Page 6 of Perfect Stalker
“Good work.” I end the call, returning my attention to Jenny’s progress home. She deserves so much more than she’s had. More than that toxic workplace that tried to crush her spirit. More than the men who failed to appreciate her strength and intelligence and took advantage of her gentle nature.
The bus arrives at her stop. Through the street cameras, I watch her walk the short distance to her building. I frown when I notice she’s walking hurriedly while looking over her shoulder. She looks down at her phone and scowls before stabbing a button harder than necessary and dropping it in her purse.
She pauses at the entrance to her building and looks around. There’s real fear in her eyes, which enrages me and has me poised to go to her. I hold back, knowing my security team hasvisuals, and they can be there in minutes in necessary. I don’t yet want her to know the full extent of my…interest, so I force myself to sit down but wonder what has her so scared.
That scumbag, Stephen Williams, is the most likely explanation. I curse and see red, sorry for a moment that I let the sniveling weasel live last year.
CHAPTER 3
JENNY
The bus lurches around another corner as my phone buzzes for the tenth time in five minutes. My stomach drops when I see the unknown number flash across the screen. Stephen. I know it’s him, though he keeps spoofing his number. Or maybe he’s using a string of burner phones.
The first message pops up:“Miss me, baby? I’ve been thinking about you.”
I delete it without responding, but another appears immediately:“Remember how pretty your neck looked with my handprint that night when I caught you?”
A phantom squeezing sensation hits me as I recall him grabbing my throat to make me stop running and tightening his hand. For a second, I’d thought he was going to strangle me. Instead, he’d punched me, and I’d braced myself for worse. Then my savior arrived…
My fingers tremble when I block the number, knowing it’s useless. He’ll just create another burner account or spoof, like he has for the past year. The only thing that’s kept him physically away is his father shipping him overseas after the arrest and plea deal.
Another message arrives from a different number almost immediately, and there’s an image attachment. My thumb hovers over it, knowing I shouldn’t open it. The preview shows enough—an obviously manipulated photo of me deep-throating an eggplant. His skills as a graphic designer make the AI manipulation disturbingly realistic, though there’s an uncanny valley sensation where my lips contort to impossible dimensions.
“Bet you miss having your throat bruised. We had such fun times together.”
I delete the message and photo, wrapping my arms around myself. The other passengers chat and laugh, completely oblivious to the psychological warfare happening right next to them.
My phone buzzes again:“I’m back in Atlanta now. We should catch up soon.”
Ice spreads through my veins. He’s supposed to be in London for at least another six months. The mandatory anger management classes and probation were part of his plea deal after he tried to hurt me last year.
“Don’t ignore me, Jenny. You know how I get when you ignore me.”
The bus stops at my regular corner. I clutch my purse close as I hurry down the steps, scanning the street before steppingonto the sidewalk. The setting sun casts long shadows between buildings.
My phone lights up with another message:“That’s a cute outfit you’re wearing today. The blue really brings out your eyes.”
I spin around, searching for any sign of him, but the street appears empty except for normal evening foot traffic. He must have been watching me at some point today to know what I’m wearing.
The three blocks to my apartment building stretch endlessly ahead. Each step feels like moving through molasses as more messages arrive:
“Remember when I used to walk you home?”
“Such a gentleman, making sure you got inside safe.”
“Someone should really be looking out for you.”
I quicken my pace, my heels clicking rapidly against the concrete. Two more blocks. Just two more blocks, and I’ll be behind my locked door with the security system I asked the building supervisor to upgrade for me at my expense after his attack last year. Stephen doesn’t know the code and never will.
When my phone buzzes again as I near my apartment building, I stab the delete button without reading it and drop the phone in my purse. The heavy glass door swings shut behind me with a satisfying click of the automatic lock seconds later. My mail key trembles in my hand when I approach the row of brass boxes lining the hallway. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, making every corner seem darker than it should be.
I lean against my mail box, back to the row of, and breathe deeply, struggling to regain my composure. I let the memoriescome, knowing it’s better to work through them than try to suppress them. Doing that for weeks caused nightmares for months, and it took more months of counseling to really process it all.
The memory of the bite of winter air stings my face as the memories of last December assault me, each detail vivid and sharp as broken glass.
Pure white snow had blanketed Atlanta that night, an unusual sight that had seemed almost magical until it wasn’t. The thick flakes had dampened every sound except for Stephen’s footsteps behind me and my own ragged breathing as I ran, having fled my apartment via the fire escape when he started breaking through the door.
Slipping, I’d braced myself against the building and turned my head to shout at him while trying to regain my footing, “Stephen, we’re done. Please, just let me go.” My voice had quavered as I’d clutched my coat around me, backing away from his advancing form.
