The Dead Plant

I see someone watching the house.

It was just a flicker at first. A shadow detaching itself from the deeper shadows of the rhododendrons by the side gate. But then it moved again. A deliberate shift of weight.

I was standing at the kitchen window, filling a glass of water from the tap because Graham had "forgotten" to buy bottled water this week. The kitchen lights were off. I was invisible.

The figure was standing near the trellis where the climbing roses were dying of neglect.

It was a man.

He was wearing a hoodie, hood up. Hands in pockets. He wasn't doing anything. Just standing there. Watching the Vivarium.

My heart rate spiked. *Thump-thump.*

Was it Toby?

Toby knew where I lived. But he had been warned off. Threatened with legal action. Toby was brave, but he wasn't reckless. Standing in my garden at 10 PM was reckless.

Unless he was leaving something.

Another note? Another burner phone?

I leaned closer to the glass. My breath fogged the pane.

The figure turned his head. He looked right at the window. Right at me.

He couldn't see me. It was dark.

But I felt it. The weight of his gaze.

It wasn't Toby.

Toby was short. Stocky. This man was tall. Lean.

Graham?

No. Graham was upstairs, "working late" in his office. I could hear him pacing. The rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* of his footsteps on the hardwood floor above.

So who was it?

One of Graham's "security" men? A private investigator hired to document my "erratic behavior"?

Or something else?

The figure took a step forward. Into the light of the motion-sensor floodlight.

The light didn't turn on.

I frowned. Graham had just replaced the bulbs last week. He was obsessive about the perimeter lighting. "A well-lit house is a safe house," he always said.

The man walked right through the sensor zone. Nothing.

He had disabled it.

He walked up to the patio door. The sliding glass door I had used to sneak in earlier.

He put his hand on the glass.

He didn't try to open it. He just... touched it.

And then he started to write.

With his finger. In the condensation.

I squinted. The letters were backward.

*W-A-T-C-H.*

*I-N-G.*

*WATCHING.*

He stepped back. He looked up at the second floor. At the bedroom window.

Then he turned and walked away. Into the woods.

Disappeared.

I stood there, frozen. The water in my glass was overflowing, spilling onto the counter, soaking my sleeve. I didn't feel it.

*Watching.*

Who was watching?

Him?

Or was he telling me *I* was being watched?

I turned off the tap. I wiped the counter with a dishtowel. My movements were jerky. Robotic.

I needed to tell Graham.

No.

If I told Graham, he would say it was a hallucination. He would say, "There's no one there, Merritt. The sensor didn't trip."

And he would be right. The sensor *didn't* trip.

Which meant either the man wasn't real... or Graham had disabled the sensor himself.

Why would he hire someone to stand in the garden and write on the window?

To scare me.

To make me doubt my own eyes.

It was part of the script. Scene 25: The Shadow.

I walked to the sliding door. I unlocked it. I slid it open.

The air was cold.

I touched the glass where the man had written.

It was wet. Smudged.

Real.

He had been there.

I looked at the ground. The soil in the flowerbed was soft from the rain.

I stepped out.

Footprints.

Size 11, maybe 12. Deep tread. Work boots.

Graham wore size 10. And he wore Italian loafers or Nikes.

This wasn't Graham.

It was a stranger.

A stranger Graham had hired.

Or...

A stranger who hated Graham.

I went back inside. I locked the door.

I went upstairs.

Graham was in his office. The door was open. He was sitting at his desk, staring at his laptop. The blue light washed over his face, making him look like a corpse.

"Graham?" I said.

He jumped. He slammed the laptop shut.

"Jesus, Merritt. You scared me."

"There was a man in the garden."

He looked at me. He sighed.

"A man?"

"Yes. In a hoodie. He wrote on the window."

"Wrote what?"

"Watching."

Graham rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"Merritt, please. Not tonight. I have a deposition tomorrow."

"I'm not making it up. There are footprints. Go look."

He stared at me. He was assessing. Calculating.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go look."

He stood up. We walked downstairs. We walked to the kitchen.

He turned on the patio light.

Nothing happened.

"Bulb must be out," he said.

He opened the door. He walked out. He looked at the flowerbed.

"I don't see any footprints, Merritt."

"They're right there," I said, pointing.

He crouched down. He touched the dirt.

"It's just mud," he said. "From the rain."

"It's a boot print! Look at the tread!"

He stood up. He wiped his hand on his pants.

"There's nothing there," he said. His voice was firm. Final.

"You're lying," I whispered.

"I'm tired," he said. "And you're hallucinating. Again."

He walked back inside. He locked the door.

"Go to bed, Merritt. Take your pill."

I looked at the window. The condensation had faded. The word was gone.

But I knew.

I went upstairs. I went into the bedroom.

I didn't take the pill.

I sat by the window. I watched the woods.

An hour later, I saw it again.

A flash of light.

In the trees.

Like a camera flash.

Or a signal.

I grabbed the burner phone (which I had retrieved from the flowerpot earlier, damp but functional).

I texted Toby.

*Me: Someone is in the woods. Watching the house.*

*Toby: It's not me. I'm at the studio.*

*Me: Who is it?*

*Toby: I don't know. But be careful. Graham hired a PI last week. To follow you.*

A PI.

Of course.

To document my "wandering." To get photos of me looking crazy.

But why write on the window? That wasn't documentation. That was psychological warfare.

Unless...

Unless it wasn't a PI.

Unless it was Leo's father.

The man Elena had the affair with.

The man Graham hated enough to erase a child for.

If he was out there... if he was watching...

Maybe he wasn't watching me.

Maybe he was watching Graham.

Waiting for a chance to strike.

I looked at the woods.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

The trees were silent.

But I felt it. The gaze. The weight.

I wasn't alone in the fishbowl.

There was a shark in the water.

And I didn't know if he wanted to save me