Chapter 5: The Perfect Lie
I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot before Adrian could spot me, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. In my rearview mirror, I watched him enter the café, probably looking for me at our usual table by the window.
Our usual table. After one date, I was already thinking in terms of routines.
The drive back to the cabin felt longer than usual, every turn making me check my mirrors for Adrian's car. Dr. Torres had stayed on the phone until I was safely inside with all the doors locked.
"I want you to document everything," she'd said. "Every interaction, every coincidence, anything that feels off. And Emma? Trust your instincts. They're trying to tell you something important."
I pulled out a notebook and started writing, trying to capture every detail I could remember. The way Adrian had appeared exactly when I needed help. His knowledge of my favorite coffee. The references to places I'd lived. The emoji that felt like an invasion of privacy.
My phone buzzed with a text from him: "Missed you at the café. Everything okay?"
How did he know I'd been planning to go there? I hadn't responded to his earlier message about coffee.
Another text: "Maybe I misunderstood. Rain check?"
Then another: "Emma? Did I do something wrong?"
The messages felt needy, manipulative. Like he was trying to make me feel guilty for not showing up to something we'd never actually arranged.
I turned off my phone and tried to focus on my list, but concentration was impossible. Every small sound made me jump—the cabin settling, wind in the pines, a bird landing on the roof. When had I become this paranoid person who saw threats in every shadow?
But maybe paranoia was just pattern recognition that society had taught me to ignore.
I spent the afternoon researching stalking behaviors online, and the more I read, the more familiar it all sounded. Love bombing—overwhelming someone with attention and affection early in a relationship. Information gathering—learning personal details through social media or other sources. Manufactured coincidences—appearing to share interests or experiences.
The isolation aspect was particularly chilling. Stalkers often waited until their targets were vulnerable and alone before making contact. My divorce, the loss of my business, my retreat to this remote cabin—it all made me the perfect victim.
As evening fell, I called the rental company again.
"Marcy? It's Emma Walsh again. I want to change the locks on the cabin."
"Change the locks? Is there a security issue?"
"I just want to be extra careful. I'll pay for it."
"Honey, if someone's bothering you up there, maybe you should call the sheriff. That's what we usually recommend."
The sheriff. I hadn't even considered that option. What would I tell them? That a man I'd had coffee with knew things about me that felt too personal? That no one in town had heard of him despite his claims? It all sounded so insubstantial when I tried to put it into words.
"I'll think about it," I told Marcy. "But for now, can you arrange the lock change?"
"I'll call Bill in the morning."
After I hung up, I barricaded the front door with a chair. It was probably overkill, but it made me feel marginally safer. I was pulling the curtains closed when I saw him.
Adrian stood at the edge of the tree line, maybe fifty yards from the cabin. Just standing there, watching. When he saw me at the window, he raised his hand in a casual wave, as if this was perfectly normal behavior.
My heart hammered against my ribs. How long had he been there? How did he even know where I was staying?
I grabbed my phone and turned it back on, ignoring the six new text messages from him. Instead, I called 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"There's a man on my property who won't leave. I think he might be stalking me."
"Are you in immediate danger, ma'am?"
I looked out the window again. Adrian was gone.
"He... he was just here. Standing in the trees, watching my cabin."
"Is he still there?"
"No, he left when he saw me looking."
"Okay, I'm sending a deputy out to take a report. Can you stay inside with the doors locked until he arrives?"
Twenty minutes later, Deputy Martinez knocked on my door. He was young, probably new to the job, and he listened politely as I explained about Adrian, the coincidences, the feeling of being watched.
"Have you asked him directly to leave you alone?" Martinez asked, pen poised over his notepad.
"We had one date. I didn't think I needed to."
"But you haven't explicitly told him to stop contacting you?"
"No, but—"
"Ma'am, without a clear indication that his attention is unwanted, it's hard to classify this as harassment. Has he threatened you? Tried to break in? Physically intimidated you?"
I felt my credibility crumbling with every question. "He somehow got into my cabin. There was a coffee cup—"
"Could you have forgotten washing it?"
"No, I'm certain."
But even to my own ears, it sounded weak. A coffee cup. Some text messages. A man who appeared when I was lost and helped me find my way back.
Martinez took my statement and promised to drive by the cabin a few times during his shift, but I could tell he thought I was an overreacting city woman jumping at shadows.
After he left, I sat on the couch with my laptop, scrolling through the text messages Adrian had sent throughout the day:
"Hope I didn't come on too strong yesterday."
"Maybe we could take things slower? I really enjoyed talking with you."
"I know you're going through a lot. I just want you to know I'm here if you need anything."
"Emma? Please don't shut me out. I care about you."
"I drove by the trailhead where we met. Made me think of you."
"Just want to make sure you're okay."
Each message seemed reasonable on its own, but together they painted a picture of someone who couldn't let go, who needed constant contact, who was monitoring my movements.
I started typing a response, then deleted it. Then typed another one:
"I need some space to figure things out. Please don't contact me for a while."
I stared at the message for ten minutes before sending it. Clear communication, that's what Deputy Martinez had wanted. Now Adrian couldn't claim he didn't know his attention was unwanted.
The response came immediately: "Of course. I understand completely. Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."
It was exactly what a reasonable person would say. So why did it make my skin crawl?
I spent the rest of the evening researching Adrian Mitchell more thoroughly, using every search technique I could think of. I found business records, tax filings, even a few old news articles mentioning his consulting work. Everything seemed legitimate.
But one detail nagged at me. According to the business registration I found, Adrian's company had been established three years ago. Three years. Right around the time I'd started posting more frequently on social media about my work, my marriage troubles, my daily life.
Could someone really plan something this elaborate? Could they spend years learning about a stranger, waiting for the perfect moment to insert themselves into that person's life?
As I was closing my laptop, one final search result caught my eye. A news article from two years ago about a woman named Sofia Reeves who had obtained a restraining order against "a tech consultant who had been systematically manipulating her life through digital surveillance and engineered encounters."
The consultant's name had been redacted from the article, but the description of his methods was chillingly familiar: social media research, manufactured coincidences, isolation tactics, love bombing.
Sofia Reeves was living in Seattle now, according to the article. She'd moved there after what the reporter called "a carefully orchestrated campaign of psychological manipulation that lasted eighteen months."
I found Sofia's photography website and sent her a message through the contact form:
"Hi Sofia, I know this is strange, but I read about your experience with a stalker who was a tech consultant. I think I might be dealing with someone similar. Would you be willing to talk? My name is Emma Walsh."
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then spent the rest of the night lying awake, listening for footsteps on the porch that never came.