The note was waiting on my pillow.
Three words, typed on plain white paper: I SEE YOU.
My apartment was locked. The windows were secure. I'd checked them twice before leaving this morning, the way I always did—a habit my therapist called "hypervigilance" and I called "being a woman who lives alone in Brooklyn."
Someone had been inside.
I dropped my bag and stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly aware of every shadow, every silent corner, every place a person could hide. The evening light slanted through my kitchen window, casting long shapes across the floor. Nothing moved. The apartment felt empty in that specific way that only comes from actually being empty.
But someone had been here. Someone had touched my pillow. Someone had left this message.
I called the police because that's what you're supposed to do. Two officers arrived, checked the locks (intact), dusted for prints (none), and asked if I'd upset anyone lately.
"I run a nonprofit that teaches coding to kids," I said. "My biggest conflict this month was convincing a ten-year-old that semicolons matter."
They nodded sympathetically and left with instructions to call if anything else happened.
Things happened.
The photos arrived three days later.
An envelope slipped under my door, no return address, postmarked from my own zip code. Inside: seventeen photographs of me going about my daily life. Getting coffee at the corner shop. Entering Code Forward headquarters. Laughing with Elena at lunch. Each image crisp and clear and taken from angles that suggested serious equipment and serious patience.
The back of the last photo had writing: SOON.
I went to the police again. They opened a file. They suggested I vary my routines, stay aware of my surroundings, consider a security system. They did not seem particularly alarmed.
"Could be a prank," the detective said. "Someone with a grudge. Maybe an ex?"
"I don't have any exes who would do this."
"You'd be surprised what people do."
I called Elena. I called my co-workers. I called my father, which felt like admitting defeat.
Nathaniel Sinclair answered on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting. "Avery. It's been months."
"I know. I'm sorry. Work has been—"
"I heard about the notes."
Of course he had. My father's company built the surveillance systems that half the Fortune 500 relied on. Information flowed to him like water finding low ground.
"I need help," I admitted.
"I'll send a security team."
"Not your team." I could already imagine them—suits and earpieces and the particular energy of people who worked for my father, which meant they ultimately reported to him. "Someone independent. Someone who doesn't owe you anything."
A pause. "I know someone."
"Who?"
"A former Secret Service agent. He's good. He's... unaffiliated."
The word landed strangely. "Unaffiliated how?"
"He had some trouble. Left the service under circumstances that weren't entirely his choice." My father's voice carried no judgment, which was unusual. He judged everyone. "But he's the best at personal protection. And he owes me a favor."
"I don't want your favors."
"Then consider it his. He needs the work, Avery. You need protection. Sometimes the universe aligns even broken pieces."
I hated when my father talked like that—like he saw patterns in the chaos that the rest of us missed. But I was running out of options.
"Fine. Send me his information."
"I'll send him directly. Tomorrow morning."
"Dad—"
"This isn't negotiable. Someone is watching you. Until we know who and why, you need a shadow of your own." His voice softened, just barely. "I know we don't see eye to eye on much. But I won't lose you to some stalker's obsession. Not while I can prevent it."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to assert my independence, to remind him that I'd spent a decade building a life specifically designed to exist outside his orbit. But the note was still on my coffee table. The photos were spread across my desk. And somewhere out there, someone was watching.
"Tomorrow morning," I agreed.
"His name is Marcus Cole. And Avery?" A pause. "He's not like my usual people. You might actually like him."
I doubted that. I didn't like any of my father's solutions.
But at 2 AM, lying awake and listening to every creak in my apartment, I was willing to try anything.
Even a stranger with a troubled past and a talent for keeping people alive.