sharp voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. One of the officers is motioning toward us, and Miles nudges me gently.

"They found a lot of evidence on him," Miles murmurs, his voice quiet but steady.

My eyes dart to the man sitting in the back of the police car. His head is down, his hands cuffed behind his back. He looks... ordinary. Too ordinary. He's wearing a gray hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly messy. If I'd passed him on the street, I wouldn't have given him a second glance.

But he was in the house.

My house.

"What... what did he want with me?" I manage to ask, my voice shaky.

One of the officers steps closer, his expression neutral but firm. "We're still investigating," he says. "We're going to question him and try to get some answers."

The officer's tone is professional, but it doesn't do much to ease the knot in my chest.

Miles stiffens beside me. "But you think he's the stalker?" he asks, his voice sharper now.

The officer nods. "We believe so, yes. The evidence we've collected so far points to him."

I exhale slowly, relief washing over me in a wave. They got him.

The stalker.

The person who's been tormenting me-us-for weeks. The person who's been watching, waiting, leaving cryptic messages and terrorizing my every waking moment.

He's caught.

But then another thought creeps in, unwelcome and chilling.

He was in the house.

I glance back at the man in the police car, and the relief I felt moments ago starts to fade, replaced by a deep, unsettling feeling. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't even lift his head.

He had been in the house.

I wrap my arms around myself, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sweater. I can't stop imagining it. Him walking through the rooms, touching things, leaving evidence behind.

What if I hadn't woken up that night? What if I hadn't heard him?

What if he had come into the room?

A shiver runs down my spine, and I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away.

"I wasn't crazy," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

Miles turns to me, his eyes soft but filled with concern. "What?"

"I wasn't crazy," I repeat, louder this time. I look at him, my voice growing steadier. "When I said I heard my name. When I thought someone was in the house. I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't insane."

Miles's expression shifts, a mixture of sadness and anger. "You were never crazy, Lydia. You knew something was wrong. You always knew."

I nod, but the unease lingers.

The officers begin packing up, loading evidence into their vehicles. One of them approaches us again, offering a few words of reassurance, but I barely register them. My mind is still stuck on the fact that he was in the house.

And then, another chilling thought hits me.

Was he working alone?

I glance back at the man in the car, trying to read him, but there's nothing. No answers. Just silence.

Miles notices my tension and places a hand on my arm. "Hey," he says softly, "it's over. They got him. You're safe now."

I want to believe him. I want to take comfort in his words, to feel the weight lift from my shoulders. But something inside me refuses to let go of the fear.

What if it's not over?

What if this is just the beginning?

I look at Miles, forcing a small smile. "Yeah," I say, even though the word feels hollow. "I'm safe."

But deep down, I'm not sure if I'll ever feel safe again.