Followed.

Followed.


Ruthie's POV

The sensation is minuscule at first. A tingling down my spine. The pressure of unseen eyes bearing down on me. At first, I tell myself I'm being paranoid. Newlywed life adjustment, maybe. Eliot’s been working late—he says it’s a “special project.” I don’t question him anymore because he just answers me with a kiss rather than words. It’s a kiss that seems less like a gesture of love and more like a full-stop in a phrase I wasn’t given a chance to finish.

His responses are non-answers, and the quiet he leaves behind is stronger than any contention. This close, buzzing nervousness vibrates in my bones.
A second time at the grocery store . It happens while I’m in the middle of grabbing a milk carton, the chill from the fridge hitting my cheek, when I perceive it — a person who’s standing just past the refrigerated aisle, concealed a bit by a stack of orange juice.

A tall figure in a dark hoodie, not moving, not pretending to browse. Just staring. I feel like my blood is slushing. I freeze, my hand hovering over the milk. The feeling in my bones is growing edgier. When I finally bring my head around again, he’s not there.
By the time I get to the end of the checkout, my palms are sweaty and my hands greasy. I keep turning around, half-expecting to see that same man coming back again.

He doesn’t. I’m driving home, one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around my phone, fingers ready to dial Eliot. But I don’t call. Not yet. Not yet. Or what am I supposed to say? “Honey, I think someone’s watching me”? He’d smile, tell me I’m stressed, suggest a warm bath, maybe. Then he’d kiss my forehead and tuck me in like a kid. No.

A few days later, I go to the mall. It’s Saturday and the atmosphere is heavy, scented with the promise of rain. I tell Eliot I’m going to need new towels and a dress for the upcoming wellness conference he’s so determined for me to attend. He offers to come, his brow furrowed with that practiced concern.

"It’s raining cats and dogs out there, Ruthie. Let me drive you.” But I need air. I need space from him, I need space from the house. I tell him no. I want to be alone.
The mall is half empty, a cavern of beige tile and plastic leaves. Soft pop music hangs in the air, enmeshed with the hushed rumbling of the espresso machine at the back of the central café. To be safe, to be anonymous.

But then I step inside the sliding doors and the cold air brushes against my skin, and that old feeling I used to get swells up inside of me. The chill.

The scale. I’m walking down the first floor, clutching my purse, trying to calm down. Stop it, Ruthie. You're in public. It's safe. You're safe. I try to bring my attention to the list. Towels. Dress. I walked past the perfume stalls, a dozen scent profiles that were all florals pressing at me.

I skip the jewelry department, where diamonds sparkle coldly under spotlighting. When I glance at myself in the shiny glass in the front of a department store.

That’s when I see him. Reflected in the glass, he’s standing about twenty feet behind me, near a pillar. The same figure. Black hoodie pulled low. Dark jeans. He isn't scanning through the merchandise. He is looking straight at my reflection. Looking at me. The feeling was his purpose, like a magnetic force. I step onto the escalator going up. I take a risk and look down. He is at the bottom, stepping on, head down but pace steady. He is not rushing.

I exit at the second floor and dive right into the first store I see is Halloway’s Boutique. It’s tiny, quiet, crammed with racks of silk.

I feign reading, my hands shaking as they lightly touch on a suede jacket. When I pivot, he’s just beyond the glass door. Just…watching . My heart leaps in my throat. I take out my phone and fumble for the screen.
Ruthie: Someone’s following me. At the mall.

The response comes virtually immediately. Too fast.
Eliot: Where are you?
Ruthie: Near the east entrance. By Halloway’s Boutique.
Eliot: Stay there. Don’t move.
I fixate on the message. My reflection looks pale, terrified. Then—the chime of the store's entrance. The door creaks. The man steps inside. My heart stops. He walks toward me slowly, one hand tucked deep into his hoodie pocket. I stumble backward, knocking over a rack of clothes. A loud crash echoes. He lunges.

I scream.
Before I can even think, before he can hit me, a new force hits me in the side. Someone snatches me from behind, pulling me out of the way just as the man’s hand flies forward. There’s a flash of silver—something catching the light under the store lights—a knife.

I fall hard to the floor, the air knocked from my lungs. I look up, breathless, gasping. Eliot. Eliot is standing between me and the attacker.
He moves with a speed I’ve never seen. It’s not my husband, the man who kisses my forehead. This is someone else. A sharp, brutal strike to the man’s wrist. A wet crack and a grunt of pain.

The knife falls clattering on the floor. The man stumbled, clutching his arm, his face obscured under the hood, and bolted, pushing the screaming sales associate. Eliot takes one step to follow, then stops. He runs to me.

All of a sudden, everything is out of focus. People are screaming. Security alarms blare. When the world has finished spinning, I’m sitting on the cold tile floor trembling wrapped in Eliot’s jacket. He squats in front of me, holding my face loosely.

His voice is low, but quivering. “You’re okay. It is okay, Ruthie. “I’ve got you.”
“I—I thought he was going to kill me,” I sob. “I know.” He lays his forehead against mine. “I’m so sorry, love. I should’ve come sooner.”
“What was that? Who- who was he?”

"The cops will be here soon," he exhales shakily.

I think it’s someone from the case. Maybe the same one that killed Marjorie. Maybe he followed you.”
A sudden tightness in my chest. Marjorie?

“Me? But why me?”
Eliot hesitates. This is the first time that I glimpse something raw flicker across his face – fear. Or is it guilt? “I don’t know,” he says softly. “He might be a nut job. But you’re safe now.” He kiss the top of my head as I sniff.

And for a minute, I allow him. I let myself believe it.
Later, at home, after the police leave and my hands finally stop shaking, Eliot guides me to the couch. The drive home was silent, thick with unasked questions.

“You aren’t allowed to go anywhere alone for a little while,” he says.
His voice is back to its usual soft rhythm but his eyes are cold and werewolflike as they pierce through the windows of our own home “Not until they find whoever this was.”
“Did they get him?”

He shakes his head. “No. He was gone when the exits were sealed by security. He was familiar with the layout.”
“He knew where I was, Eliot. He was waiting for me outside that shop.”
He takes my hand.

His skin is warm, solid. “Which is why we’ll be careful. I’ll drive you to work. I’ll come get you. There’s nothing you need to worry about anymore. I got it, I’ll take care of everything.“
I look at him, his perfect composure, his steady voice. I want to believe him. I have to believe him. But then I remember the clipping. The one which I found in his desk drawer last week, beneath some files. The old newspaper story about a fire, years ago. The faded handwriting in the margin. The circle around a name. My name. Ruthie._
I can’t help but think—how did he get there so fast today? I didn’t even finish typing name of the boutique before he said he was on his way.

His office is twenty minutes from that mall. Was he already nearby? Or had he been following me too?
That night, I lie awake beside him, watching h
is chest rise and fall in the heavy rhythm of sleep. And I knew maybe I'm not safe.