Chapter 9 – The Video
Clara’s Pov
The message on my screen seemed to pulse, each word echoing through my skull like a heartbeat. Still think you can run?
No number. No name. Just those words sitting there, heavy, final.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the phone across the room, to break it, to rip out the battery and hide it somewhere it could never buzz again. But instead, I just sat there, frozen on the edge of the bed, the glow of the screen painting my shaking hands.
He knew where I was.
Renee’s parents’ house wasn’t in any public listing with my name. I hadn’t texted or told anyone the address. I’d left no trace online. And yet, he’d found me. Just like he’d found Evelyn.
The air around me felt thinner. It was like he was already here—in the walls, behind the door, woven into every sound around me.
I pressed my hands over my face and tried to breathe. The video. The message. Everything pointed to one horrifying truth: Adrian wasn’t who I thought he was.
Footsteps creaked outside the door. I jerked my head up, pulse racing. Renee knocked softly. “Clara? Can I come in?”
I swallowed and forced my voice steady. “Yeah.”
She stepped inside, holding two mugs of tea. Her face softened when she saw my expression. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure sleep’s an option anymore.”
She handed me a mug and sat beside me. “You’re thinking about Evelyn.”
“Yes—and Adrian.”
Renee hesitated. “You haven’t reached out to him, right?”
“No. But… he sent me a video.”
“What?” She stiffened, eyes wide.
“It showed Evelyn’s office. He was there, Renee. I saw his face—just for a second, but it was him. And right after that, he sent me this.” I turned the phone toward her.
Her eyes darted across the message, and I watched the color drain from her face. “Clara, this isn’t safe anymore. This is obsession-level stuff. You can’t stay here.”
“Then where? He finds me everywhere. If I go to a hotel, I’ll get another message. If I go home, he might already have a key.”
Renee set her mug down hard, her jaw tight. “We’re going to the police again. But this time, we show them everything. Even if the video disappeared, maybe there’s a trace, some file cache, something they can pull.”
I wanted to argue—it felt pointless—but something in her tone cut past my fear. She wasn’t suggesting. She was deciding.
By midmorning, we were in a police station, the sterile smell of coffee and disinfectant mixing with the faint hum of old ceiling lights. The detective from before, Alvarez, met us in a small gray room that probably looked exactly the same for every hopeless statement ever filed.
He listened, more patiently this time. Maybe it was the death at Evelyn’s office that finally made him take us seriously.
“Can you prove the video existed?” he asked.
“It deleted automatically, but it came from the same anonymous sender,” I said, my fingers twisting in my lap.
“Alright.” He scribbled notes, frowning. “We’ll flag the number, though it’s likely spoofed. You said this man—Adrian Wolfe—has keys to your residence?”
“Yes.”
Alvarez paused, then leaned back. “You understand, if he’s involved, confronting him directly could be dangerous. Do not contact him. Do not meet him. Let us handle this.”
I nodded, though part of me didn’t trust that anyone could “handle” Adrian.
After he left, Renee rubbed my arm. “See? It’s good. They’re taking it seriously now.”
But I couldn’t relax. Somewhere deep down, I knew this wasn’t over.
When we returned to her parents’ house, the doorbell rang just as we stepped inside. Renee exchanged a look with me. “Stay back,” she warned quietly, and went to answer it.
Through the crack of the hallway, I saw her open the door—and freeze.
“Adrian,” she said flatly.
My stomach dropped. I pressed myself against the wall, trying not to move, not even breathe.
“Hey,” his voice said smoothly, casual as ever. “I know Clara’s here. She isn’t answering me, and I’m worried.”
Renee’s tone sharpened. “You need to leave.”
“I just want to talk to her,” he said. “Two minutes.”
“You should go. Now.”
“Please,” he insisted, his voice dropping just enough to sound almost desperate. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Renee started to close the door, but his hand shot out, catching the edge. The polite mask slipped for an instant—enough for me to see it even from my hiding spot. His gaze hardened, cold and precise. Then he forced a pleasant smile again. “Clara?” he called suddenly, voice raised, too calm. “Are you hiding from me?”
My pulse pounded. He knew. He always knew.
Renee pushed back harder, her voice trembling now. “You need to leave before I call the police.”
He stared at her for a moment longer before slowly letting go. The pleasant smile never wavered. “Tell her I’m not angry. I just want to make things right.”
He turned and left, walking casually down the path as though nothing was wrong. Renee shut the door immediately, locking it, breath shaking.
“He knows, Clara. He knows we came here.”
I was already dialing Detective Alvarez’s number. It rang, straight to voicemail.
“Renee,” I said quietly, “we can’t stay here either.”
We both sat in silence for a few seconds. Outside, the wind picked up, stirring the trees. The world looked calm, but every nerve in my body screamed.
Renee finally said, “Then where do we go?”
I stared at the phone still in my hand, the black mirror of its screen reflecting my own frightened face. “Somewhere he doesn’t expect.”
That night, we packed again and left just after sundown. I didn’t tell anyone where we were headed—not Renee’s parents, not the police, no one. We boarded a late bus to a small coastal town two hours away, a place I’d visited once years ago for a work retreat. Quiet. Forgettable.
By the time we checked into a tiny roadside inn, rain had started falling. The steady rhythm on the roof almost felt like relief after the days of constant adrenaline.
We each took long showers, trying to wash away fear, before finally climbing into our separate beds. Renee fell asleep instantly, exhaustion pulling her under.
I kept staring at the ceiling. My phone sat across the room on the chair, charging. I’d put it there deliberately, a small act of resistance.
For the first time in days, I let my eyes close.
Then I heard it.
A soft buzz, then another.
I turned slowly toward the chair. The phone screen glowed with a new message. My throat went dry before I even reached it.
When I finally picked it up, the sender field was empty. The message was only a location pin—marked on a map that showed this exact inn.
And beneath it, one line of text:
“Room 6 always leaves their window unlocked.”