Nothing stands out.
No hooded figure. No shadows ducking behind lampposts. Just the usual chaos.
I sigh and consider turning back—chalking it up to paranoia and calling it a night. At least I logged some steps. That counts, right?
And then I see him.
Just a shape at first—tall, slow-moving, deliberate.
Not talking to anyone. Not part of a group.
Maybe he’s just walking home.
Maybe I’m imagining things.
Or maybe… not.
His hands are deeply rooted in his jacket pocket, but his hood is pulled up over his head, clinging to his back muscles from what I can see.
He’s tall.
Big in every sense.
But is he following her?
I can’t be sure. He’s not exactly beelining for her, but when he slips his hand out of his pocket to check his phone, something catches my eye.
Tattoos.
I can’t make out much from my side of the road—just the curl of ink wrapping around his fingers, dark and jagged. A skull, maybe.
I should’ve asked Darcy what the tattoo looked like.
Still… it could be coincidence. Just some random guy heading home.
If I had any sense—or the slightest grip on my sanity—I’d turn around the second Darcy disappears inside. But I don’t.
Instead, I wait.
Half-shrouded beneath the railway bridge, hood pulled tight, breath fogging in the damp air. Just watching. Observing.
He doesn’t know I’m here.
That alone sends a strange little chill through me—half thrill, half unease.
He’s stopped now.
Not too close. Just outside Darcy’s front garden. Leaning casually against a tree like he belongs there. But he doesn’t.
Not to me.
Darcy was right.
I think she has a stalker.
3
Nell
