Chapter Eight: A Familiar Face
Felicia woke before sunrise, tangled in her sheets, heart pounding with the remnants of another restless dream. The static in her head was a low, persistent hum, but this morning she felt something else threading through the noise—a memory, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of her tongue.
She shuffled into the living room and turned on the television. Law & Order: SVU was already playing, the familiar blue credits rolling across the screen. Mariska Hargitay's face appeared, strong and steady, and Felicia felt a surge of comfort and longing. She had watched every episode, clinging to the hope and justice Olivia Benson represented. But lately, the connection felt deeper—almost personal. There was something about Mariska, something in her eyes, her voice, her story, that made Felicia feel seen, even as the world tried to erase her.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the screen. "Why do I feel like I know you?" she whispered. "Why does it feel like you know me?"
The question haunted her as she moved through her day. She tried to recall every detail she could about Mariska Hargitay—her career, her advocacy, her family. She remembered reading about Mariska's work with survivors, her foundation, her tireless fight for those who had been silenced. Felicia admired her not just as an actress, but as a real-life champion for justice. But the feeling went beyond admiration. It was as if their lives had brushed against each other, as if there was a thread tying them together that Felicia couldn't quite unravel.
She spent hours researching, scrolling through interviews, articles, and old news clips. She watched videos of Mariska speaking at rallies, comforting survivors, telling them, "You are not alone." Each time, Felicia felt a jolt of recognition, as if Mariska was speaking directly to her. She wanted to reach out, to explain everything, to ask if Mariska remembered her, too.
But every attempt to make contact was blocked. Emails bounced back. Social media messages vanished into the ether. Even fan mail seemed to disappear. Felicia's stalker was always one step ahead, twisting her words, rerouting her calls, making sure her voice never reached the outside world.
Still, Felicia refused to give up. She started keeping a list of every time she saw Mariska's name, every time she felt that strange, electric sense of connection. She wrote down her dreams, her flashes of memory, her gut feelings. She knew there was something there—something important, something her stalker didn't want her to remember.
And then there was the nagging sense that Mariska was somehow involved in her story, not just as an inspiration, but as a key. Felicia couldn't shake the feeling that her stalker was connected to Mariska in some way. Maybe they had crossed paths in the past. Maybe there was a shared event, a mutual acquaintance, a buried secret that tied their fates together.
She thought of the name Jacqueline Reyes, the way it kept appearing at the edges of her life, always just out of reach. Was Jacqueline a real person, or another mask her tormentor wore? Was she a warning, a clue, or a threat? Felicia tried to follow the trail, but every lead dissolved into static and confusion.
One afternoon, she sat at her kitchen table, a cup of cold coffee in her hands, and tried to piece together the puzzle. She remembered a charity event she'd attended years ago, a fundraiser for survivors of violence. Mariska had been there, giving a speech that had moved Felicia to tears. Had they spoken? Had their paths crossed in some meaningful way? The memory was blurry, shrouded in fog, but it felt important. She wrote it down, determined to hold onto every scrap of connection.
She searched through old photos, hoping to find proof—a picture of herself in the background, a glimpse of Mariska in the crowd, anything to confirm that their lives had intersected. But the photos were missing, deleted, or altered. In their place, she found images she didn't recognize, faces she couldn't name, moments she couldn't remember living. Her stalker's fingerprints were everywhere, erasing and rewriting her past.
One evening, as the sun set and the shadows lengthened, Felicia sat at her desk and wrote a letter she knew might never be read. She addressed it to Mariska Hargitay, pouring out her story, her fears, her hope that they were connected for a reason. She described the stalking, the erasure, the endless gaslighting. She begged Mariska to believe her, to remember her, to help her find the missing piece of the puzzle.
She sealed the letter and hid it in her journal, alongside the videos, the notes, the evidence of her fight. She didn't know if it would ever reach its destination, but writing it made her feel less alone.
That night, Felicia dreamed of a blue-lit stage, of Mariska standing in the spotlight, reaching out a hand. "You are not alone," she said, her voice echoing through the darkness. Felicia reached back, but the distance between them was filled with static, with the mocking laughter of her stalker, with memories she couldn't quite grasp.
She woke with tears on her cheeks, but also with a renewed sense of purpose. She knew the connection was real, even if she couldn't explain it. She knew her stalker was afraid of what she might remember, afraid of what might happen if she and Mariska ever truly connected.
Felicia pressed her hand to the mirror, meeting her own gaze. "I will remember," she whispered. "I will find the truth. And when I do, you won't be able to hide anymore."
She was the evidence. She was the survivor. And she would not stop searching until every secret was brought to light.
The next morning, Felicia made a list of everything she remembered about Mariska, about the event, about the people she'd met that night. She scoured social media for old posts, news articles, anything that might confirm her memory. She found a single mention—a tweet from a stranger, tagging both her and Mariska, but the account had been deleted, the tweet erased. Still, it was enough. It was a thread she could follow.
She spent the day following that thread, pulling at every loose end, refusing to let go. She knew her stalker was watching, knew he was trying to keep her in the dark, but she didn't care. She was done being afraid. She was done being silent.
That night, as she watched another episode of SVU, Felicia felt something shift inside her. She wasn't just surviving anymore—she was fighting back. She was reclaiming her story, piece by piece, memory by memory.
And as she drifted off to sleep, she whispered her new mantra:
I am the evidence. I am the connection. I will not be erased.