Chapter 6: Echoes of the Past
Sofia Reeves called me at seven in the morning, her voice tight with concern.
"Emma? I got your message. Tell me everything."
I spent an hour walking her through my encounters with Adrian, from the hiking trail to the text messages to his mysterious absence from the local community despite claiming to live there. Sofia listened without interruption, and when I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"What did he look like?" she finally asked.
I described Adrian in detail—his height, build, hair color, the way he carried himself.
"Oh God," Sofia whispered. "Emma, I think we're dealing with the same person. He called himself Alexander Morrison when he targeted me, but the physical description is identical. And the methods—the coincidences, the personal information he shouldn't have had, the way he appeared exactly when I was most vulnerable."
My blood turned to ice water. "Are you sure?"
"The coffee thing—did he know your favorite drink without you telling him?"
"Lavender lattes. He took me to a café that supposedly made the best ones in town."
"For me it was chai tea with cardamom. Very specific. He knew because he'd been monitoring my Instagram posts for months, maybe years. Emma, this man is extremely dangerous. Not violent, necessarily, but psychologically destructive in ways you can't imagine."
"How did he find you originally?"
"I was a freelance photographer going through a nasty breakup. He probably found me through social media, saw I was vulnerable, and began his research. By the time he made contact, he knew everything about me—my habits, my schedule, my emotional triggers. He engineered our first meeting to seem like fate."
I thought about Adrian appearing on the hiking trail exactly when I was lost and panicking. "What did he want from you?"
"Total control. Not in an obvious way—he was too smart for that. He wanted to be the center of my universe, the solution to all my problems. He systematically destroyed other relationships in my life by manufacturing conflicts, spreading subtle doubts, making me depend on him for emotional stability."
"How did you figure it out?"
"It took eighteen months. He was incredibly patient, incredibly careful. But eventually the coincidences became impossible to ignore. And then I found the surveillance equipment."
"Surveillance equipment?"
"Hidden cameras in my apartment. Keystroke loggers on my computer. He'd been monitoring everything—my emails, my calls, my browsing history. That's how he always knew exactly what to say, exactly how to react."
I thought about the coffee cup in my cabin, the feeling of being watched. "Sofia, I think he might have been in my rental cabin. Is that something he did to you?"
"Constantly. He had copies of my keys, knew my schedule perfectly. I'd come home to find tiny changes—a book moved slightly, a coffee cup washed and replaced. Nothing dramatic enough to report to police, but enough to make me feel crazy."
"How did it end?"
"I had to disappear. Completely. New city, new name, new career focus. I couldn't prove most of what he'd done because he was too careful to leave evidence. The restraining order was based on the surveillance equipment, but he violated it constantly in ways I couldn't prove."
"Is he still bothering you?"
"Not for the past year. I think he found a new target." Sofia's voice was grim. "Emma, you need to get away from there. Now. Don't pack, don't explain, just leave."
"But I just told him I needed space. Maybe he'll respect that."
"He won't. That message you sent? To him, it's not rejection—it's a challenge. He'll interpret it as you needing more convincing, more proof of how perfect you are together. The stalking is about to escalate dramatically."
As if summoned by her words, my phone buzzed with a text from Adrian: "Saw the news about bad weather coming in. Just want to make sure you have enough supplies at the cabin. The roads can get dangerous up there."
I checked the weather app. Clear skies predicted for the next week.
"Sofia, he just texted me about bad weather that isn't coming."
"Classic isolation tactic. He wants you cut off from escape routes. Emma, please listen to me—pack one bag and leave immediately. Drive straight to the nearest police station and don't stop until you get there."
"What about evidence? If I leave now, how will anyone believe me?"
"Your life is more important than evidence. We can build a case later, but right now you need to survive this."
Another text from Adrian: "I know you said you needed space, but I'm worried about you up there alone. What if something happened and nobody knew?"
And another: "I keep thinking about what you said yesterday about losing everything. You don't have to go through this alone, Emma."
The messages were coming faster now, each one more intimate and presumptuous than the last. Sofia was right—my request for space had triggered something.
"I'm going to pack," I told Sofia. "But what if he's watching the cabin? What if he tries to stop me from leaving?"
"Do you have a back exit? Somewhere you could slip out without being seen from the front?"
I looked around the cabin. There was a back door that led to a small deck, but beyond that was dense forest. No road access.
"Not really. The only road out goes right past where he was standing last night."
"Okay, here's what you do. Call the local police and tell them you need an escort to leave the property. Tell them you have a credible stalking threat and you're afraid to leave alone."
"The deputy who took my report last night didn't seem to take it seriously."
"Then call the state police. Keep calling until someone listens. And Emma? Whatever you do, don't try to reason with him. Don't try to explain or negotiate. Men like this don't understand boundaries—they only understand consequences."
After I hung up with Sofia, I called the county sheriff's office and asked for Deputy Martinez.
"Deputy, this is Emma Walsh. I called last night about the stalking incident. The situation has escalated, and I need help leaving the property safely."
"Has he made specific threats, ma'am?"
"I've been in contact with one of his previous victims. This man is dangerous, and I believe he's monitoring my movements. I need a police escort to get off this mountain."
Martinez sighed. "Ma'am, I understand you're scared, but we can't provide escorts based on text messages and hunches. If you have evidence of actual crimes—"
I hung up on him, frustrated and terrified. No one would help until Adrian did something dramatic enough to constitute a clear crime, and by then it might be too late.
I was throwing clothes into a duffel bag when I heard the car engine. Through the front window, I saw Adrian's sedan pulling into my driveway.
He got out carrying two grocery bags and a bouquet of flowers—white lilies, my favorite, though I'd never told him that. Another piece of information he'd gleaned from years of digital surveillance.
He knocked on the door, his voice friendly and concerned. "Emma? I brought supplies for the storm. I know you said you needed space, but I couldn't stop worrying about you."
I stood frozen in the living room, bag half-packed, phone clutched in my hand. He knocked again, more insistently.
"I can see your car, Emma. I know you're in there. Please don't make this harder than it needs to be."
That phrase—"don't make this harder than it needs to be"—sent chills down my spine. It sounded almost threatening, despite the gentle tone.
My phone buzzed. A text from him, even though he was standing ten feet away: "I understand you're scared. But you're safe with me. You've always been safe with me."
Always. As if our connection stretched back years instead of days.
I crept to the back door and eased it open, grateful that it didn't creak. The deck was small, maybe eight feet square, with stairs leading down to the forest floor. If I could make it to the trees without him seeing me, I might be able to circle around to where I'd parked the car.
But as I stepped onto the deck, I heard footsteps moving around the side of the cabin.
Adrian appeared at the edge of the deck, no longer bothering to hide the fact that he'd been watching all the exits. His smile was still pleasant, but his eyes were cold.
"There you are," he said. "We need to talk."