To my relief, none of them do.
I’m starting to get tired when I turn for home. I don’t like to go particularly hard on my runs. I don’t need to. It’s not like I’mtraining for a marathon or anything. When I’m running, I like to take it easy.
Plus, I always end up having to weave through the streets on my way home in case I’m being followed, which adds extra mileage. The last thing I want is for anyone to find out where I live. Every time that’s ever happened, it’s gone badly.
Today, my luck seems to be holding, so I decide to take the easy, shorter route back through town. At least that’s what I think, until there’s a pause for a handful of seconds in my music as the song changes and I hear the footsteps and theclickandwhirof a camera shutter.
The undeniable sounds of a stalker.
I turn to look over my shoulder, and my fears are confirmed as I see a guy dart behind a corner, making himself look infinitely more suspicious. I don’t know why they think trying to hide is a good idea.
Hoping to lose him before he comes back out of his hiding spot, I take a sharp left and make my way through the maze of LA’s back alleys. If I can make it home, then I can relax.
Every so often I look over my shoulder again, heart pounding. For a while, it seems like I’ve lost him, but as I turn onto my street, he re-emerges, camera in hand, hood pulled over his head like he’s trying not to be seen.
“Hey!” I yell. “Yeah, you! Back off, will you?”
The guy looks left and right like he wants to pretend he’s innocent, before deciding it’s best to come clean. He throws up his hands as if in mock surrender, though his tone isn’t one of someone who’s apologetic. “Hey, man, everything’s cool, yeah?”
I suck a harsh breath through my teeth and march over to him. “Look, I’ll give you one shot for free, okay? I’m here. You can have me. But then walk away, all right? Before I have to get the cops involved.”
His smile is languid and false, reminding me of a serpent or some other trickster. Definitely not something trustworthy. But I keep to my word, so I slowly unwrap my scarf and grimace while he takes his picture, that too-familiar sound of the shutter snapping echoing down the road. Then I glare at him until he gets the message that I’m being serious.
“Thanks a bunch,” he grins, then saunters off down the street.
I wait maybe ten minutes, stretching on the spot to make sure he’s really gone. When I’m satisfied he’s not coming back, I run over to the apartment and let myself in. I rush to the elevator, slamming my fingers on the button to make the door close faster. All I want to do is go home. All I want to do is take a hot shower and pretend that I am a normal person.
I get out on my floor, run over to my front door, cover the keypad as I enter my code, and slam the door shut behind me. Finally.
Safety at last.
I head through to my bedroom where I strip off my sweaty shirt and put on something clean. Then I head for the bathroom and turn on the shower. The water pressure in this building is wonderful, though I think being on the second floor helps. Usually, I don’t like being so close to the ground, but I get a beautiful view of the sea from here, and it is good not to have to go up so many stairs.
I’m about to take my shirt off again when I hear my balcony door rattling. Every muscle in my body tenses as I freeze. It could justbe the wind. The door rattles sometimes in the wind. It wakes me up in the night, sometimes.
But I won’t be happy until I check. “It’s just the wind,” I mutter to myself, “It’s just the wind.”
The photographer and I both yell in surprise when I see him slipping into my apartment.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I cry.
“I can explain,” he drawls. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
“I live here! How did you get my address?”
He shrugs. “Addresses are easy to get when you know how. Say, why don’t I go, and we’ll call it good?”
He says it like it’s nothing, but as he takes a step toward me, I can’t help but react. “Don’t come any closer!” I yell. “I’ll… I’ll… I have a weapon!”
I reach into my pocket as if to pretend I’m concealing something, and the invader stumbles backward, real fear in his eyes as he topples over to the floor. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Before I let him say another word, I fumble for my phone in my pocket and dial the police. “I’ve had a home intrusion,” I say, giving my address. “Come right now. Please. My name is Jacob Ford.”
Even the person who picked up the phone changes their tone immediately when I announce myself. They become almost reverent, like they want to bow. I don’t need reverence right now.
I need help.
Minutes later, three officers knock urgently on my door. I let them in and point at the intruder. “This guy broke into my home.”
