Page 14 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Seven

Brooklyn

Being home is my safe space, but this meeting is to solidify contracts that should have been done months ago.

My laptop hums as it struggles to keep up with all the tabs I have open.

The inbox is a swamp of flagged contracts and anxiety, but I don’t open any of it.

Instead, I check the itinerary again, re-read the meeting agenda for the third time, as if repetition could turn the future into something predictable.

I reach for my third coffee of the day. The mug is heavy, the kind with a thick rim and a quote in block print (“There is no such thing as too much coffee or too much power”).

My father’s idea of a joke. The contents are cold.

I sip anyway, chasing the sour, metallic aftertaste with a swallow of pride.

This place hasn’t gone bankrupt or burnt to the ground in my father’s absence.

Success is defined by small steps. Or so they say.

Whoever ‘they’ are. This is my kingdom, or it will be, if I don’t screw up today.

I glance at the wall clock. The numbers are too sharp, too real.

I look away and let my gaze settle on the view outside: the towers and traffic, a world of tiny, indifferent stories.

I try to imagine who might be watching from out there, which window my shadow is projected onto, but the thought is too big, so I shrink it down to the familiar. The watcher. The hiker. The dream.

The skin on my neck prickles. I reach up and touch the spot just beneath my collar, where the bruise is hidden.

It’s a dull circle of blue and purple, the kind you don’t notice until it blossoms overnight, announcing its presence in the mirror with embarrassing clarity.

I massage the edges, hoping the pressure will will it away, or at least absence of the memory of how it got there.

In the harsh light of the office, the bruise feels less like a mark of passion and more like a brand.

It’s only then that I notice my hands are trembling.

I fold them in my lap, take three careful breaths, and focus on the checklist taped to my monitor: “Copies of new contracts (x3). USB backup. Passport. Business cards. Journal. Water bottle.” A tidy, reassuring order to things.

I slide the top drawer open and begin to assemble my kit, letting the mechanical tasks anchor me in the moment.

The contracts are still warm from the printer. I stack them, slipping them into a leather folio. The USB drive clicks into its slot with a satisfying certainty. The business cards, a new batch with my name in gold, seem pretentious, but I tuck them in anyway.

My journal—my old, battered friend—is the only thing that doesn’t fit.

I run my thumb along the edge, feeling for the place where the spine is splitting.

It falls open to the back, where the threatening note is folded like an origami animal, its words coiled and waiting.

I hesitate, then tuck the journal into the side pocket of my bag, as if it’s a talisman or a loaded gun.

I’ll need it. Somehow the words give me both strength and comfort.

My reputation in the office is a patchwork: some see me as a child prodigy, others as a nepotistic heiress. Both are wrong, but neither is entirely untrue. I have learned to live with the contradictions.

I push the chair back, stand, and smooth the front of my blouse. It’s time. Pulling up the app for the taxi, I request one to meet me here.

The app stutters for a moment, GPS strobing between my actual location and a point two blocks away.

I frown and glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the watcher standing at the end of the row, eyes black and hungry.

There is nothing, only the automated glass doors and a poster for the company charity drive, grinning children with cartoonishly large solar panels.

I exhale, shoulders sagging. Paranoia is a cheap thrill, but it’s still a thrill.

The confirmation pings almost instantly: “Your driver is three minutes away.” I take the time to organize my desktop, align the pens, wipe a faint ring of coffee from the surface with a tissue. There is comfort in the ritual, in the illusion of control.

“Big meeting today, isn’t it?” The voice belongs to Petrus.

“Just a quick run to Cape Town,” I say, packing the last document into the folio. “Back by midnight if the universe is kind.”

He snorts. “Universe isn’t kind. Just indifferent. But you know that.”

I smile, or try to. “That’s what keeps us in business.”

He gives me a look, something between admiration and pity, and returns to his own desk. I watch him for a moment, wondering what his life looks like outside this office. If he has anyone who would notice if he vanished for a day. Or a month. Or forever.

I grab my bag, double-check the badge on my lanyard, and walk to the elevator.

Each step is a rehearsal, a countdown to the moment when the watcher might return.

I check my reflection in the brushed steel of the elevator door: hair pulled back, eyes rimmed with last night’s mascara, jaw set like a cliff face.

I look older than I feel, but less fragile than I used to.

The elevator ride is brief, but it feels like a descent.

In the lobby, the receptionist waves without looking up, and I wave back, wondering if she even knows my name.

I think about the watcher, the man from the trail, the dream that left me raw and aching.

I wonder what he would make of this version of me—buttoned-up, efficient, pretending not to notice the panic thrumming beneath my skin.

The cab is waiting outside, idling by the curb. The driver is young, maybe my age, with a face that suggests kindness or at least indifference. I slide into the back seat, bag on my lap, and give him the airport code. He nods and pulls away, merging into the slow, early-morning river of traffic.

I look back at the building, at the line of windows reflecting the new sun. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is looking out, watching me go. Maybe they are. Maybe I want them to.

Hopefully it’s him.

The city glides past, a film strip of other people’s mornings: a woman jogging in neon, a construction worker eating from a paper bag, a cluster of schoolkids in uniforms two sizes too large.

I wonder if any of them feel it, the sense of eyes always just out of frame.

I wonder if it’s normal, or if I am uniquely broken.

My phone buzzes. A new message from Thabo: “Safe travels. You’ve got this.” I roll my eyes and type a reply, delete it, then type another. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

We hit a red light, and for a moment the world is still. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, just a quick, neutral scan, but it feels like an X-ray. I adjust my collar, tug the sleeve down over my wrist, and look away.

The note in my journal presses against my thoughts, insistent. I reach for the bag, unzip the pocket, and run my finger along the edge of the paper. I squeeze the journal shut and try to focus on the rhythm of the city, the movement and noise and life that should be enough to drown out the echo.

It’s not.

The airport rises into view, a brutalist sculpture of glass and steel. I pay the driver, thank him, and step onto the curb, my shoes making a quiet sound against the concrete. I pause for a moment, feeling the sun on my face, the weight of the day settling onto my shoulders.

In the distance, a plane lifts off, its belly flashing in the light. I watch it until it disappears, then square my shoulders and head for the terminal.

The watcher is gone, for now. But the feeling remains. I walk faster, just in case.

Inside, the airport is a machine, designed to process and sort and erase people as quickly as possible. I melt into the current, shoulders hunched, eyes down. Invisible is as invisible does.

I hurry through the revolving doors, the cold blast of air conditioning stinging my cheeks. The terminal swallows me whole, and for the first time all morning, I let myself disappear.

I weave through the check-in concourse, steering my little roller bag with a wrist that’s already cramping.

The signage is aggressively friendly—blue arrows, cartoon planes, a row of digital kiosks blinking "Welcome, Traveler!

" as I approach. I tap the touch screen, check in, and slide my passport into the reader, only to have it spit back out with an error tone so loud that a family in the next queue turns to stare.

My heart stutters, but I keep my expression bland. I try again, this time smoothing the barcode before inserting, as if that could erase the smudge of fear from my fingers. Success. The machine spits out a boarding pass and a bag tag with the efficiency of a guillotine.

I scan the departure board, Cape Town, 2:35, Gate A17, and join the line for security, which snakes through a gauntlet of caution tape and indifferent guards.

The line moves in staccato bursts, each step punctuated by the snap of plastic bins and the angry zip of suitcases over tile.

I watch the people around me: a couple in matching athleisure, a woman in stiletto heels texting with her face two inches from the screen, a child squirming in her father's arms, sticky hands leaving prints on the glass barrier.

The closer I get to the metal detectors, the more my breathing goes shallow.

I picture the scene from above: a time-lapse of my body shrinking, the shoulders caving in, the knees buckling with each inch lost to fatigue or dread.

I tell myself to relax, that it’s just a security check, but my pulse races anyway.