He’s beautiful today. I mean, he always is, but especially today—he’s wearing my favorite shirt of his, the blue button-down that brings out the shine in his eyes, the one with sleeves that he rolls up just right to reveal lovely forearms. He’s rushing down the sidewalk, a curl of hair hanging in his face. No cup of coffee today; he’s too late for that. I already knew he overslept; usually he’s at the cafe by 8:02, crossing the park by 8:31, maybe 8:35 if the line’s been too long. But now it’s a glaring 8:44, and he’s still got a crosswalk, twelve floors, and a stubborn biometric scanner standing between him and his cubicle.

The light turns green and he jogs across the road, his satchel swinging against his hip. Even from here I can see the patch of sweat staining his back, shifting the baby blue to navy. You can do it, I silently cheer him on. You’ll make it! You won’t be late!

8:50 and he disappears through his office building’s shiny glass doors.

I release a little sigh. I should be clocking in myself and getting to my own desk, but I always like to delay it. Sometimes I dream that I follow him inside, share the same elevator, and watch him from the corner of my eye. Maybe he’ll greet me good morning—he is that sort of gentleman. Or maybe we’d work together. I’d be the newbie sitting across him, he’d be assigned to show me the ropes, and we’d exchange awkward laughs and disbelieving glances during boring meetings. He’d congratulate me on a job well done, linger in the break room and tell me about the latest episode of his favorite TV show (right now it’s Breaking Bad, but secretly it’s Love Island), and one of us will cough up enough guts to ask the other out for dinner.

“Riza! Oh my god. I thought I was going to be late!”

I turn to find a woman running towards me. She skids to a stop and begins to pant, lays a hand on her chest, and then digs into her monstrosity of a purse in search of her timecard. It beeps softly when she inserts it.

“You…” Mary gasps, “haven’t punched in yet.”

“Oh?” I swipe the timecard that I’ve been gripping in my hand, previously forgotten. “I forgot.”

“What were you staring at?”

“I saw a man with a really cute dog.”

“Just the dog?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“Good thing he didn’t hear you.” She grins, takes me by the elbow, and directs me to the nearest revolving door. “Now come on. Let’s head inside before the boss has our heads again.”

 

~*~

 

This is what I know about the man I love. His name is Enrique Valdez, but all his friends call him Ricky. He turns thirty this year, a fact that distresses him. He’s a couch potato who’s slightly obsessed with Netflix. Queen is his favorite band, but secretly he listens to a lot of Ed Sheeran too. He has a sister who lives across the city (she’s got a husband, two kids, a dog) and parents who live halfway across the country. Every other Friday he meets his old college buddies in a bar; it changes each time, except for the fact that none of them are fancy enough for a dress code. He does not have a girlfriend, though he’s gone on dates, and he’s on Tinder and Bumble. Despite the amount of girls he’s been with, none of them ever stick. It’s rare for him to go past the second or third date. Maybe he’s got poor luck in love like me.

I met him at the cafe he always visits. He’d been standing in line in front of me, and as he turned, I realized he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Not model-gorgeous, not Instagram superstar-gorgeous—just humanly gorgeous in the way that even his flaws registered as proof of his perfection. His phone’s lock screen was a photo of his sister’s dog (I only learned this later). He ordered a plain macchiato. He let the little old lady behind him go first.

It was 8:02 AM. I remember this, because every morning he was there like clockwork. I was new to my job—the rookie who had to get everyone’s coffee. Truth is, that day had been terrible; I’d been close to tears. My bathroom was leaking, and I wasn’t sure if I could afford to fix it. My boss had yelled at me for the second time that week. I spilled coffee on the hem of my new skirt. And it had started raining as soon as I entered the cafe. Without an umbrella, I’d have to run back to the office, a pack of boiling cups in hand, or else I’d be late to a meeting.

So the moment I saw him, I felt the clouds part to reveal a shining sun.

Maybe it was an overreaction. But each time I see him, my heart skips a beat. That I cannot deny. I love him, I love him, I love him. In the movies there’s a soaring instrumental soundtrack, a dramatic camera zoom, a gust of wind blowing my perfectly coiffed hair. Instead, I have my blouse stuck to my body with sweat, my hair frizzy with humidity, and the love of my life standing just out of reach. A bauble in a glass jar, set above a pedestal.

Sometimes, I am afraid to sully him with my own hands.

But that’s okay. I’ve always been a patient girl. I’m not good at anything else, but I am good at waiting.

So I wait. And I watch.

 

~*~

 

6:00 PM, I clock out. Office chatter while waiting by the exit, now it’s 6:05 PM. Grab a quick dinner at the nearest food court, wait in line for a sluggish cashier, finish at 6:50 PM. Stake out at the park, 6:52.

By now Ricky has finished his overtime (I used to think he worked too hard, or had a hard-ass boss, but turns out he spends a lot of time just chatting with his coworkers), so he’s crossing the pedestrian lane, crossing the park, his satchel swinging at his hip.

I smile secretly. Let him pass. Hello, darling. You worked hard today. How about some dinner?

As soon as he reaches the end of the park, I follow. I always swap my heels for a pair of comfy sneakers before I leave the office. He lives three kilometers away; he’d moved here after he was promoted. Saves him a two-hour commute, back and forth. There’s a large enough crowd between us that he’d never notice me, and if he did, he could mistake me for one of the thousands of people who pass this route every day.

Cross another street. Walk straight, go past the bus stop. Turn left. Avoid the mass of college kids. Avoid the pair of gawking tourists. Stop in front of a shiny new apartment building, newly renovated.

He enters. I blend into the shadows of a 24/7 convenience store and wait.

He keeps his blinds shut, so I can never see inside. But I’ve already got his routine memorized by now. First, he changes out of his work clothes. Second, he turns on the TV while reheating his dinner. On my phone, I can already track what he’s watching. Another episode of Love Island, the sop.

It’s only after his microwave pings that I head home.

~*~

 

You might ask me, don’t you want to meet him? Don’t you want to talk to him? Don’t you want to be with him physically?

And my answer is… no. I’m fine with this distance. We are together, even if other people can’t understand. I’m happy like this.

I could stay this way forever.

 

~*~

 

Friday night. Predictable. Ricky actually clocks out of work on time to meet his college buddies in one of the bars downtown. Friday night is Mary and her husband’s date night too, so she never bothers me with extra prattle. I’m out of the office in less than five minutes.

Ricky and his friends are meeting at a new place tonight. Boar Garden, it’s called, some terrible pun. Running late, one of his friends messages on Facebook. Catch you there!

Heading there now, Ricky replies.

See, at first I thought he’d discover me logged into all his accounts. But I’ve never fiddled with anything, just watched. And so he hasn’t noticed.

I head to the Boar Garden as soon as I can. It’s nearer my office than his, so I have enough time to settle into the coffee shop on the other end of the road. Luckily, both establishments have wide glass windows and enough light to reveal all that’s inside. And when Ricky and his friends arrive, they’re right in sight.

I wish I could come closer, but I have to satisfy myself with this distance. The few times I was brave enough to sit in the same bar as him, my body was constantly on edge with electric fire. It was both terrifying and exhilarating to be so close. But being too close means a higher chance of being spotted, and I cannot have that at all costs.

See, I know all his regular friends. I know what they look like and what they order each time (it’s the same; men are predictable). Peter is one of his coworkers; he’s got a girlfriend he never posts about and a gym routine that he always does. Alfredo—Freddie for short—is perpetually single and loves to bemoan the state of the world on Facebook. Raf is a marketing consultant and perpetually traveling.

None of them compare to my Ricky though.

They always stay for three hours. I watch them as I eat dinner and sip my coffee. There’s a tablet in front of me but I’m not actually working, and sadly the glass is too thick for me to take decent pictures. But still, a happy sigh zips through my body. I am content with this. It is a blessing to even watch.

The crowd at the bar changes frequently, though the group of four men remains. Once they’re finished, they make the necessary goodbyes, the promises to get together again next week. Ricky laughs, cheeks already ruddy with the alcohol. He’ll sober up on the walk home. He always does.

The others bid their goodbyes and exit in the opposite direction. I track Ricky as he crosses the pavement. By now I’m packing my bags, the meal already paid for.

But as soon as I attempt to tail him, someone gets in my way.

I grit my teeth. There’s a man between us. He’d emerged from the bar; I recognize him. I silently beg him to turn elsewhere. How can I see Ricky with him in the way? He’s tall but lanky, dressed in all black, his head bowed and hands shoved into his pockets. Looking as nondescript as possible. I can’t overtake him, because then I’ll be close enough to be seen. But I can’t tail Ricky from here.

As I cross the road, Ricky takes a detour. Usually he cuts through the park, but instead he goes around it.

The man follows.

As we near the residential area this late at night, the crowd thins. Everyone else stays near the city center. The roads are bare, and the streetlamps flicker with a ghastly glow. Now there are only three of us: Ricky, the strange man, and me.

Oh no, I think. Is this man going to hurt Ricky? Is he going to rob him?

I finger the switchblade in my purse. It’s shaped like lipstick and was a gift from Mary. Us women have to look out for ourselves, she’d advised as she gave it to me. Take care, Riza!

If he tries anything, I’ll run and stab him right in the spine. Maybe the back of the neck. I can’t tell where his nape is with his hood on, but I figure any damage is good enough.

Ricky yawns and stumbles into a 24-hour convenience store. The man stops and hides in the shadows of a nearby bush.

Oh no. Oh no. He’s definitely planning something.

Just as I consider approaching him, Ricky exits. He continues home, the two of us tailing him. I hasten my speed. My sneakers are silent.

The man doesn’t relent.

We’ve reached Ricky’s apartment complex. For a moment I wonder if the stranger is going to follow him inside but… no. He just hides by the convenience store across it.

The same way I do.

The man lifts his head. Minutes pass. I stand there, my breath held, my body still. Eventually, the light in Ricky’s apartment turns on. His shadow is dark against the blinds.

We stand there: me watching the stranger, him watching Ricky.

Eventually, Ricky draws the curtains too. Now nothing is visible except for a faint halo of light. I breathe, the switchblade still cupped in my palm.

The stranger shrugs and then moves. I continue to trail him, my entire body boiling with anger. That’s right, I think. Get away from him. Don’t you dare—

A bus speeds down the road, a mess of blaring horns and blinding light. I startle, almost dropping the blade. By the time I look at the sidewalk again, the stranger is gone.

~*~

 

“Time to clock out!” Mary cheers. “Goodbye, Monday!”

I hit save on my spreadsheet and shut down my laptop. Mary chats with the woman seated on her other side as she gathers her purse and blazer. The din of the office barely registers in my brain. All I can think is I need to protect Ricky.

It’s unreasonable, I know. Drunkenly walking home all alone late at night… of course he’d be an easy target for criminals. I spent the entire weekend worried about him, but all he did was binge-watch an entire season of some crime show and then scroll through Facebook until 2 AM.

I managed to install remote access on all his devices by sending him a spam link through Messenger. I was disheartened that he fell for it so easily, but that’s all the more reason why I should protect him. He’s naive like that. Adorably clueless.

Anyway, today is Monday, so like any reasonable adult, he’s itching to get home. I rush past my coworkers, past the revolving doors of my office building, and past the after-work crowd of commuters.

There he is, already cutting across the park. Ricky. A beacon of light against the dull backdrop of office workers, senior citizens, and the random jogger. I take the scene in for a moment, the way I always do, sighing happily—

Until a familiar silhouette slinks into shape behind him.

This is a busy place. It makes sense to see the same faces going on the same routes day in and day out. But that same tall stranger dressed all in black, right at Ricky’s heels? Could it be a coincidence?

Amateur, I think. But that makes it easier.

I follow both of them.

We weave through the park, one unbroken line. Nobody else seems to notice that something is wrong. That I’ve got a blade in my fist, ready to strike.

Ricky turns the corner. The stranger does the same. So do I—

Only to be shoved against the wall. My teeth rattle together. Pain and panic cloud my vision until I register the hand gripping my shoulder. The masked face looming over me, harsh eyes and a dark brow. My backpack slips from my other shoulder.

“Are you following me?” he barks.

My heart seizes. I move on instinct.

The stranger pulls away as my knife slices his sleeve. He hisses, covers his arm with his other hand. A faint bead of blood wells across his exposed skin. I grab my fallen backpack and wield the knife in front of me like it’s an entire sword. He’s out of arm’s reach now, but if he steps any closer…

“You crazy—” he starts.

“Are you following that man?” I interrupt, willing my hand not to shake. His brows scrunch together.

“What?”

“Enrique Valdez,” I murmur. “Are you following him?”

Recognition flits across his face, along with something darker. Something that makes me grip my knife even tighter.

“How do you know him?” he asks. His voice is flat now, silent, and it reeks of danger. My heart pounds so fiercely I fear it’ll rip right out of my chest.

“How do you know him?”

“He’s an old friend.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that. I know all his friends.” My palm is slick with sweat. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

From beneath his mask, I catch his jaw tensing. “I’m not going to hurt him.” Then he steps back, his shoulders falling, even as that harsh glint remains in his eye. “You should go.”

“No.” I won’t let him disarm me. I won’t let him strike.

“No?”

“You don’t scare me.”

It’s an utter lie. But maybe if I say it out loud, I can convince myself. He blinks, and I take that moment to charge at him. He knocks my knife hand aside, but it’s too late. I’m on him, shoving him backwards, my hand swiping at his face. His mask comes free, tumbling to the ground along with my knife. With a surge of strength, he shoves me so violently that I crash into the asphalt, my palms and knees stinging with pain.

But I don’t allow myself more than a moment to collect myself. Once the world has stopped spinning, I get up, ignoring the dirt and blood sticking to my skin. I don’t know where my knife has gone, but now the stranger is staring at me. And his face…

I recognize that face.

It’s true. I know all of Ricky’s friends. I’ve seen this man before. But he was younger then. Shorter, lankier, with an awful mop of hair. In the background of Ricky’s college photos, on the other end of the table in group shots. Not in every picture, but common enough that you could tell they ran in the same circles. And eventually, he stopped appearing. But I figured it was just a matter of friends drifting apart.

“I’m⁠—” he stammers, “I’m sorry. You should have just stayed away.”

It must take me too long to reply, because he covers his lower face with a palm and turns to flee.

“Wait!” I manage. I run after him, but my leg buckles, still sore from my fall. I stagger. He disappears around the bend. “Wait!”

I prop myself against the wall. He’s gone now. And I’m all alone.

But now I know where to look.

 

~*~

 

It’s amazing how much of someone else’s life you can piece together with breadcrumbs and an internet connection.

It’s true. I know all of Ricky’s friends. I recognize the ones who matter enough to be uploaded on his profile. The ones who tag him, the ones who get tagged. I go back years (he used to be so much skinnier, bare faced like a baby) until I find the jackpot. It’s a group photo: three boys standing in the middle of the frame, wearing matching green t-shirts for some environmental fundraiser. Ricky is at the right, his smile bright, his friend’s arm slung over his shoulder. Behind them, a girl runs, blurred mid-motion. Behind her is a rickety stall painted white and green. SAVE THE TURTLES! the banner on top reads. And manning the booth is that stranger. He’s shorter here, his hair unfashionably flat, his limbs like twigs. He wears an awkward half-smile, like he isn’t sure if the photo is for him.

But it is, and he’s been tagged.

Henry Chang.

Bullseye.

Henry’s social media presence is practically nonexistent. His Facebook account is friends-locked only, and his profile photo is a single black square. No date of birth, no location, no workplace. No mutual friends. It’s as if he’s dropped off the face of the virtual earth.

No other social media accounts under his real name, at least. No reusing usernames, no articles, nothing. No siblings. No parents online. No girlfriend?

I can’t tell who his new friends are. If he has any new friends.

I slump against my chair with a sigh. What does he want? Why is he following Ricky around? How do I stop him?

When I’m bored or stressed, I check Ricky’s accounts on instinct. I don’t mean to check up on him so frequently, but it’s ingrained now. Second nature. My day isn’t complete without seeing how he’s doing.

Enrique is currently watching… Enrique liked Betsy’s post… Enrique commented… Enrique posted a photo. “The best office view on earth!” … Freddie checked in at the Boar Garden with Enrique and 2 others. “Boys night out!”

Wait a minute.

Henry only appeared at the Boar Garden. That’s how he found Ricky and followed him home.

Could he be tracking his social media too? He must be.

Panicked, I almost drop my phone. If I disable Ricky’s account, he’ll just make a new one. Besides, Henry already knows where he works and lives. I need to find out what he wants.

I need to smoke him out.

~*~

 

I know how Henry thinks because he thinks like me.

I’ve been playing this game longer, so I’d say I’m smarter, but that’s beside the point. The next time Ricky updates his social media, Henry will be there.

So will I.

And I don’t even have to wait long. The next day, Ricky is tagged in a photo at some new, hip cafe. I know the woman who posted it isn’t his girlfriend, though the selfie with his arm around her says otherwise. At least the indignation encourages me to get there at record speed.

It’s a new, spacious, fancy place. Wide glass windows to let the moonlight inside. Ferns and plants hanging from pots on the ceiling. A faux brick wall on one end, and the bar on the other. Even though it’s three quarters full, my eye is immediately drawn to Ricky and his friend (Mina Sanchez, twenty-nine years old, likes baking, has a shih tzu named Bonbon). They’re nursing their drinks as they laugh over the menu.

But for once, he isn’t my target.

“Hello,” I say, awfully cheerful. I slide into a vinyl booth. Henry picked well; you can see Ricky perfectly. “What a coincidence to find you here.”

Because of course, Henry Chang is sitting right in front of me, a full cup of coffee by his elbow. For once he’s dressed like a regular human being: blue t-shirt, dark jeans, fake round glasses. His eyes widen the moment he sees me, but this is a crowded place; he won’t make a scene here.

He glares as I take my seat.

“You,” he murmurs. It’s so harsh that I instinctively clench my fist. I’m hiding a new switchblade underneath the table, ready for the slightest provocation. “You need to stop following me. Or else.”

“You need to stop following him,” I hiss. A waitress passes, undeterred. We both flinch. I lean in closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. “What do you want? I know who you are, Henry Chang.”

If he’s shocked that I know his name, he doesn’t show it.

“Leave Enrique alone,” I continue, “or else you’ll regret it.”

He glances down briefly, catches the shine of my knife. His lips tighten. I stare back smugly, assuming he’s been cowed, but then a hand grabs my wrist beneath the table. I jerk, flex my hand, almost drop the knife. He’s too strong for me to turn it on him, no matter how hard I try.

My heart pounds now, louder and louder until it’s all I hear. My wrist hurts from the strength of his grip. No matter which way I turn, it gets tighter, deadlier, more serious than I would have imagined. He’ll leave bruises, I’m sure. But what are a few bruises to protect a life? My fingers tremble, now stained with sweat, as I struggle not to drop my only weapon.

To his credit—his stupidity?—he doesn’t steal it from me. Just holds me down in plain intimidation.

“I’m not going to hurt Enrique,” he replies, voice low. To anyone else, our scene would seem intimate. But the fire in his eyes says something else. “I told you. I’m an old friend.”

“Old friends don’t follow each other to their homes late at night, do they?”

“But you’re not his old friend,” he continues, ignoring my question. “You’re not his friend at all. So what’s your excuse for stalking him day and night?”

“Stalking?” I almost yell, outraged. Silverware clangs in the distance. I jump in my seat, wincing as his grip tightens. My voice lowers again. “It’s not stalking. It’s protecting him from criminals like you who wish him harm—”

“And what would Enrique think about that, hm? Would he appreciate your protection?”

“Would he appreciate yours? Or did he stop talking to you for a reason? Get over him, Henry. It’s been ten years.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t know what actually happened.”

“Maybe I don’t need to. All I know is that if you ended things on good terms, then you’d have no problem going up to him and striking a conversation. Instead you’re hiding in the shadows like a freak.” Like me.

His jaw tenses. And then he releases me. Gravity takes over; I’d been fighting his strength too hard. My body flies backwards so violently that I slam my head against the seat of the booth. A couple of heads whip towards me. I cradle my skull with one hand, my cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and righteous fury.

Henry’s cheek twitches with a miniscule smile.

The din passes, and everyone ignores us again. From the corner of my eye, I see that Ricky and his friend are almost finished with their main course.

“Who’s calling me a freak?” Henry shrugs. The voice is lighthearted, but his grimace says otherwise. “You’re pining over a man who doesn’t even know you exist.”

“You don’t understand. My love for him is pure. Unlike yours.”

“Pure? What do you actually know about him?”

“His favorite food. His favorite TV show, which changes every year. How he likes his eggs for breakfast. The fact that he secretly hates his job even though he’s been working harder than any of his coworkers. The fact that he’s been saving up to take a vacation to South Korea, but it keeps getting delayed because his mother always needs extra money. His favorite shirt is the blue one with a pocket on the chest. He likes his coffee—”

“Sickeningly sweet with caramel.” Henry finishes at the same time. I’m stunned. All I can do is blink stupidly. He nods once, as if we’re having a normal conversation and aren’t ready to knock each other out over the dining table. “He hasn’t changed at all.”

My heart seizes.

“You’ve known him for a long time,” I murmur. “Why would you—why would you let go of that?”

Henry looks at me, and then glances over my shoulder. Towards Enrique, I know.

And then he meets my eyes again, his gaze hardening with ice. I swallow down the urge to throw his coffee cup at his head.

“He isn’t who you think he is,” Henry says. “I learned that the hard way too. We all did.”

His eyes flick behind me again. I follow the movement and find Ricky and his friend getting up from their table. Henry slides a bill beneath his mug and rises. I follow suit, my heart doing too many gymnastics to think properly.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, voice trembling.

“What I do best.” He doesn’t even look at me. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He grabs my arm and directs me out of the cafe, right at Ricky’s heels. He and Mina are huddled close together, arm and arm. Ricky says something, and Mina throws her head back in laughter. She’s pretty in a polished, made-up way. Exactly his type, if his ex-girlfriends are proof.

It’s a Saturday night, and the streets are roaring with couples and friends out to drink. Henry and I blend in pretty well—as do Ricky and Mina. Camouflage is key to this situation, but I recoil at the idea of anyone seeing me with Henry and thinking…

Ricky and Mina turn around the corner, into a more isolated area. Opposite of the heart of the city, far away from the whooping partygoers and cozy couples.

For a moment, my heart sinks at the idea that maybe they’re heading to Mina’s place.

They pause at an empty street corner: two figures posed like a sculpture, illuminated by a lone streetlamp. The stop light across the road blinks green, but there are no cars or pedestrians to signal anyway. Nobody but the four of us in the chilly night air.

“I had fun tonight,” Mina says. We’re far enough that it’s hard to discern her words, but she’s had more than one glass of wine and is a little over-excited. “It was so good to see you.”

She pats Ricky’s shoulder. Leans in close and presses her lips to his cheek.

My entire world grinds to a halt.

But time resumes again, and Mina steps aside. She’s facing us now, and I can’t see Ricky’s expression. He murmurs something and she bats his arm playfully. He pulls her closer, so gently I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking so hard.

Mina laughs again, strained this time. I can feel Henry tensing beside me, but I refuse to rip my gaze away from the couple in front of us.

Ricky glances towards the road on the right. Mina shakes her head, smiles, pats him intimately on the shoulder. But Ricky won’t let go of her waist. Why isn’t he letting go of her waist? Why aren’t they walking home together?

“I thought he had stopped,” Henry murmurs, intensely forlorn.

“Stopped what?” I whisper back.

Mina jerks away. Her face is all red and splotchy under the fluorescent lights. She’s unsteady, too unsteady, and almost topples to the ground. Ricky catches her, but she doesn’t seem grateful.

Henry starts walking towards them.

“Wait, don’t!” I hiss, reaching for him. But he shrugs off my grip and keeps walking. And walking. And walking. Until Mina glances at him, until Ricky realizes they aren’t alone.

When Ricky spins around and registers the stranger, his face blanches white.

“You,” Ricky stutters, “You’re supposed to be in jail.”

Henry takes a single step towards them. Ricky reels back. He must have forgotten that he’s still holding Mina’s arm. At the mention of jail, even the woman starts trembling.

“Who is that?” I can hear her asking. “Why is he here?”

“I only went to jail because I hid your evidence,” Henry says, voice eerily flat. “Because you begged me to. I thought you would take back all those disgusting words you hurled at me. I thought you would forgive me if I helped you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ricky says, voice trembling.

“But I regret everything,” Henry continues, unperturbed. “You might have never been the man I thought you were, but I thought that you had changed at least.” He turns his head and focuses on Mina. “Run,” he tells her.

Mina does. Ricky doesn’t bother to stop her. She stumbles around the corner, her footsteps noisy against the pavement. Smack. Smack. Smack. Until it dies down, and we’re left with silence.

Still, Ricky is frozen with fear. I want to go up to Henry and stop him, but my body refuses to move. This man is more dangerous than I thought. If he’s gone to jail, then what is one tiny knife against all of him?

And yet something nags at me.

What evidence?

“Nobody will believe you,” Ricky murmurs, eyes wide. “You were my fucking stalker. You were the freak. You killed her.”

“You and I both know all I did was hide the body.”

“Get away—”

Ricky takes one step back. Henry takes one step closer. Here they are in some strange song and dance.

“I told you I would leave you alone,” Henry says, “as long as you stopped doing it.”

“I’m calling the cops on you,” Ricky hisses.

“How many more women?” Henry’s voice rises. “How many more after her?”

Ricky’s face is so red I fear he’ll have a heart attack. When Henry lunges for him, my feet come unstuck. I run and tackle Henry to the ground with a roar. Our bodies collide painfully against the asphalt, and his shoulder smacks me right in the forehead. The world spins. But at least I stopped him from pulling anything.

Henry shoves me off of him but it’s too late. Ricky is looking at me now. What must he see under the sole streetlamp? My face all flushed, my hair a mess, my forehead red from the force of Henry’s blow.

I’ve dreamed about this moment countless times. I know it’s all fantasy—it’s better that way. Sometimes he gapes at me, jaw wide open, stunned by my beauty. Sometimes he offers a shy smile. Sometimes he recognizes me with an open laugh.

But not like this. Not with fear, fury, disgust.

“You,” Ricky chokes. “You’re that bitch who works across the street and keeps staring at me. Don’t tell me you’re with him too.”

“No!” I scream. But Ricky’s body might have finally caught up, because he takes that moment to bolt away from both of us. He disappears around the corner, just like Mina did. He’ll have to make a long detour home. I should make sure he’s okay, but—

He recognized me.

He knew me.

He called me a bitch.

I saved him, and he ran away from me.

He wasn’t beautiful at all.

“Get off,” Henry grunts. I hardly realize that I’m still lying on his legs. But he manages to roll out of the way and get back on his feet. He dusts himself off, face dark even in the glowing lamp light.

“I don’t understand,” I splutter. “He…”

“He’s a devil in disguise. Always has been.” Henry glances at me but doesn’t offer a hand. “Now leave. And never think about him again.”

I scramble onto my knees. My bruises sting. “What happened that night?” I cry. I yank his shirt, but he’s unmoved. “What did the two of you do?”

Henry shakes off my grip. He stares at me, mouth a hard line, and then his shoulders sag in defeat.

“You still don’t understand?” he whispers. A gust of wind blows, ruffling our hair, our clothes. I shiver. “He’d been on a date. The girl was drunk. He took her home, but she fought back. And he…”

“You hid her body,” I finish, words trembling.

“I was there,” Henry says, face pinched now. “I saw everything. He was so… distraught. For the first time in my life, he didn’t hate me. He begged me—if I loved him, then I should help him. And so I did.” He glances down, stares at the asphalt. “But I shouldn’t have. I was caught. He still hated me. And while she was the only woman who died, she wasn’t the only one he forced.”

My chest seizes.

“I got out of jail and just wanted to check on him one last time,” Henry finishes. “To make sure he had stopped.”

And then he pulls over his hood and glances at me. “You should go before someone arrives,” he tells me. Without waiting for a reply, he spins on his heel and vanishes into the night.

I stare into the darkness, dumbstruck.

Ricky wasn’t the love of my life at all. He was a shiny apple with a rotten core. But I shiver again. Because in that moment, Henry had looked incandescently beautiful.