The porch light didn't flicker again.
The next two days stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Pocho didn't mention the light to anyone. Not to Harris. Not to Morrison. Not even to his wife.
It felt small.
But it stayed in his head.
On the third morning, he woke up before his alarm.
6:02 a.m.
He went to the kitchen for coffee.
Something was different.
Not broken.
Not moved.
Just different.
He stood still for a few seconds.
Then he saw it.
A folded piece of paper on the kitchen table.
It wasn't there the night before.
He walked over slowly.
His wife was still asleep in the bedroom.
He picked up the paper.
One sentence.
Printed. Not handwritten.
You're finally paying attention.
That was it.
No signature.
No symbol.
No threat.
Just that.
He didn't panic.
He didn't shout.
He walked to the bedroom.
"Stay here," he said quietly.
She sat up immediately.
"What's wrong?"
"Stay here."
He checked every room.
Closets.
Bathroom.
Garage.
Nothing.
Doors locked.
Windows closed.
No forced entry.
He came back to the kitchen.
His wife was standing there now.
"What happened?"
He handed her the paper.
She read it twice.
"What is this?"
"He's close," Pocho said.
Her face went pale.
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
She looked toward the windows.
"Was he inside?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
He didn't answer that.
Because he didn't know.
The station moved fast after that.
Crime scene unit at his house.
Door handles dusted.
Windows checked.
No prints.
No shoe marks outside.
No signs of forced entry.
Harris looked at the paper.
"Printed," he said. "Public printer maybe."
"Yes."
"Or library. Or gas station. Or anywhere."
"Yes."
Morrison stepped into the kitchen.
"This just became personal," he said.
"It already was," Pocho replied.
Morrison studied him.
"You need protection."
"No."
"That's not a suggestion."
"He wants me reactive," Pocho said. "If I move patrol cars outside my house, he wins that."
"He already won something," Morrison said, looking at the paper.
Pocho didn't argue.
He folded the paper once and put it in an evidence bag.
Back at the station, the board changed.
Under the three victims' names, Pocho wrote:
Escalation: psychological proximity.
Harris read it.
"You think this is next phase?"
"Yes."
"He's testing you."
"Yes."
"And?"
"He wants to see if I change my behavior."
"Are you going to?"
"No."
That wasn't bravado.
It was decision.
At home that night, his wife didn't try to act normal.
She locked the door twice.
Checked the windows three times.
"You said you wouldn't let this in here," she said quietly.
"I didn't."
"He was in our house."
"He left a paper."
"He was close enough to know when we weren't here."
Pocho didn't have a response that would make that better.
She sat at the kitchen table for a long time.
"He knows our address," she said.
"Yes."
"He knows your number."
"Yes."
"And he's watching."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then:
"Maybe you should step back."
"No."
"Just for a few days."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because that's what he wants."
She stared at him.
"And what if what he wants is you like this?"
That landed.
He didn't answer.
She stood up.
"I'm staying at my sister's tonight."
He didn't stop her.
He didn't argue.
He helped carry her bag to the car.
When she drove away, the house felt larger.
And emptier.
He walked back inside.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Looked at the spot where the paper had been.
You're finally paying attention.
He realized something.
The killer wasn't threatening harm.
He was acknowledging awareness.
This wasn't rage.
This was chess.
And for the first time, Pocho felt something new.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Pressure.
He wasn't just hunting anymore.
He was being positioned.
And that meant the next move wouldn't be random.
It would be deliberate.
End of Chapter 8.
Personal line crossed.
Marriage shaken.
Killer escalating without direct violence.