Then I see it. A figure stands in the shadows across the street, the ember of a cigarette glowing briefly as it takes a drag. His face remains hidden, but something about his posture—the stillness, the focus—tells me he’s watching my window. Watching me. I let the curtain fall back into place, heart hammering against my ribs. Is it one of the Europeans? One of Cohen’s men? An obsessed fan? Or just a man having a smoke who happens to be looking in my direction.
If my best friend was killed by a stalker and then some dude was watching me outside my window I'd check myself into the psych ward immediately
