After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back. My hand drifts over to the end table next to me, snagging the butcher knife I’ve been carrying around with me since he broke into my house last. Turns out my security cameras are useless with him. The second he left, I checked them just to find out that they didn’t catch sight of him. When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went wide with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and made it appear as if nothing was happening while he was walking through my house while I slept. She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so well, it was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to come to that conclusion is because she knows how technology works and she does the same thing herself for her job. This guy is dangerous—in more ways than just his violent tendencies. I grip the handle in my fist and settle it on my lap. As he nears, my heart pounds in my chest, matching each step he takes towards me. I stand and close in on my window. I don’t know what I’m doing exactly. Provoking him? Daring him to come inside my house again? If he does, I have every right to defend myself. The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again hidden deep in a hood. He widens his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something I can’t see. It’s not until I see him flick a lighter, defining his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette and a blaring cherry. He stares. And I stare back. Without looking away, I grab my phone from the end table. I listened to him and didn’t call the cops when he sent me that fucked up box of hands, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call them when he’s standing twenty feet outside my window. I look down to unlock my phone, and when I glance up, my thumb freezes. The moonlight spills over his silhouette. And with perfect clarity, I watch him slowly shake his head at me. Warning me not to do what I’m about to do. I glance at my front door, fear steadily trickling through my body at an alarming rate. It’s locked, but he’s already proven that it’s futile. I calculate the distance between him and the door. How long would it take him to run to it, break through, and get to me? At least a solid thirty seconds. That’s enough time to dial 911 and tell them someone is trying to hurt me, right? But it would be pointless. It’s going to take the police no less than a halfhour to get to me.