Surveillance
The SUV appeared again on Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
And Thursday night when Julie fumbled her keys outside her apartment building.
She didn't want to be paranoid. Grief had rewired her sense of safety. That was what her therapist used to say.
But paranoia implies imagination.
This felt observed.
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
Unknown number.
She hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
"Good evening, Julie."
Andrew.
Her stomach tightened.
"How did you get my number?"
"I own several telecommunications subsidiaries," he replied evenly. "Numbers are rarely private."
She glanced toward the SUV.
Its headlights flicked on.
"You're watching me."
"I'm ensuring your safety."
"I didn't request protection."
"You didn't request vulnerability either."
The line went silent.
Her heart hammered.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment faster than usual, double-locking the door behind her.
That was when she saw the envelope on her kitchen counter.
White.
Unaddressed.
Her name written in ink too deliberate to be casual.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside—
A photograph of her parents' wrecked car.
And on the back, written in precise black lettering:
Brake lines don't cut themselves.
Her vision blurred.
She didn't remember bringing in mail.
She didn't remember unlocking the door for anyone.
Her phone buzzed again.
A text message.
We need to talk about your parents.
Then another.
Marry me, Julie.
She stared at the words.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't impulsive.
It was strategic.
And suddenly, terrifyingly clear.
Andrew Scott hadn't chosen her because she was qualified.
He had chosen her because she was connected.