Page 33 of Prey

His face was confused at first. Then scared. Then something I couldn't read.

He didn't scream. He didn't call the police. He just stood there, looking at me, a teenager in his closet, holding his things.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked. His voice was quiet. Careful. Like he was talking to a dog that might bite.

I couldn't answer. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything except stand there, clutching his jacket, waiting for him to call the police or hit me or do something. He didn't do any of those things. He just looked at me. And then he said, "You're one of my students."

I nodded. The word wouldn't come out.

"Grey," he said. He remembered my name. He remembered me.

He stepped back. Gave me room to leave. "Go home," he said. "We don't need to talk about this. Just go home."

I should have gone. I should have run. I didn't. I moved toward him. I don't know why. I think I wanted him to hit me. I think I wanted him to do something that matched what I was feeling. Something violent.

He backed away. His hands went up. "Please," he said. "Please don't come any closer."

I stopped. I was breathing too fast. My vision was blurry. I couldn't think, I couldn't see. I couldn't do anything except stand there and shake.

He called the police. I heard him dial. I heard him say "There's a student in my apartment" and "No, he's not armed" and "Please just get here." I heard his voice crack when he said my name to the dispatcher.

The police arrived. They took me outside. They put me in the back of a car. They asked questions I couldn't answer. They said things about psychiatric evaluations and juvenile records and consequences.

My mother didn't yell when she got the call. She didn't cry. She just went quiet, eyes flat in a way I'd never seen before. She drove me home. We sat in the kitchen. The clock ticked. The fridge hummed. Neither of us spoke.

"They say you've been... following him," she finally said. The word tasted sour in her mouth. "Breaking into his home."

I tried to explain. It wasn't like that. I never hurt him. I just watched. I just needed...

"Grey," she cut in. "I can't do this again."

Again. As if this was a pattern. A stain she'd been scrubbing at for years. Maybe it was but I didn't know what she meant by "again." I never asked. I was too afraid of the answer. I still am.

Two weeks later, she packed a suitcase. She stood in the doorway and looked at me. She was wearing the same coat she wore to work. The same tired expression she always wore.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't... I can't look at you the same way. I can't keep pretending."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I don't know." She closed the door.

She never called. She never sent a letter. She left me the apartment, the furniture, the silence. She left me with the memory of the way she looked at me that night in the kitchen. Like I was a stranger. Like I was something she'd already started to forget.

The court sealed my record. The school found me a new therapist. I moved cities and started over. I told myself I was better. I told myself I was different.

But I'm not different. I'm the same.

I see a man I can't stop watching. I learn his habits. I memorize his schedule. I take his things. I break into his spaces. I touch myself in his bed. I tell myself it's different this time. It's not.

Cain isn't the first. He's just the one I can't afford to lose.

Chapter 18

Cain

Leo has been avoiding me for three days.

The way he takes the stairs instead of the elevator. The way his emails are shorter, more careful. The way he doesn't meet my eyes when I pass him in the hallway.