I backed up the staircase. His steps matched mine. No hurry. No fear. As if he were reeling in something he owned.
“You tracked me,” I said through a rising wave of panic. “You wrote reports about me.”
“You needed structure,” he said. “And I am the only one who can provide it.”
I turned and ran. Not toward the front door. The deadbolt stuck sometimes. I would never make it in time. Instead I sprinted down the hallway toward the study. My feet barely touched the floor. When I slammed the door shut, the frame rattled. I twisted the lock with trembling fingers.
The window was my only chance.
I shoved it open and climbed. The cold night air hit me like a slap. My foot slipped against the sill. I fell into the hedge below and landed hard on my ankle. Pain radiated up my leg. I forced myself upright and limped into the darkness.
Behind me, the front door opened. Silas stepped outside.
I did not stop running until the glowing sign of a twenty four hour market came into view. My breath tore at my throat. The clerk inside jumped as I stumbled through the door. He locked it immediately when he saw my face. I sank to the floor and tasted salt on my lips. I was not sure if it came from tears or sweat.
When the police arrived, they spoke to me gently. Their questions felt far away. They told me I was safe. Safe felt like a foreign word.
Officers apprehended Silas at home. They found him at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly, folder open as if waiting to explain his notes. He did not resist. He did not deny anything. He spoke about me with clinical distance, discussing my “patterns” and “responses” like a scientist discussing experiments.
Tests later revealed the sedatives he had slipped into my vitamins. His records documented how each dosage affected me. He had been shaping my reality with the meticulous care of someone pruning a garden. Quietly. Consistently. Purposefully.
The weeks that followed were a blur. Medical appointments. Interviews. Statements. My sister, Lucienne Rowe, refused to leave me alone. She made me tea I could barely hold. She spoke softly, but even soft words made me flinch.
Detective Harper Vale, assigned to my case, visited often. He carried himself with quiet conviction. He handled every detail with caution and kindness.
“We’re building a strong case,” he said one afternoon. “The evidence is substantial. You were being monitored for a long time.”