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The closet is a deeper invasion. Her Sunday best hangs neatly, each hanger precisely spaced. Every single dress is pressed and folded neatly, perfectly. I run my hands over the fabrics, feeling the textures, imagining them against her skin, what they’d look like bunched up to her waist as I fucked her. When I turn away, I don’t close the closet door.

Her jewelry box is a small, carved wooden thing, perfectly centered on a table in the corner. I pop it open and look inside—a silver cross, a string of pearls, a few delicate chains. I lift the cross, feeling its weight, its cold metal warming in my grasp.

I set it down, on the polished wood, the chain coiled like a snake ready to strike.

She’ll see it. She’ll know someone touched it.

I’ll get to watch her slowly go insane.

Each and every thing I move is a message to her, a love note for her to find in the future.

I am here, Mercy. You can’t escape me.

The thought sends a thrill through me, a dark satisfaction that curls around my heart and squeezes tightly.

I imagine her stepping into the room, her eyes scanning the room, her brow furrowing as she notices that everything is just very slightly… off.

Did I leave that drawer open?

Why is that picture crooked?

Paranoia will set in, a slow, insidious creep up her spine, until it lives on her shoulder, watching her every move.

She’ll question her own memory, her own sanity.

And with each passing day, as the signs become more apparent, she’ll turn to me. She’ll see just how much she needs me.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I almost miss it—the sound of her key sliding into the lock.

Shit.

Without a second thought, I jump across the room and tear the closet door open, slipping inside.

It’s cramped, too tight. I have to bend my knees just to fit inside with the door closed.

It’s not lost on me that my heart beats steadily, not speeding up or skipping at all.

It’s steady and unwavering.

I’m not scared, not worried.

If anything, I’m excited.

My breathing is steady, controlled, perfectly calm.

I hear the sound of the front door opening and then closing again, and the sound of grocery bags dropping against the wall in the hallway. I listen to the thud of her shoes as she kicks them off in the living room, and then the fridge door opening, and a second later, closing again.

The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

I focus on the sound, giving my anxious mind something to focus on.