Intercepted by my stalker

The cab ride back is awkward as hell. The driver keeps glancing at me in the mirror like he’s waiting for me to start talking, like maybe I’m about to spill my life story or confess I’m on the run from the cops. I just stare out the window and will him to focus on the damn road. My mind’s a mess anyway — headlights that may or may not have been tailing me, Officer Bennett’s cryptic warnings, and this sinking feeling that I’m in way over my head.

When we finally pull up to my building, I practically throw cash at him and slide out of the cab. The air is cold enough to bite, and I tug my jacket tight, wanting nothing more than to get inside, lock the door, and maybe sleep for a week. But of course, the universe isn’t done screwing with me tonight.

Because that’s when I see him.

Some guy steps out from the shadows near the entrance like he’s been waiting. He’s tall, broad, dressed like he belongs in some fancy spy movie — dark coat, neat clothes, the whole broody vibe dialed up to eleven. And then there’s his face: sharp features, cold blue eyes that pin me in place like he’s already inside my head.

“Miss Thalia?” he says, his voice smooth as silk, with a British accent that would probably be sexy if I wasn’t busy trying not to panic.

My heart leaps to my throat, but I **** myself to stand my ground. “What do you want?”

He lifts a hand, all calm and polite like I’m some stray dog he’s afraid of spooking. “There’s no need for alarm. I only want to speak with you. Just a few questions.”

Yeah, sure. Where have I heard that before? My gaze darts toward the entrance. Maybe if I bolt, I can make it inside before he does anything weird. But something about him — the way he’s watching me, not just looking but assessing — tells me he’d be faster. And then it clicks. Monica. The Brit guy who asked her about that missing girl. Shit. Is this him?

“Look, I don’t know you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You need to back off.”

But he doesn’t. If anything, he seems even more solid in my path, like the human equivalent of a locked door. “My name is Ethan. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of a young woman. And also a man — Trevor Jordan.”

The name slams into me like a punch to the ribs. I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His lips twitch, just a flicker, like he finds that mildly amusing. “I think you do.”

God, he’s intense. There’s something cold about him, not threatening exactly, but... calculating. Like he’s already ten steps ahead of me in whatever game he thinks we’re playing.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” I say, folding my arms tight across my chest. “You say you're a PI? Prove it.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “I don’t carry identification for situations like this. It would only slow me down.”

Oh, that’s convenient.

I shift, trying to edge past him, but he moves with me — not in a threatening way, just... there. Blocking the path. “Please,” he says, voice low but firm, that accent making everything sound way too reasonable. “You’re in danger whether you realize it or not. The truth matters. What you saw matters and could help save lives.”

I should tell him to get lost. I should run inside, lock the door, forget this ever happened. But the thing is... I do want answers. I’m so damn tired of stumbling in the dark, and maybe this guy knows more than Officer Bennett.

I let out a breath, sharp and shaky. “Alright then. Ask.”

His eyes steady, serious meet mine. “Ok. Could you please recount the events from the night you last saw Trevor Jordan as best as you can?"

This guy doesn't beat around the bush. I nod slowly with arms wrapped tight around myself, as if that’ll keep the cold—or the anxiety—out. I start talking about the same horror for third time and he doesn’t rush me. Instead, he just watches, patient as a spider, drawing it out in careful pieces. The bar. Trevor. The alley. How he grabbed me. How someone else showed up.

When I mention how Trevor was thrown—launched, really—like a ragdoll, Ethan leans forward slightly. That’s the first real reaction I get.

“You’re sure it happened like that?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

"Yes, it happened like that, I wasn't imagining some bullshit and I wasn't high, ok?" I groan, clearly annoyed by everyone stumbling with this detail.

"Ok," he simply continues. "Was he armed, perhaps?"

I shake my head. “No gun or knife. Just... hands. But it wasn’t normal. No one moves like that.”

He doesn’t speak, just nods slowly, like that lines up with something in his head.

“I didn’t see the guy’s face,” I add. “Not really. Just—he was about my height. And calm. Like none of it fazed him. Like it was routine.”

At that, Ethan gives a faint, unreadable smile. “Routine. That’s one word for it.”

I narrow my eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

He hesitates for a moment, like weighing how much rope to give me. “It means what you saw wasn’t random. You were also lucky it was him and not her. Usually, that kind of encounter doesn’t end well for hum- uhm, normal people.”

My stomach knots. “Uh huh. So that's happened to Trevor? It didn't end well for him?”

Ethan's jaw tenses slightly, his eyes cold. “He didn’t walk away, if that’s what you’re asking.”

"Yeah, but how exactly did he kill him? Cause' Officer Bennett told me-"

"She told you what she taught was best to keep you away from this case," he interrupts me. "All that is certain is that the man who saved you, ended Trevor's life."

The way he says it—calm, clinical, like **** is just a thing that happens—makes something twist in my chest.

“You talk like this is normal,” I say. “Like it happens all the time.”

He shrugs faintly. “More often than people care to believe. Or admit.”

“And what? The cops just ignore it?”

“They don’t know how to see it. Or, as you yourself experienced it, they see it and pretend they didn’t.”

I shake my head, heart pounding. “So why are you telling me this? Why are you even here?”

He gives me a long look, something unreadable behind his eyes. “Because you saw too much. And whether you like it or not, that puts you in the middle of something... complicated.”

“I don’t want to be in the middle of anything,” I snap. “I just want to understand what the hell happened.”

“Understanding is overrated,” he says, then adds more gently, “Look, Miss Thalia, I’m not trying to frighten you. But this isn’t the sort of thing you can Google your way out of. There are forces at work you can’t begin to comprehend. Most people never notice. You did.”

“Wow, what a revelation," I fail too keep my sarcasm at bay. "And what do you expect me to do with this hard earned knowledge?”

He tilts his head. “Nothing. I expect you to keep your head down. Stay inside after dark. And if you see anything or anyone that doesn’t feel right, trust your instincts and walk the other way. That’s the best advice you’ll get.”

Something about the way he says it makes me bristle. “That’s it? Don’t go outside? Seriously?”

He starts to turn away, the conversation apparently over.

But something sticks in my head. One word.

“You said earlier—her. You said I was lucky I ran into that guy, and not... her. Who were you talking about?”

He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk, back still to me. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never meet her.”

Then he glances back over his shoulder, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my blood run cold.

“But if you’re unlucky... she’s already watching.”

And then he’s gone—just like that—melting into the night like he’d never been there at all.

I stand there a few moments, a bazillion of questions I never got to ask popping in my head, unanswered. Well that was pretty much useless, I conclude as I enter the building.

Ethan. Whoever the hell he really is.

A private investigator? Sure. Maybe. But if he is, he’s the weirdest damn PI I’ve ever met. He didn’t actually tell me anything, not really. Nothing Officer Bennett hadn’t already hinted at—shadowy forces, things I shouldn’t understand, people I shouldn’t trust. It’s like they’re all reading from the same cryptic script.

But the way Ethan said it… “There are forces at work you can’t begin to comprehend.” That look in his eyes when I said the stranger threw Trevor like he weighed nothing. Like it wasn’t even surprising.

I reach my door, keys cold in my hand, and I hesitate before unlocking it.

The thing is, if I really try to **** this into a rational shape, I can. Some terrifying criminal group running the streets at night, bribing or threatening the police, doing God knows what to people like Trevor. Maybe they're dealing some new fucked up ****, making people go berserk? Maybe that’s what Ethan meant. Maybe it’s all just some violent underground empire I got too close to, and now I’m on a list. That would be scary enough, wouldn’t it?

Except my gut keeps twisting when I try to settle on that explanation.

Something doesn’t add up. Not the way Trevor flew through the air. Not the way the man moved, or looked at me like I wasn’t just some eyewitness—but like I was interesting. I’ve never felt anything like that in my life, and no mobster explains it.

And now Ethan’s advice is the same as what he told Monica: Don’t go out after dark.

My chest tightens. I think about calling Monica. Telling her everything. But she’d just chew me out for digging into this mess in the first place. She doesn’t trust Officer Bennett and would probably peg Ethan as a lunatic on the spot.

Or worse—she’d believe me. She’d freak out and start panicking every time the sun dipped below the horizon. She’d lock her doors at six and never step outside again. Spend every night jumpy, twitching at every sound.

No. I can’t do that to her. Not until I know more. If I ever do know more.

For now… there’s nothing I can do.

So I slide the key into the lock and let myself in, heart still pounding with questions I can’t answer.

And I keep them all to myself.