Chapter 5 – Through the Glass
Clara’s Pov
The picture on my phone didn’t seem real at first. My brain refused to connect the dots. The grainy shot showed the soft golden light of my lamp, a sliver of curtain, my couch—and me. I was sitting exactly as I was now, only the photo had been taken from the outside looking in.
My breath hitched, the room tilting around me. My apartment suddenly didn’t feel like home anymore; it felt like a box made of glass.
Whoever had taken it had been standing just outside my window.
My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped the phone. I scrambled to the window, heart pounding, and yanked the curtain aside. It was dark outside, the kind of city darkness that never goes completely black—just layers of shadow and the occasional pulse of passing headlights. The street below looked empty. No figure, no lurking silhouette.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, scanning every corner, every reflection. There was nothing. No one. But the knowing that someone had been there gnawed like a phantom touch.
I snapped the curtains shut again. My first thought was to call the police, but then my practical side kicked in. What would I say? “I got a creepy photo”? They might come, fill out a report, look around, and then leave with a polite warning to lock my doors. Then I’d be alone again—with him, whoever he was, still out there and watching.
Then a darker thought carved its way in: what if it wasn’t a stranger? What if Adrian had taken it earlier that night before I closed my curtains?
He had that calm, calculated way about him. He always struck at the perfect time—in conversation, in charm, in gestures. Maybe the messages had been his way of testing me. Seeing how much I trusted him.
I sank onto the couch, phone clutched in my hand. Anxiety pulsed through my fingertips. I zoomed in on the photo, scanning every inch. There wasn’t much background detail to give away where it was taken from, but the slight tilt of the angle made it look like it wasn’t ground level. The idea chilled me. Whoever it was could be standing on a fire escape.
I glanced toward the window again. My building wasn’t tall, just five stories, and my apartment was on the second floor. There was a metal staircase running down alongside the east wall, used mostly for maintenance. If someone wanted to reach my window, they easily could.
My pulse quickened.
I moved through my apartment, checking every lock, testing the door twice. Then I turned off the lights, leaving only the faint glow of streetlight spilling under the blinds. My fingers hovered over Adrian’s contact. Should I confront him? Tell him what happened?
No. Not yet.
If it was him, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.
I changed into sweats, but there was no chance of sleeping. I curled up on the couch with a blanket pulled tight around me, facing the window. The hours crawled by. Every sound beyond the glass made me jump—the wind sighing, a distant honk, the metallic creak of the fire escape. At one point, I swore I heard a soft tap against the window, but when I looked, nothing was there.
Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
When sunlight finally pushed through the blinds, it felt like oxygen. I made strong coffee and stared at my reflection in the window. My face looked pale, drawn. Eyes ringed with sleepless shadows.
I needed help. I needed someone who wouldn’t laugh or tell me I was imagining things. Someone who could tell me whether this was danger… or paranoia.
The name came to me like a whisper. Evelyn Marris.
I’d met her once through a friend-of-a-friend at a work function, a private investigator who’d left the police force a few years back. She’d struck me as sharp, confident, with that steady focus you either found intimidating or deeply comforting. The kind of person who looked like she’d see straight through you.
It took an hour of internal debating before I finally found her number online. She answered on the second ring.
“Evelyn Marris.” Her voice was low, level.
“Hi, um—it’s Clara Hayes. We met a while ago. I’m sorry to call like this, but I think I might need some advice.”
“Advice on what?”
“It’s… complicated. I’ve been getting weird texts. From someone who seems to know where I am. Last night, they sent me a photo—taken through my window.”
A pause. Then, calmly: “You’re in your apartment now?”
“Yes.”
“Are your doors locked? Windows?”
“Yes.”
“Get dressed, pack what you need for the day, and meet me at the café on 9th and Madison in an hour. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Understand?”
The firmness of her tone steadied me more than anything had in days. “Okay.”
By eleven, I was sitting across from her in the café. She looked exactly as I remembered—short chestnut hair, leather jacket, eyes like cold steel that missed nothing.
She listened while I told her everything: Adrian, the anonymous messages, the photo. She didn’t interrupt once. When I finished, she leaned back slowly.
“You think it’s him,” she said.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. But no one else fits.”
“You’d be surprised who’s capable of this kind of thing,” she said. “Sometimes it’s who you least expect. Sometimes it’s exactly who you do.”
Her words sent a ripple down my spine.
“Do you still have the messages?”
I handed her my phone. She scrolled, brows knitting. “The sender’s using a masked number. Could be an app. Could also be pre-paid.”
“So, can you find out who it is?”
She looked up at me. “Eventually maybe. But I’d rather start simpler. You need to stop being predictable. Don’t walk the same route home. Close your curtains, keep your phone on silent at night, and whatever you do, don’t tell the guy you’re suspicious. If it’s him, his next move depends on what he thinks you know.”
The advice made me feel both safer and smaller, like I was suddenly a piece in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
We arranged to meet again in a few days after she made some calls.
That night, my apartment felt emptier than ever. I kept the curtains closed this time and avoided looking at my phone completely. When I finally dared to check it before bed, there were no new messages. The silence almost felt like relief.
I crawled into bed, exhausted.
I must’ve slept for a couple of hours. It was still dark when I woke again with the uneasy feeling that something was different. The air was too still. The city noise was gone, muted somehow.
My eyes adjusted to the dim room. Nothing seemed out of place, but my instinct screamed that something was off. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, but my fingers brushed nothing.
It wasn’t there.
I turned on the lamp and looked around. The phone wasn’t on the floor, not on the nightstand, not under the blanket. Then my pulse jumped as I noticed my window.
The curtains were half-open.
And on the sill, resting neatly beside the lamp, was my phone. Its screen lit up with a new message.
It read:
“You shouldn’t have told anyone.”