The four words sat on the yellow lined paper in sharp, jagged black ink: I found you first.
My hands shook so hard the note fluttered against the steering wheel. I shoved the car into drive, peeling out of the parking garage so fast my tires shrieked against the concrete. My eyes darted continuously to the rearview mirror, searching for a tall silhouette, a dark jacket, or any movement in the shadows of the exit ramp. Nothing. The street behind me was completely empty, bathed in the sickly orange glow of the sodium streetlamps.
I didn’t go home.
Going home felt like a trap. Instead, I drove three miles across town to an all-night diner on 4th Street. It was brightly lit, full of booth patrons and staff, and possessed a camera mounted over the entrance. Safety in numbers, right?
I slid into a corner booth with my back pressed firm against the wall, keeping a full view of the front door. The waitress poured me a coffee without asking, her friendly chatter sliding right past my ears. I couldn’t focus. I laid the folded note flat on the Formica table, smoothing out the creases with my thumb.
I found you first.
First? What did “first” even mean? Was this a game? An extortion attempt? A case of mistaken identity?
My phone buzzed against the table, making me jump so violently my coffee splashed over the rim of the mug. It was an incoming call from a local number I didn’t recognize.
I picked it up, pressing the receiver tightly against my ear. “Hello?”
Silence. Just the faint, mechanical hum of static on the line.
“Who is this?” I demanded, keeping my voice low. “If this is a joke, I’m calling the police.”
A sigh came through the speaker—heavy, wet, and raspy.
“Check your pocket,” a voice whispered. It wasn’t menacing; it was dull, flat, and hollow, like someone reading from a grocery list.
The line went dead.
My heart felt like an iron weight dropping into my stomach. My left hand slowly reached down into the side pocket of my heavy winter coat—the same coat I had been wearing all afternoon while being trailed through the downtown shopping district.
My fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.
I pulled it out and set it on the table next to my coffee cup.
It was a small, heavy brass key attached to a plastic gym locker tag numbered 114.
I hadn’t been to a gym in three years. Someone had slipped their hand into my pocket while I was walking through the crowded plaza—close enough to touch me, close enough to slip a key into my coat without me ever realizing it. They hadn’t just followed me; they had been within arm’s reach the entire time.
Panic was a cold syrup in my veins now. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, grabbed my coat, and ran back out to my sedan.
