Chapter 4: Digital Shadows
I stared at my phone screen until the words blurred together. The sleeping emoji. Such a small thing, but it felt like a violation of something deeply personal. My thumb hovered over Adrian's contact, ready to call and demand an explanation, but what would I say? "How did you know I send sleeping emojis?" It sounded paranoid even in my head.
Dr. Torres' warnings echoed in my mind. Trauma bonding. Manipulation. Too trusting or too closed off. Maybe I was reading into coincidences, seeing patterns that didn't exist. People used emojis all the time.
But the coffee cup in the sink bothered me more. I'd checked every door and window twice before leaving for our date. Everything had been locked. The rental company had assured me I was the only one with a key, aside from the emergency contact they'd given me—a local handyman named Bill who lived twenty minutes down the mountain.
I called the rental company first thing in the morning, my hands shaking as I dialed.
"Pine Ridge Rentals, this is Marcy."
"Hi, this is Emma Walsh. I'm renting the cabin on Spruce Road. I wanted to confirm—has anyone else accessed the property recently? Maintenance, cleaning, anything like that?"
"Let me check." Papers rustled in the background. "No, honey. Nothing scheduled until your checkout. Is there a problem?"
"No, just... I thought I saw signs someone had been inside."
"Well, Bill has the emergency key, but he'd only use it if there was a pipe burst or something urgent. Want me to give him a call?"
"Could you?"
Ten minutes later, Marcy called back. "Bill says he hasn't been up there in two months. Everything okay?"
I assured her it was fine and hung up, but my stomach churned. Either I was losing my mind, or someone had been in my cabin. Neither option felt particularly comforting.
My laptop sat open on the small dining table, and I found myself googling Adrian Mitchell. His business website came up first—clean, professional, with testimonials from satisfied clients. His LinkedIn showed an impressive work history with tech companies I'd heard of. Everything seemed legitimate.
But as I scrolled deeper into the search results, I found something odd. There were dozens of Adrian Mitchells, but very few photos of any of them matched the man I'd met. The one photo on his business website showed him from a distance, wearing sunglasses at what looked like a conference.
I tried searching for his name along with Pine Ridge, or systems consultant, or any combination of details he'd shared. Nothing substantial came up. For someone who claimed to have lived here a year, he'd left remarkably little digital footprint in the local area.
My phone buzzed with another text from him: "Good morning, beautiful. Hope you slept well. Coffee later?"
The casual intimacy of "beautiful" made my skin crawl. We'd had one date. One coffee that had turned into dinner. Since when did that warrant pet names?
Instead of responding immediately, I drove to town and found the library. The elderly librarian, Mrs. Henderson, had the kind of face that suggested she knew everyone's business.
"I'm new to the area," I told her. "Someone recommended a systems consultant named Adrian Mitchell. Do you know him?"
She adjusted her glasses and thought for a moment. "Can't say I do, dear. And I know most of the business folks around here. What did he look like?"
I described Adrian—tall, brown hair, probably late thirties. She shook her head.
"Doesn't ring a bell. But you know what? Betty at the hardware store knows every contractor and consultant within fifty miles. She might know him."
Betty at the hardware store was equally unhelpful. "Adrian Mitchell? Nope. And if he's been doing tech work around here, I'd know about it. Small town, you know?"
By noon, I'd visited the post office, the bank, and three local businesses. No one knew Adrian Mitchell. No one had even heard of him.
I sat in my car outside the Bear Creek Café, watching people come and go, trying to process what this meant. Either Adrian was lying about living here for a year, or he was incredibly good at staying invisible in a small town where everyone supposedly knew everyone.
My phone rang—Dr. Torres returning one of my missed calls from yesterday.
"Emma, I'm glad you called back. How are things going up there?"
"Confusing," I admitted. "I had coffee with that hiker I mentioned. It went well, but there are some things that don't add up."
"Such as?"
I told her about the emoji, the coffee cup, the fact that no one in town knew Adrian despite his claims of living here. When I finished, there was a long silence.
"Emma, I want you to listen to me very carefully. What you're describing sounds like potential stalking behavior. The intimate knowledge of your habits, the lies about his background, the possible unauthorized access to your space."
"But how could he know those things? We'd never met before yesterday."
"Are you certain about that? Think back. Conferences, work events, anywhere you might have encountered him briefly."
I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but nothing came to mind. "I don't think so."
"What about social media? Do you post regularly?"
"I used to, but I deleted most of my accounts after the divorce. Too many people wanting details about what happened."
"But they existed before. Someone could have been following your posts, learning your habits, your preferences. The sleeping emoji—did you ever post about that?"
My blood ran cold. "I might have. A few years ago, I think I posted something about missing Marcus when he traveled, how we'd send each other goodnight emojis."
"And the lavender lattes?"
"God, yes. I probably posted a dozen photos of them over the years."
"Emma, I think you need to consider the possibility that this man has been watching you for much longer than a few days. The fact that he 'found' you lost on that trail, that he knew exactly what to say to make you feel comfortable—none of that feels coincidental."
The parking lot around me seemed to blur. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying this might not be a chance encounter. This might be something much more dangerous."
As if summoned by our conversation, Adrian appeared across the street, walking toward the café. He moved with purpose, checking his watch, and I realized he was probably looking for me. Expecting me.
But I hadn't told him I'd be here.
"Dr. Torres," I whispered into the phone, "I think I need to leave. Now."