The Stalking Truth

"Officer Miller!"

My voice cracked. I ran toward the cruiser, waving my arms like I was trying to flag down a rescue plane. The rain plastered my hair to my face, and the mud from the flowerbed made my feet slip inside my shoes.

Officer Miller stepped out of the car. He was adjusting his belt, looking annoyed. He had that look cops get when they're called to a domestic dispute in a nice neighborhood—bored, expecting a drunk husband or a crying wife.

"Mrs. Vance?" he asked, shining his flashlight in my face. The beam was blinding. "We got a call about a disturbance."

"He's trying to kill me!" I screamed, grabbing his arm. His uniform was wet and cold. "He rigged the stove! The gas! He's going to blow up the house!"

Miller pulled away, not unkindly but firmly. "Whoa, slow down. Who is?"

"Julian! My husband!" I pointed at the house.

The front door opened.

Julian stepped out onto the porch.

He looked... impeccable.

He had somehow managed to smooth his hair. He had put on his jacket—the one with the receipt in the pocket—and he was holding a towel to his cheek where I had cut him. He looked shaken, but brave. Like a man trying to hold it together.

"Officer," he called out, his voice steady. "Thank god you're here. She's having an episode. She broke a window. She's hysterical."

"I am not hysterical!" I shouted. "Check the stove! Go inside and smell the gas!"

Miller looked at me. I was a mess. Torn dress. Muddy feet. Wild eyes.

Then he looked at Julian. The pillar of the community. The man who restored historical landmarks. The man who bought beers for the precinct softball team.

"It's okay, Elara," Miller said, his tone shifting from professional to patronizing. "We're going to get you some help."

He reached for his radio. "Dispatch, this is Miller. Situation is secure. Need an ambulance for a psych eval."

"No!" I backed away. "You're not listening! He has a receipt! In his pocket! For an industrial regulator! Check his pocket!"

"She's off her meds," Julian said, walking down the driveway. He stayed just out of reach, keeping Miller between us. "I tried to get her to take them, but she spit them out. You can check the kitchen floor. The napkin is right there."

Miller nodded sympathetically. "I understand, Mr. Vance. Tough situation. My sister has... similar issues."

He stepped toward me, unhooking his handcuffs.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down. For your own safety."

I looked at Miller. I looked at Julian.

I realized then that the narrative was stronger than the truth. Julian had been writing this story for months. He had planted the seeds. He had set the stage. He had cast himself as the long-suffering husband and me as the tragic, unstable wife.

And Miller? Miller was just a prop. An extra in Julian's movie.

I couldn't win this with words.

I looked past them. To the garage.

The door was open. Julian had left it open when he came out.

And inside...

I saw the red jerry cans. The accelerant.

And I saw something else.

The main gas line for the house ran through the garage. It was a thick, yellow pipe running along the back wall.

And next to it...

A road flare.

A red, emergency road flare. Sitting on the workbench.

Why did he have a road flare?

And then I understood.

The smart igniter was the primary plan. The clean plan.

The flare was the backup.

If I escaped... if the police came... if the narrative fell apart...

He wasn't going to go to jail.

He was going to burn the evidence. All of it. Including himself. Including me. Including Miller.

He was going to turn this into a tragic accident where the "unstable wife" set the fire.

I saw him reach into his pocket.

Not for the receipt.

For the lighter.

"Get down!" I screamed at Miller.

I didn't wait to see if he listened. I dove behind the cruiser.

Julian lit the flare.

It hissed to life, a blinding red magnesium fire.

He didn't hesitate. He threw it.

It arc'd through the rain, a streak of red light.

It landed in the garage. Right next to the jerry cans.

The fumes ignited instantly.

*WHOOSH.*

The garage turned into a furnace. A wall of orange flame erupted outward.

Miller shouted. He drew his gun. "Shots fired! I mean—fire! Fire!"

But it was too late.

The fire hit the gas main.

The explosion wasn't a sound. It was a punch. A physical blow that lifted the cruiser off the ground and slammed it back down on its suspension.

I was thrown into the wet grass. The heat singed my eyebrows. The air was sucked out of my lungs.

I rolled over, gasping.

The house was gone. The garage was a crater. The windows of the cruiser were shattered.

Miller was lying on the pavement, groaning. He was alive, but he wasn't moving.

And Julian?

I looked for him.

He was gone.

Vaporized?

Or...

I looked at the woods behind the house. The dense, dark pine forest that bordered our property.

I saw a shadow moving.

Limping.

He had thrown the flare and run. He had used the explosion as cover.

He was escaping.

He was going to get away with it. He was going to disappear. He was going to start a new renovation somewhere else.

No.

I stood up. My knees were bleeding. My head was spinning.

But I could smell him.

Under the smoke. Under the gasoline. Under the burning rubber.

I could smell the sandalwood. And the turpentine.

I picked up Miller's gun from the pavement. It was heavy. Cold. Polymer and steel.

I didn't check if Miller was alive. I didn't wait for backup.

I walked toward the woods.

I wasn't the victim anymore.

I was the editor.

And I was going to cut his scene.

I stepped into the trees.

The rain was falling harder now, muffled by the canopy of pine needles. The ground was soft, covered in decades of decay.

It was dark. Pitch black.

But I didn't need to see him.

I could hear him.

His breathing. Ragged. Wet.

He was hurt. The explosion had caught him too.

And I could smell him.

The scent trail was vivid. Blood. Sweat. Fear. And that underlying chemical tang.

He was heading for the ravine.

The ravine led to the old service road. He probably had a car stashed there. Another backup plan.

I moved silently. I knew these woods. I used to play here when we first moved in, before he paved over the garden, before he sealed the windows.

I tracked him.

He stopped.

I stopped.

I held my breath.

"Elara," he whispered.

His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

"You can't shoot me," he said. "You don't have it in you."

I didn't answer. I griped the gun tighter.

"You're not a killer," he said. "You're a fixer. You try to make things nice. You try to smooth things over."

He was moving again. To my left.

"That's why you didn't leave," he said. "That's why you stayed. You thought you could fix me."

I turned. I aimed the gun into the darkness.

"I didn't stay to fix you," I said. My voice was steady. Cold. "I stayed to watch you break."

Silence.

Then, a twig snapped.

I fired.

*BANG.*

The flash blinded me for a second. The sound was deafening.

A cry of pain.

I had hit him.

"You bitch!" he screamed.

He charged.

He came out of the darkness like a demon. He was burnt. Bleeding. His clothes were shredded.

He didn't have a weapon. He didn't need one. He was the weapon.

He tackled me.

We hit the ground. The gun flew out of my hand.

He was on top of me. His hands were around my throat.

"I made you!" he screamed, spitting blood in my face. "I wrote you! You are nothing without me!"

His thumbs dug into my windpipe. The world started to go grey at the edges.

I clawed at his face. I kicked.

But he was heavy. And he was fueled by a rage that felt infinite.

I couldn't breathe.

My hand scrabbled in the dirt. Pine needles. Mud.

A rock.

I grabbed it.

I smashed it into the side of his head.

He grunted. His grip loosened. Just a fraction.

I hit him again. And again.

He rolled off me.

I scrambled away, gasping for air. My throat burned.

I looked for the gun.

I couldn't see it.

Julian was getting up. He was swaying. Blood was pouring from his temple.

He laughed. A wet, gurgling sound.

"You missed," he said.

He reached into his pocket.

And pulled out a knife.

Not the carving knife.

A box cutter. A utility knife. The kind he used to score drywall.

He clicked the blade out. *Snap.*

"Let's finish this," he said.

He stepped toward me.

I backed up. My back hit a tree.

I had nowhere to go.

He lunged.

I ducked.

The blade sliced into the tree bark next to my head.

I grabbed his wrist. I tried to hold him back.

But he was stronger. He pushed the blade toward my face.

"Smile," he whispered.

And then...

A light.

A blinding, white light cut through the trees.

"Police! Drop the weapon!"

Julian froze.

He looked at the light. He looked at me.

He smiled.

"Too late for a rewrite," he said.

He didn't drop the knife.

He turned.

And he ran.

Not toward the ravine.

Toward the light.

Toward the police.

With the knife raised.

"Suicide by cop," I whispered.

He wanted to die. He wanted to go out on his own terms. He wanted to be the tragic figure one last time.

"Don't!" I screamed.

But not at him.

At the police.

If they killed him... I would never know.

I would never know where Sloane was.

Because Sloane wasn't with me.

She hadn't been in the driveway.

She hadn't been in the car.

I realized it with a jolt of horror.

The text. The photo.

*Draft 2: The Survivors.*

He hadn't taken that photo. He was in the house.

Someone else was out there.

An accomplice?

Dr. Aris?

Or...

The gunshots rang out.

*BANG. BANG. BANG.*

Three shots. Center mass.

Julian jerked. He stopped.

He fell backward.

He hit the ground.

He didn't move.

I ran to him.

"Julian!" I screamed.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

He was bleeding out. His chest was a ruin.

His eyes were open. He looked up at the canopy of trees.

"Julian," I said, grabbing his shirt. "Where is she? Where is Sloane?"

He looked at me.

He smiled. Blood bubbled on his lips.

"The... sequel," he whispered.

And then he died.

I stared at his dead face.

He had won.

He had taken the secret with him.

"Mrs. Vance?"

A cop was standing over me. Gun drawn. "Step away from the body."

I stood up.

My phone buzzed.

My burner phone.

I pulled it out.

A new message.

From the unknown number.

I opened it.

It was a video file.

I clicked play.

It was dark. Grainy.

But I could see a face.

Sloane's face.

She was gagged. Tied to a chair.

And behind her...

A clock.

A digital clock.

It read *7:58 AM.*

But it wasn't 7:58 AM. It was night time.

The clock was set fast? Or...

And then a voice. From behind the camera.

Distorted. Deep.

"The first draft is always messy," the voice said. "But the second draft... that's where the real art happens."

The camera panned.

To a window.

And through the window...

I saw the burning ruins of my house.

The video was live.

He was watching me.

He was watching me right now.

I spun around. I looked at the tree line.

"Who are you?" I screamed into the darkness.

The video ended.

And the screen went black.