Page 5 of Psychotic Faith
My legs feel disconnected from my body as I move closer. The photo is crisp, perfectly framed. Me at the coffee shop yesterday morning, laughing at something Sarah said. The angle suggests he was across the street, maybe on the second floor of the building opposite. Far enough to stay hidden. Close enough to capture the exact moment my head tilted back.
I should call the police. That's what normal people do when they realize someone broke into their home. My phone is in my hand before I register picking it up, but my thumb hovers over the keypad.
What would I tell them? Someone left a photo on my pillow? Nothing's missing. No threat. No damage. They'd file a report, tell me to change my locks, maybe dust for prints that won't exist because someone this careful wore gloves.
The picture draws me back. I flip it over with trembling fingers. On the back, in neat block letters: 'PROTECTED.'
Not "watch yourself" or "I'm watching you" or any of the threatening phrases I'd expect from someone who breaks into women's apartments. Protected.
I sink onto my bed, Polaroid in my lap, trying to process what this means. The blanket beneath me is smooth, properly spread when I know I kicked it off in the night like always. Someone fixed it. Someone covered me properly while I slept.
The knife. The thought hits me suddenly. I keep a knife under my pillow—a dull thing I bought at a garage sale that wouldn't cut butter but makes me feel safer. My hand flies beneath the pillow and pulls it out.
The blade gleams, professionally sharpened to a wicked edge.
My stomach turns over. Someone knew about my pathetic knife. Someone made it lethal. Someone who writes "protected" and means it.
I'm going to be late for work.
The morning rush at the coffee shop three blocks from my apartment moves with its usual chaotic rhythm, the familiar sounds of steam and chatter doing nothing to calm my racing thoughts. I keep touching the photo in my pocket, making sure it's real, that I didn't imagine the whole thing.
"The usual?" Cheryl asks when I reach the front of the coffee shop line. She's new, started last week, efficiently working the register while the morning rush builds behind me.
"Yes, but—where's Tony?" I glance around the familiar space. He's worked the morning shift for two years, always here with uncomfortable compliments about my "sexy librarian" look and fingers that linger too long when giving change.
"Called in sick." Cheryl's already ringing up my order. "Or that's what the manager said. Seemed pretty annoyed about it."
"Oh." I accept my change—Cheryl's touch brief and professional—and move to wait for my drink. Tony never calls in sick. He's bragged about his perfect attendance, usually while standing too close, coffee breath warm on my face.
The library feels like sanctuary after my unsettled morning. I retreat to my usual spot—the legal reference section I convincedthe board to expand three years ago. Most days I tell myself it's for community access, but really I need these resources. Federal Rules of Evidence, Illinois Criminal Code, case law dating back decades. All that time teaching myself what lawyers learn in three years of school. I lose myself in the familiar routine: checking in returns, helping Mrs.Canto find the next book in her mystery series, preparing for story time. The children don't care that someone was in my apartment last night. They just want to hear about dragons.
"And the dragon spread his mighty wings," I read, showing them the illustration, "protecting the village from the storm."
Protected. The word catches in my throat.
"Miss Faith, why did the dragon protect them?" A little girl named Lucy asks. "Dragons are supposed to be scary."
"Sometimes scary things can protect us too," I hear myself say. "Sometimes they're exactly what keeps us safe."
I head outside after story time and find it. The sparrow lies on the library's back steps, its wing bent at an unnatural angle, chest fluttering in rapid, painful breaths. Blood seeps through brown feathers, probably from a cat attack.
I set down my stack of returns and crouch beside it. The bird's eye fixes on me, black and glossy with pain.
"Miss Faith?"
I turn to find Emma, one of my regular seven-year-olds, peering around the door. Her face crumples when she sees the bird.
"Oh no! We have to help it! We can take it to the vet, right? My mom took our hamster when—"
"Come here, sweetheart." I keep my voice gentle, drawing her closer. The bird shudders, its breathing more labored. "See how its wing is broken? And this blood here?"
She nods, tears welling.
"Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is stop the hurting." I cup the bird in my palms, feeling its tiny heartbeat racing against my skin. "Why don't you go inside and pick out tomorrow's story? I'll take care of our little friend."
"But maybe—"
"Emma." I meet her eyes steadily. "Trust me."
