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Six Years Later

Six years is a long time to live like a ghost.

I’ve changed my name, grown out my hair, and learned to keep my head down. But inside, I’m still running. Still watching the door. Still waiting for the past to catch up. I changed my name, too. I’m Eli Roberts now.

The new nose was a happy accident. It came via some asshole’s lucky punch in a dive bar bathroom. Turned out his father’s pay-out came with a top-tier plastic surgeon and a wad of cash thick enough to help me relocate to Southern California.

Now when I catch my reflection, smoother angles, softer tip, I almost don’t recognize the man staring back.

I’ve worked truck stops, gas stations, warehouses. But my job here at Heroes Bar pretty sure she meant Fullerton.

And yes, there’s a Heroes in Fullerton. Bingo.

Another time, she joked about knowing a bartender named Rico with a ponytail and a bad Led Zeppelin addiction.

Said the jukebox in his bar “only played heartbreak.” I called Heroes, asked for Rico.

They said he wasn’t in, that he worked the night shift. Bingo #2.

It’s all there, if you’re paying attention.

I am; I was.

I haven’t told her who I am. Not really. Online, I’m just Fang950 , some anonymous guy with a taste for vampire lore and late-night chats. I drop a few fake details, toss in some honesty to keep it real. But mostly, I listen. I collect notes on her.

The way she writes. The timing of her replies. The way she hesitates before answering anything too personal. She slips up sometimes. Leaves a crumb trail.

Little did she know she was being stalked by a Grade-A psychopath.