Chapter 5 - Daisy

I don't know who is following me.

Man. Woman. One person or several. 

I just know that something has been there long enough to learn my rhythms. My patterns and my routines.

You don't need eyes to feel that kind of attention. It settles between your shoulders, presses against the back of your thoughts, making you feel crazy. I've lived with worse. This is quieter. More patient.

It's been weeks.

And yet, I don't look back.

Looking back gives things shape. And I'm not ready to give it one. That  would make them know I feel their presence lurking which gives them ammunition so I carry on with my daily tasks. Playing dumb. 

The bell above the bookstore door rings softly as I lock up for the night. Familiar. Gentle. A sound that belongs to safety, even if safety is mostly an illusion I indulge in for the sake of routine.

I rest my forehead against the glass for a second longer than necessary. This is why I love my job as a bookstore woman. It's a world that pulls me inside and I don't have to talk to other people.

Books don't stalk you.

They don't wait.

They don't want anything.

That's why I love them.

Winter wraps around me as soon as I step out into the rain—sharp air, clean and unforgiving. My coat is thick, long enough to cover everything I don't offer to strangers. Sleeves pulled down. Scarf high. Hat pulled tightly over my head. I like how winter lets me disappear without anyone questioning it.

I walk.

The presence moves with me.

Not close. Not far. Never rushing. Like it knows I'll get where I'm going eventually. Do they do it for safety? 

Fear wants you frantic. I don't give it that satisfaction.

Halfway down the block, I collide with someone solid enough to knock the breath from my lungs. He's a god damn brick wall. 

My body reacts before my mind catches up — a sharp, involuntary flinch. One heartbeat. Then control snaps back into place like a lock clicking shut. He doesn't know me. Doesn't see what I do. Doesn't even so much as react to me colliding with him or... did he collide into me?

The man doesn't grab me to keep my feet in place.

That matters to me. And secretly I appreciate it. 

I drag my gaze up and down his form slowly. He's big. Broad. The kind of man who looks built rather than born. Dark coat. Dark eyes. Stillness that feels intentional. His suit is pressed firmly to strong muscles. Blonde hair slicked back like he's just left a meeting and is on his way home but his face... god, he looks so sour and morbid.

"Watch where you're going," he grits out like I have personally offended him by being here. In his way.

"Excuse me?" I ask. 

Calm voice. Measured. Like he's not used to repeating himself he looks me up and down like I did with him and rolls his eyes. "I said. Watch. Where. You're going."

I straighten my scarf and meet his stare head on. Inside I'm shivering. Probably from the rain but he doesn't help matters. 

"You were standing in the middle of the path," I reply evenly. "Unless this is a new form of urban décor, that's on you Mr."

Something flickers in his expression — not anger. Interest. Like he expected something else and didn't get it. Maybe he expected me to cower? Bend to his will and lay out the red carpet and let him walk over it like he owns London? No. Fuck him.

"You always talk like that?" he asks.

"Only when people start conversations badly," I say. "You should try hello next time. Or...Maybe you should try and say "Sorry. I didn't see you there" and then move on with your day," I rant out. It's cold. I'm hungry and I need a cup of tea to go with my new book. 

A pause.

Oh shit. 

He studies me, gaze briefly dipping once again — this time, there is no sneer or leering, not intrusive but more observational. Calculating.

I don't move.

"You should be careful walking alone. At night" he says while looking around and I want to laugh. If I do then I don't hear it. 

I tilt my head. "Is that you offering advice, or auditioning to be the problem?"

That earns me the faintest curve of his mouth. Not friendly. Not threatening. Just... entertained.

"Just advice."

"Then I'll file it appropriately," I say, stepping around him. "Under unsolicited."

I walk away without waiting for a response.

The presence follows me again — unchanged, unbothered — but something about it feels more alert now. As if something has been noted. Logged. Clicked and saved like I'm a document. 

I don't like that.

My apartment building smells like old stone and burnt coffee. Mrs F is waiting at the door, tail flicking with accusation. Staring directly at me as if I have abandoned her for weeks. 

"I know," I tell her. "I'm late."

She doesn't forgive me.

I turn the lights on and feed her before anything else, then set the kettle on. I hate silence. I hate the dark. Sound keeps the edges of my thoughts from getting too sharp.

When I open the door in the lobby to grab the mail from my cubby, I freeze.

Someone has been here.

Not because something is broken. Not because anything is disturbed.

Because things have been placed.

A small box.

And a single red rose, laid carefully on top.

No name. No note.

My pulse slows instead of racing. That's worse.

This isn't a threat.

It's attention.

I stay there, fingertips brushing the small box. Whoever did this knows where I live. Knows how to make a point without saying a word. They need me to notice that they can come and go whenever they want. Progress on their part? Maybe they are waiting for me to cower? Shake in fear and cry on the floor. Scream into the sky and ask who it is. 

I don't. 

Mrs. Blackwood sniffs the rose and sneezes violently.

"Same," I murmur and throwing it in the bin next to me. 

I carry the box inside and lock the door behind me. Unlock and relock. Once. Then twice.

The kettle clicks off in the kitchen, loud in the otherwise quiet flat that I share with my best friend, Sloane.

I don't know who's watching me.

I don't know why.

But I do know this:

They didn't choose a fragile girl.

They chose the wrong one.