Siren Song

The rain hadn’t let up in hours. It slicked down the window in steady ribbons, warping the view of the gray, hushed street beyond. I sat curled up on the bed, one leg tucked beneath me, the other propped against the windowsill, a book open in my hands. However, I hadn’t even bothered to turn the page in twenty minutes.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t reading anyway.

The spine of the book fit comfortably between my fingers, it was an old paperback I’ve read half a dozen times, just worn enough to look believable from the outside. That’s all that matters. The illusion. Isn’t that the only thing they care about anyway?

A warm lamp glowed beside me, casting soft light on my face, hair, and silhouette. In this moment I was a painting meant to be looked at.

I knew he was out there.

I didn’t know his name. Or where he was exactly. Which car he might be in. Or which beach bum he happened to be. But I have felt his eyes for weeks now, maybe longer. A presence. A shift in the air just before dusk. The tickle on my skin when the wind didn’t move and the hair on my arms stood up. Intuition? Maybe. Some semblance of my survival instincts trying to kick in? Probably. Self-preservation? Absolutely not.

He watched me most often when it was raining.

Thunder cracked low over Grey Harbor, distant but crawling closer. The kind of storm that settled in your bones, weighty and slow. I pretended to jump at the sudden loud disturbance announcing the storms arrival. I let my fingers brush the sleeve of my sweater like I wasn’t aware of the audience. I moved carefully, deliberately. Occasionally taking slow sips of tea, the gentle turning of a page. A performance.

It should have terrified me.

But it didn’t.

He never tried to come close. Never knocked. Never left things on the porch. It wasn’t that kind of stalking. This was quieter. Constant. Curious. Maybe even protective. And God help me, there were even nights that I waited for it — for him - longed for the odd sense of comfort the tension just outside the glass brought to me.

My phone buzzed on the windowsill beside me, jerking me out of my thoughts. A notification from the office. Theclient from hell, no doubt. I ignore it, pulling the blanket tighter across my lap, and shifting to the side, angling my face just slightly toward the window.

Let him see me. Maybe being kidnapped wouldn’t be so bad after all. In fact, it might just be the vacation I need. Less pressure, fewer demands, and no decisions. Is it even still kidnapping if I’m a willing victim? That thought makes me chuckle to myself, then slightly begin to question my own sanity.

I shrugged, exhaled slowly, and let my eyes drop back to the book as the tension coiled softly in my stomach. The rain tapped louder. The air in the room thickened.

He was still there. Watching.

And I didn’t bother to move.