I stared at the preview on the lock screen.

My heart stopped.

The message was a photo of the front of my house, taken from the street.

The yellow fog made the porch light look like a ghostly eye.

Underneath the photo, there was another text.

*I’m closer than you think, Clara.*

My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone.

I stood up and crept to the window, pulling the curtain back a fraction of an inch.

The street was still shrouded in thick, gray fog.

I couldn’t see the road.

I couldn’t see the sidewalk.

Then, through the silence of the early morning, I heard the faint, distinct sound of a car door closing down the street.

I stood frozen behind the curtain, my breath fogging the cold glass.

The sound of the car door echoed again, muffled by the heavy mist.

I looked down at the phone in my hand.

The photo of my front porch was still on the screen.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I crept back to the middle of the living room, keeping low, away from the windows.