Page 18 of The Landlord
"Jesus Christ." Damien runs a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Because I didn't want to sound paranoid! Because women get told they're overreacting all the time!" My voice rises with each word. "Because maybe I just wanted to believe people are decent!"
The silence that follows feels heavy. Doug whines softly, pressing against my leg.
"Do you want to open it?" Damien asks finally, nodding at the package.
"No. I don't want whatever's in there."
"We should call the police."
"And tell them what? That I got a package from someone who might be a fan or might be a stalker? That he looked at me funny?" I laugh, but it comes out brittle. "They'll tell me to come back when something actually happens."
Damien props his hands on his hips and glares at the box. "Something is happening. Right now. This guy knows where you live, Alyssa."
The thought makes my skin crawl. I think of all the videos I've posted, showing snippets of my apartment, my life, my work. How much information have I unknowingly given away?
"I need some air." I grab Doug's leash from the hook by the door. "I'm going to take him for a walk."
"I'll come with you."
"No. Please, Damian? I just need a minute, okay? Just around the block. Doug will protect me. Besides, he's probably left already."
We both look down at the tiny chihuahua, who tilts his head as if accepting this important mission.
"That's not funny, Alyssa."
"I know it's not. But I need to clear my head." I clip the leash to Doug's collar. "Ten minutes, that's all. Then we can figure this out."
Damien's expression darkens, but he steps back. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming to find you after five."
The hallway feels longer than usual as I make my way to the elevator, Doug trotting beside me. My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Damien already texting to check on me—but Iignore it. I need these few minutes alone to process everything. I'm too wired up to think logically. My anxiety bubbles to the surface, and my heart hammers in my chest.
I just need a few minutes of fresh air. One or two then I'm coming back inside.
Outside, Doug pulls eagerly on his leash, happy for the unexpected walk. I let him lead, my thoughts swirling with possibilities, each one worse than the last.
What if Damien's right? What if someone is watching me? Following me? Social media stalkers aren't exactly unheard-of, and I've been online enough to know how many content creators had to deal with crazy fans. It's way more common than people think.
I just never thought I would be one of them.
Doug stops to sniff at a fire hydrant, giving me a moment to scan the quiet street. Nothing seems out of place. No one is watching from parked cars or lurking in the shadows. Just normal people going about their evening.
I'm overreacting. That's all this is.
Then I see him.
Standing half a block away, near the entrance to our building. A man in dark clothes, staring directly at me. Even from this distance, I can tell it's the same person Damien confronted—the fake delivery man.
My heart doesn't just stutter—it slams against my ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape. The sound of my pulse fills my ears, drowning out everything else until it's just a roaring rush ofwhite noise. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark and fuzzy, until all I can see is his face.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
My hands start trembling first, then the shaking spreads up my arms and down through my legs until I'm not sure I can stay upright. Every breath feels too shallow, like I'm trying to breathe through a straw, and my chest tightens because I can't get enough air into my lungs.
The rational part of my brain—the tiny corner that isn't screaming in panic—tries to catalog escape routes. The building entrance is behind him. The street is empty. No one else around. My phone is in my pocket, but my hands are shaking too badly to even think about reaching for it.
He smiles when our eyes meet, and it's the wrongness of that smile that freezes me in place. It's too familiar, too intimate.
