My heart hammered against my ribs.

Julian was in the neighborhood.

“I have not spoken to him,” I said, trying to project a calm I did not feel.

“I am just tired.”

“I am trying to finish a recipe for my blog.”

I pointed to the ingredients scattered on the counter.

The bowl of cracked eggs, the heavy cream, the chopped spinach.

“Ah, the crustless quiche,” Harris said, looking at the cutting board.

“Your followers love that one, don’t they?”

“Yes,” I said.

“They pay attention to every detail.”

As I said the words, a sudden thought took root in my mind.

Every detail.

My blog moderator, Marcus, reviewed every single comment and draft before they went public.

He had worked with me for three years.

He knew my writing style inside out.

He knew my standard ingredient measurements and my specific formatting rules.

If I changed something drastically, he would notice immediately.

But I could not just type a message asking for help.

Julian was watching my laptop screen.

If I typed a distress message in plain English, he would see it and cut my connection.