It was a little after three when Liz Daniels spotted the man again. Same long trench coat, same dark fedora pulled low over his forehead. He was standing across the street from the cafe, as he had been for the past few days, a small island of calm in the bustling crowd. It was impossible not to notice him, even though he tried to blend in. His stillness was what gave him away, as if he was waiting for something—or someone.
Liz sipped her coffee, her eyes flicking back to the book she had open in front of her. She was only pretending to read now. In the glass reflection of the cafe's window, she could see him perfectly. He hadn't moved an inch.
She'd first noticed him on Wednesday. He had been outside the gallery then, standing just across from the entrance. Liz had been with George at the time, and she remembered laughing at something, feeling George's hand on her back, warm and possessive. The man had been watching them, though she hadn't been sure at first. People watched people all the time in this city. But something about the way he stared, unblinking, almost hungry, had left her feeling uneasy.
Since then, she'd spotted him nearly every day. Always at a distance, never approaching. Just watching. And always alone.
George hadn't believed her. "You're imagining it, Liz. Paranoid, probably. You need to stop reading those crime novels."
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was nothing. But she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. She closed her book, folding her hands in her lap. She could feel her pulse quicken, her heartbeat strangely loud in the quiet cafe.
The man hadn't moved.
She looked down at the half-eaten croissant on her plate, suddenly losing her appetite. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her cup again, holding it close to her lips. Why hadn't he approached her? Why hadn't he done anything? If he meant her harm, wouldn't he have tried by now?
Unless he was waiting for the right moment.
Liz's stomach twisted at the thought. Maybe it was just some harmless obsession, some lonely stranger who had fixated on her for no particular reason. She had a way of attracting those types, George said. She seemed fragile, approachable, like someone who wouldn't make a scene. But she was stronger than she looked, sharper than people thought. She had made it this far in life without needing to rely on anyone but herself, despite what George liked to believe.
Still, there was something unnerving about the man's persistence.
Liz glanced at her watch. Quarter past three. George wouldn't be home until six. He had some meeting in the city, one of those dinners with clients that always dragged on too long. She had planned to spend the afternoon working on her own, maybe finish that piece she'd been sketching out, but now she couldn't concentrate. The man was still there, standing as though he had all the time in the world.
What did he want?
Without thinking, she pushed back her chair and stood. She wasn't the type to run, not anymore. Running solved nothing. If anything, it gave people the wrong idea. She had spent too much time running in her early years, always trying to escape something. But not now.
She gathered her coat from the back of the chair and stepped outside. The air was sharp with the scent of rain that hadn't quite arrived yet, a low mist hanging over the sidewalks. She walked slowly, deliberately, feeling the cool metal of her house keys in her pocket, running her thumb over the ridges.
The man hadn't moved, but his eyes tracked her as she crossed the street. His face was half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hat, but she could feel his gaze. It sent a chill through her that she didn't want to acknowledge.
She stopped a few feet from him, keeping a safe distance, enough that she could still walk away if need be.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady. "Why are you following me?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if her question amused him. For a moment, he didn't respond, just stood there with that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, square envelope. White. Crisp. He held it out to her, wordlessly.
Liz didn't move. Her instincts screamed at her to turn and leave, to walk away from this strange interaction and forget she had ever seen him. But something stopped her. Curiosity, perhaps, or something darker. She stepped forward and took the envelope from his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment.
The touch was cold.
She glanced down at the envelope. There was no name, no address, just a simple fold, sealed tightly. She looked up at him, but the man had already turned, walking away without another word. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the crowd, as if he had never been there at all.
Liz stared at the envelope for a long moment before slipping it into her coat pocket. She wouldn't open it here, not now. She didn't want to see what was inside, not until she was alone. There was no rush. Whatever it was, it could wait.
As she turned to head back to her apartment, her mind whirled with possibilities. It could be anything—a threat, a message, some kind of puzzle. She didn't know what game this man was playing, but she had the distinct feeling that she was now a part of it.
And for the first time in weeks, Liz felt something other than fear.
When she arrived home, the apartment was as she had left it. The air was stale, the faint smell of paint and charcoal still lingering from her last project. She tossed her coat over the back of a chair and took the envelope out of her pocket, placing it on the kitchen table.
For a long time, she stared at it, trying to decide what to do. The temptation to rip it open was strong, but there was something about the weight of it, the way it sat so perfectly still, that made her hesitate.
Finally, she slid a knife under the seal and pulled out the single piece of paper inside. Her hands were steady as she unfolded it, her eyes scanning the short, neat handwriting.
"I know what you did."
That was all it said.
Liz felt her heart stop, then start again with a sickening thud. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the words again, trying to make sense of them.
It couldn't be possible. No one knew. Not even George.
She stood there, frozen, the paper trembling in her hands. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in around her, and for the first time in years, she felt the creeping edge of panic.
Outside, the rain began to fall.