Sofia thought she was prepared.
She and Naomi had rehearsed for this moment like it was a school play—scripts, decoys, burner emails. They even created a dummy Instagram page that mimicked Harper's to bait Ian. Naomi built a folder labeled If It All Blows Up and saved it in three separate cloud drives.
But none of it prepared Sofia for the message that came just after sixth period.
A photo.
Harper, sitting alone at a café table near her office, head tilted slightly as she scrolled through her phone. Her hair fell over one shoulder, the light catching in it like honey. She looked peaceful. Vulnerable.
Ian: She's beautiful when she forgets to be guarded.
Sofia's breath caught in her throat.
The photo wasn't stolen from social media. It was new. Taken that day. It was proof that he was watching her again—up close, unnoticed, intentional.
She felt sick.
By the time she forwarded the image to Naomi, her hands were shaking.
Naomi: Did he say when this was taken?
Sofia: No. But she was there today. I didn't even know he followed her.
Naomi: We need to move. Now. This isn't manipulation anymore. This is stalking. Organized, planned, obsessive.
Sofia: He said she trusted him.
Naomi: Then we need to break that before it's too late.
Dinner at home felt like walking across a frozen lake—quiet and brittle, like one wrong word would crack everything open.
Sofia poked at her pasta.
Harper noticed.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked gently. "You've barely eaten anything."
"I'm just tired," Sofia said, same as always.
"You've been tired a lot lately," Harper replied. "I'm not trying to pry. I just… I notice. And I care."
There was no pressure in her tone. Just genuine warmth. That made it worse.
Sofia stared down at her plate. "Thanks."
Harper gave her a small smile. "Anytime, sweetheart."
And that word—sweetheart—stabbed through her like a blade.
That night, the next message came.
Ian: She told me about her sister today.
Sofia stopped breathing.
Harper's sister—the one who died her sophomore year of college—was a wound she didn't speak of often. Sofia had only overheard the story once, in hushed tones between Harper and Jacob, late at night.
Ian: She cried a little. She's trusting me. It's sweet, really.
You're disgusting.
Ian: I'm patient. You should learn from me.
Then came the line that chilled her to the bone:
Ian: I want her journal.
Sofia's blood turned to ice.
No.
Ian: Don't be difficult. You know what happens when you start pushing back.
Sofia typed furiously:
I said no. I'm not doing this anymore. You have what you wanted. Just leave her alone.
A pause. Then the typing bubbles appeared.
Then vanished.
Then reappeared.
Ian: You'll regret that.
She dropped her phone. It hit the floor with a thud, and she stared at it as if it might explode.
The next morning, Naomi was waiting near Sofia's locker with a flash drive in one hand and fury in her eyes.
"He asked for what?"
"Her journal."
Naomi swore under her breath. "This has gone beyond creepy. He's building a life around her, Sofia. Not just watching. Inserting himself. If we don't stop him, he will become part of it."
Sofia ran a hand over her face. "She's letting him in."
"Because she doesn't know."
Naomi held up the flash drive. "We have enough to show the police. Or at least Jacob. Texts, voice messages, timestamps. If we can record a call—anything where he mentions the scarf or the key—we can end this."
Sofia took the flash drive like it was a piece of glass. "What if she never forgives me?"
Naomi softened. "She'll be scared. She might be angry. But Harper doesn't hate people who try to do the right thing. She's not like that."
"I don't know who I am anymore," Sofia said. "But I know what I did. I wanted her gone. I let this happen."
"You tried to fix it," Naomi said. "Now let's finish it."
Meanwhile, Harper sat at the café Ian had chosen, sipping her tea and scanning the sidewalk. She spotted him—tall, slightly rumpled in his gray coat, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "Sorry I'm late. You just looked like someone who would love these."
Harper laughed, charmed despite herself. "I do."
They sat, and she noticed how attentive he was. His questions were thoughtful, not invasive. He listened closely. Talked just enough. He was clever, articulate, emotionally aware.
Why had I been so creeped out before? she thought. Maybe I was just on edge that day.
She didn't know that Sofia was sitting in her room, phone clutched like a weapon, watching the green dot of Ian's location blinking closer to Harper's house
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