Dad, I can see the guy’s shirt. Seriously. Could you knock it off?” I point at the tree in a small park opposite my apartment building.

Judging by his all-black clothes, his sunglasses, and his furtive glances, he must be someone my dad hired. Oh, and also the fact that he’s hiding behind a tree.

“What are you talking about?” Dad laughs as he glances at the tree I point at. He puts his arm around my shoulders and turns me to face my new building. “I’ve got to admit this is a pretty nice place.”

“Dad, don’t change the subject. I don’t want your people spying on me.” I look over my shoulder at the man who’s still looking nervously in our direction. “Call the guy off already. Give him some other job.”

Dad sighs. “Okay, okay.” To Jared, his personal bodyguard, he says, “Tell what’s-his-name it’s off.”

Watching Jared walk across the street, I say, “Promise me you won’t send him back here. Or any other guy. If you do, I’m going to ask my boss to transfer me to a different city, preferably somewhere on the east coast. And then we’ll only see each other at Christmas.”

“I just want you to be safe.”

“I am safe. You’ve taught me a lot about staying safe. I know how to take care of myself. And if I don’t, unlike you, I can call the cops.”

We stand on the sidewalk rehashing the things we’ve already discussed a thousand times before, but finally my dad leaves in one of his black, luxury cars—taking the man who was hiding behind the tree with him.

As I wave, I huff a sigh of relief.

Finally, it’s done.

I have my own place.

It took months of reflection and negotiation, but I have my freedom now.

Honestly, I never thought this would happen. I thought I was going to live in my dad’s house until I got married and move out into my husband’s house. It’s tradition.

I think my dad regrets letting me get a job now. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to threaten him with talk of working abroad.

Leverage.

Really, Dad should be proud. I learned a thing or two from him. I actually listened to his lectures.

With the keys dangling from my fingers, I walk toward the glass automatic doors, scan my key fob, and smile as the doors slide open for me.

* * *

The next morning, as I head out to work, I wake up to a bouquet of flowers right on my doorstep. Roses.

I frown as I pick it up. Could it be a welcome gift from the building manager?

Taking a closer look, I find a small, white card hidden among the long, de-thorned stems of the red roses. It’s about the size of a credit card, and there’s just one word on it.

That handwriting.

There’s no envelope and it’s not a get-well-soon card, but I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

I’d fallen asleep reading that one word in the same handwriting hundreds of times. When my vision began to blur and I started to drift off into sleep, that was the last word I saw–and often the first word I read when I woke up in the morning too.

When I moved in yesterday, I stored those old cards in a small box locked inside a drawer in my wardrobe. I’m not afraid of my dad seeing them anymore. I just don’t want to find them and obsess over them myself.

But now, like a recurring dream, here it is again. That word. In that handwriting.

A thousand emotions war in my chest.

Damon’s here. He knows I live here. How does he know? How did he enter this building?

And then, that old anger resurfaces. The one that first showed its ugly face when Damon visited me at the hospital.

One of the reasons I left my dad’s house was to forget about him. Every time I saw the living room, I couldn’t help but think about the time he’d caught me reading a naughty book on my Kindle.

So now that I’ve taken a dramatic step to escape Damon’s ghost, how dare he follow me to my new home and deny me my fresh start? Will I always think about him when I open the door in the morning now? Will I be disappointed when I don’t see his flowers?

I throw the flowers onto the kitchen counter.

There’s no time for this. It’s Monday. I’ve got a morning meeting, and I don’t want to be late.

Damon has already dominated my nights, making it hard for me to fall asleep. I can’t let him take control of my mornings too.

* * *

That night, I lie in bed, but sleep won’t come.

I’ve taken my box of cards out of the locked drawers. I honestly thought it’d take me longer than one night to do that. I was hoping it’d be at least a month.

But I spent most of my second night in my new home obsessively analyzing every single stroke of the pen on the new card, comparing it with the writing on the old cards.

I’ve put the old cards back in the box but it’s resting on my nightstand now, within my reach. The new one is in bed with me. I touch it, caress it, smell it. I can’t take my hands off it.

Damn it. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

How am I supposed to sleep now? Every time I hear the slightest sound outside, I fly toward the front door and look out the peephole, hoping to catch a glimpse of Damon.

I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him. I have no idea what I’d say to him. But if he’s right outside my front door, I have to know.

But I also need to sleep, or I’ll be a zombie tomorrow when I’m supposed to do a presentation.

Grabbing my phone, I open my meditation app and play an audio of a guided meditation to help me sleep. Finally, the soothing voice of the narrator and the gentle sound of rain in the background lull me to sleep.

Even in my sleep, I’m plagued by dreams of Damon.

In the morning, I open my eyes even before my alarm. Immediately, I’m alert. I sit bolt upright and get up to my feet, then rush toward the front door.

There’s another bouquet of red roses. Another plain, white card. Another “sorry.”

That night, I move to sleep on the couch in the open-plan living room.

I spent weeks agonizing over what kind of bed frame and mattress to get for my bedroom. Right now, none of that matters. I just need to hear it when someone comes to my door.

But then I fall asleep again and find more flowers and another card on my doorstep again in the morning.

After a full week of this, I can’t take the torture anymore. I even spend my working hours scouring the Internet for solutions.

On Friday, I decide a tiny camera specifically made to fit a peephole would be the perfect solution and order two for same-day delivery—one to install and another one to keep for backup.

It takes me no time to set the camera up and connect the feed wirelessly to my laptop. But I’m so tired I can’t stay up to wait for the mysterious flower delivery.

Besides, will he even come on weekends? Maybe the flowers are just for me to find before work.

On Saturday morning, I wake up to find another bouquet of flowers.

Right away, I rush back inside to check the video recording.

And there he is, on my laptop. Just after four a.m.

My captor. My seducer. My mysterious flower giver.

Looking at the image of him on my screen, I get the crazy urge to jump inside the monitor and touch him. Sometimes, especially when I’m alone at night, I wish I had at least given him a hug when he sneaked into the hospital for me.

That said, I don’t know if I’ll do that once I catch him in the act and talk to him. So many things have happened in the past six months. I don’t even know if I still have feelings for him or if I’m just infatuated with the idea of him.

I’ll figure that out. But first, I’ll have to get him.

I spend the entire day sleeping, then I drink about a gallon of coffee just before midnight.

I’m going to see Damon in the flesh if it kills me by caffeine overdose.