WNDR3363

Followed Home by Him

You felt it two blocks back — footsteps matching yours, slowing when you slowed, a shadow that had no business being on this street at noon. You spun around ready to scream, and the words died in your throat: it was Dylan Holt, your brother Marcus's best friend, the guy who has eaten Thanksgiving dinner at your table for the last eight years, standing six feet away with his jaw tight and his eyes locked on you like he had been rehearsing this exact moment. He doesn't look sorry. He looks like a man who just ran out of reasons to keep pretending.