I threw the manual deadbolt, forcing the metal bar into the frame.

A second later, the electronic lock whined inside the door.

The deadbolt slid back with a loud, metallic snap.

I grabbed the turn-piece and forced it locked again, my knuckles turning white.

The lock immediately clicked and retracted, resisting my fingers.

He was watching me struggle against his code.

I looked up at the black camera dome on the ceiling.

The red light remained solid and bright.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen island behind me.

I walked back to it slowly, my legs feeling heavy and weak.

A new text message appeared from the blocked number.

“You can’t lock me out of my own house, Clara,” the text read.

“I bought those security doors.”

“I bought those cameras.”

“I bought the kitchen you are standing in.”

I deleted the message, but my hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the device.

He was watching my reaction in real-time.

He was probably sitting in his car down the street, or in a hotel room downtown, staring at a monitor.

He wanted to see me panic.