Chapter 24: The Man in the Mirror (Lauren POV)

Chapter 24: The Man in the Mirror (Lauren POV)
The medication makes staying still impossible, so I decide to run errands.
It's Saturday morning, and Sarah's bustling around with her own tasks—taking Emma to soccer practice, coordinating with other parents about carpools. She doesn't ask me to come. I'm grateful for that. I grab my keys and tell her I need to clear my head, maybe pick up some things I've been needing. She nods like this is progress, like leaving the house is evidence I'm getting better.
I start at the grocery store, wandering the aisles without a list. I pick up coffee I don't need, yogurt that will expire before I eat it, a rotisserie chicken that smells wrong. The fluorescent lights make my skin look gray in the reflections of the glass coolers. I barely recognize myself.
From the grocery store, I drive to a pharmacy on the South Side. I'm not picking up anything—I just need to move. The antipsychotics make stillness feel like drowning.
That's when I notice it.
A black Chrysler three cars back.
I don't think much of it at first. This is Chicago. There are a lot of black Chryslers. But it stays with me as I merge onto the expressway. Three cars back. Always three cars back. When I take the exit toward the pharmacy, it takes the exit too.
My heart rate picks up. The medication dulls most emotions, but fear cuts through it like a blade.
I drive past the pharmacy and keep going. Left turn onto a side street. The Chrysler follows. Right turn into a residential area. Still there. I'm watching it in my mirror now, really watching it. The windows are tinted dark. I can't see who's driving.
I make a series of sharp turns—left, right, right again, left. The kind of turns someone makes when they're trying to lose a tail. The Chrysler struggles to keep up, breaks the three-car distance to two, then nearly loses me before catching sight of my car again.
On the fourth turn, I don't see it behind me.
I drive for another fifteen minutes, checking my mirror constantly, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. Nothing. The Chrysler's gone.
By the time I get back to Sarah's house, my hands are shaking.
The front door is unlocked. I push it open to find Tom in the kitchen, making a sandwich. He's still in his work clothes from the morning—dress pants and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks up when he hears me.
"Hey," he says casually, like he didn't try to assault me three nights ago. "Sarah took the girls to Emma's soccer game. Won't be back for a couple hours."
My stomach drops.
"Oh," I say, standing in the doorway. I don't move further into the kitchen.
Tom sets down his sandwich. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just tired." I start to move toward the stairs, but he steps out from behind the counter, blocking my path.
"You should rest," he says. "The medication probably has you exhausted."
He's right about that. The world already feels soft around the edges, like I'm watching it through a filter. My limbs are heavy. My thoughts are slow.
"I'm going to lie down," I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.
He nods, but he doesn't move. He just stands there in the middle of the kitchen, watching me with those careful eyes. Eyes that know exactly how vulnerable I am right now.
I turn to leave, but my steps are sluggish, and before I can reach the stairs, Tom is behind me, his hands on my shoulders. I try to pull away, but my body feels like it's moving through molasses.
"Tom, what are you doing?" I slur, my words coming out slow and thick.
He doesn't answer, just spins me around and pulls me close. His hands are on my waist, then sliding up to my breasts. I try to push him away, but my arms feel like lead. The medication is making me drowsy, and I can barely keep my eyes open.
Tom's breath is hot on my neck as he kisses me, his hands still groping me through my shirt. I feel a spark of desire. My body is responding to his touch, even as my mind screams at me to stop him.
He pushes me backward, and I stumble, my back hitting the wall. Tom presses against me, his body hard and insistent. His hands find the buttons of my shirt, and he starts to unbutton it.
I try to protest, but the words come out as a moan. Tom takes it as encouragement, his mouth finding mine again.
He pushes my shirt open, his hands cupping my breasts over my bra. I gasp, my body arching into his touch despite myself. Tom's thumbs brush over my nipples, and I feel a jolt of pleasure that makes me want to both push him away and pull him closer.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway breaks everything apart. Tom freezes, his hands still on me, his breath ragged. I push him away, my shirt falling closed, and he steps back, running a hand through his hair.
"Tom, what the..." I start, but he cuts me off.
"Shh," he says, his voice low and urgent. "It's Sarah. Act normal."
He turns and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me leaning against the wall, my heart pounding and my body aching with a mix of desire and disgust. I hear the front door open, and Sarah's voice calling out a greeting. Tom answers her, his voice steady and calm, like nothing happened.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and make my way upstairs, my steps slow and unsteady. As I climb the stairs, I can hear Tom and Sarah talking in the kitchen, their voices mingling with the sound of groceries being put away.
I close the door to my bedroom behind me, leaning against it for a moment before collapsing onto the bed. 
I lie there in the guest room, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what just happened. Trying to understand why some part of me didn't fight harder. Why some part of me...
I don't finish that thought.
Dinner is torture.
Sarah has made pasta, some kind of creamy sauce with chicken and vegetables. She's cheerful, talking about Emma's game and Sophie's upcoming school project about community helpers. Tom sits across from me, occasionally catching my eye, and every time he does, something cold slides down my spine.
I push food around my plate and nod when appropriate. Emma talks about her friend Madison and a boy in her class who's "super annoying." Sophie asks for more garlic bread. Sarah refills Tom's wine glass and pats his shoulder affectionately as she passes.
Nobody notices that I'm not really here.
By seven o'clock, I can't breathe in the house anymore. I tell Sarah I need a walk. She suggests the girls come with me, but I say I need quiet. She doesn't push. She's decided that I'm getting better now, so she doesn't scrutinize me the way she used to.
The evening is cool and overcast. I walk without direction, just moving to move, trying to get the feeling of Tom's hands off my skin. The medication makes everything feel distant, but this, this I can feel too clearly.
I've been walking for about ten minutes when I see it.
The black Chrysler.
It's parked on the street about fifty yards ahead of me, engine off, no one visible inside. But I know with absolute certainty that it's the same car that followed me this morning. The same car that was three cars back on the expressway. The same car that somehow found me at Sarah's house.
My pace slows. Every instinct tells me to turn around, to run back to the house, to get inside where it's safe.
But I don't.
Instead, I keep walking toward the car. Toward whoever is inside, watching me from the darkness of the tinted windows.
I need to know who's looking for me.