Morning came too fast again. My eyes stung from hardly sleeping, but staying in bed felt useless. My brain was already wired, replaying everything: the alley, the body, the shadow I couldn't forget.
The town felt colder today. Or maybe I was just paying more attention.
People still did their usual routines — opening businesses, morning walks, coffee runs — but something was different. I could feel tension living under the sidewalks now. Blue Ridge wasn't good at hiding fear anymore.
On my way to grab breakfast, I noticed more police cars than usual. When I reached Maple Avenue, I saw an ambulance parked outside a small brick house, lights flashing but sirens off.
Not again.
A crowd gathered, whispering loudly even though they tried to look quiet. I joined them, squinting through the mess of coats and hats. Paramedics rolled out a stretcher with a covered body.
My stomach dropped. I didn't want to look.
So obviously, I kept looking.
Someone beside me murmured, "That's the Thompson girl… the college one, right?"
Another death. Another young woman.
This wasn't rare anymore. It was a pattern — even if no one admitted it.
Detective Rowan stood there again, expression hard and unreadable. He was talking to officers, pointing, pacing, annoyed like he hated repeating himself — hated being helpless.
He noticed the crowd and shouted, "Everyone, go home. Please."
But curiosity is louder than authority.
People stayed. People stared.
Me too.
When the stretcher disappeared into the ambulance, most of the crowd scattered, uncomfortable with reality again. But I stayed rooted to the spot, scanning the windows of nearby houses.
And that's when I saw it.
Across the street, second floor, a window half-covered by curtains.
A figure. Perfectly still. Watching.
Their face was hidden in shadow, but I felt the focus — like binoculars staring through me.
My chest tightened.
That had to be the killer.
Who else would watch calmly from a window while a body was taken away?
Our eyes didn't meet — theirs stayed fixed on the scene. Not blinking. Just… observing. Like they were studying reactions.
Then a hand reached out and pulled the curtain closed.
My breath rushed out in a sharp exhale.
I should've told Rowan.
I should've walked over.
I should've done something.
Instead, I stood there like an idiot and stared at an empty window.
The walk back home felt like moving underwater. My brain kept rewinding that moment. The shadow. The curtain. The stillness.
I dropped onto my couch and ran both hands through my hair.
I needed to think. I needed to make sense of it. I needed—
My phone buzzed.
News Alert: Second victim discovered in residential area. Police urge residents to stay vigilant.
Stay vigilant?
Vigilant doesn't help if you can't see the danger.
I closed the alert and opened a notes app, typing everything I remembered:
Same age range as the last woman?
Killer watches from nearby houses?
Moves freely. Doesn't care who sees.
I hesitated, then wrote another line:
The killer saw me too.
My fingertips tingled. A stupid fear, maybe, but what if they recognized that I noticed them? What if they liked that?
I stood up fast and checked the locks again. Twice. Then I paced circles in the living room like a caged animal.
This town wasn't pretending anymore — it was panicking quietly.
Even online forums exploded with theories:
"Serial Killer in Blue Ridge?" "Why aren't cops admitting the connection?" "Women say they feel watched at night."
Every post added gasoline to the fire building in my chest.
I kept thinking about that window.
The figure's calm posture.
Like they enjoyed the view.
Night came slowly, too slowly, like the sun didn't want to leave me alone with my thoughts.
I made pasta for dinner, barely tasted it, and stared at the TV without absorbing anything. When my brain needed constant distraction, that's when I knew fear was sitting beside me on the couch.
Around ten-thirty, something nudged me to look outside.
I pulled one blind open just enough to peek. Streetlights glowed dimly, and a few houses still had their porch lights on.
Across the street, a window lit up.
Not the same house where I saw the figure earlier — this one was closer. A man adjusting a lamp. Probably nothing suspicious. Just a neighbor.
Stop imagining killers everywhere, I told myself.
But another voice answered: What if it's not imagination?
I shut the blind again quickly, heart hammering.
I didn't want the killer to know I was watching.
Getting into bed didn't help. Sleep hovered just out of reach. I kept thinking about Detective Rowan's voice yesterday, stern and tired:
"If you see anything suspicious, report it."
This was suspicious.
It was more than suspicious.
I should go tell him tomorrow.
Yes. Tomorrow.
If I showed up tonight rambling about a shadow in a window, they'd think I was paranoid — or worse, attention-seeking.
But something deep inside warned:
What if tomorrow is too late?
The thought made me shiver under the blankets.
A tapping sound woke me.
Not loud — soft. Intermittent.
Tap.
… Tap.
My eyes snapped open. The room was dark. My heart pounded louder than the noise.
Was it the window? The door? Something falling? My brain spun a thousand possibilities in a second.
I slid out of bed slowly and listened.
Silence.
Maybe I imagined it.
I tiptoed to the window and dared to peek again, through the narrowest gap.
Across the street, in that same first house…
a silhouette stood by the window.
No lamp this time.
Just darkness behind them.
Watching.
Facing my building.
My breath froze.
Had they been there the whole time? Could they see me?
I dropped the blind shut and stumbled backward, shoulders hitting the wall. I squeezed my eyes closed, breathing like I'd run a marathon.
That was definitely the killer.
It had to be.
Who else stands motionless at a window in the middle of the night?
I stayed up, back pressed to the wall, until exhaustion finally pulled me under.
Morning light felt like rescue.
But sunlight doesn't erase a nightmare — just hides it until night comes back.
I decided. I had to talk to Rowan today. I got dressed quickly, barely brushing my hair. Before leaving, I took one last look out the window.
Empty.
Normal.
Pretending again.
I stepped onto the street, forcing myself to walk toward the police station. Each footstep felt like a vow: I would make them listen. I wasn't going to ignore what I saw.
People here could pretend danger didn't exist.
But I knew better.
The killer wasn't hiding in some far-off place.
They were right here.
Watching from a window.
Waiting for the next body.
And now…
they knew I was watching too.