Rhoda didn't sleep.
She lay on her bed fully dressed, the lights on, her phone clutched in her hand like a talisman. Every sound in the apartment was suddenly loud — the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the pipes knocking in the walls like coded messages.
She replayed it over and over.
The way he had stood between her and the door.
The certainty in his voice.
The way he had said you stopped being safe.
At some point near dawn, exhaustion dragged her under.
She dreamed of open windows.
By morning, she was furious.
Not at him — that would come later — but at herself.
She showered longer than usual, scrubbing until her skin felt too tight, as if she could wash the memory out through her pores. She checked the bathroom window three times before leaving it. Then she checked it again.
On her way to work, she noticed everything.
Men on street corners. Reflections in glass. Footsteps that matched her pace for half a block before turning away. Her phone buzzed and she nearly dropped it.
A spam message.
She exhaled shakily and hated herself for it.
At lunch, she sat alone and pulled her phone out again.
The police non-emergency number was already saved. She didn't remember saving it.
Her thumb hovered.
You could still tell them, a voice in her head insisted.
You didn't do anything wrong.
Another voice — colder, clearer — answered back.
You touched evidence.
You lied.
You hesitated.
She thought of his apartment-dark eyes and the way he had said her window was unlocked.
Second floor units always do.
Her appetite vanished.
That night, she saw the chair. She remembered keeping it under the table.
Rhoda noticed it the moment she stepped into her apartment — angled slightly toward the kitchen counter, like someone had sat there for a while and pushed it back with their heel.
Her chest went tight.
She stood frozen in the doorway, heart slamming, scanning corners, shadows, doorframes.
Nothing.
She checked the bathroom window. Locked.
The front door. Locked.
No sign of forced entry.
She laughed once, sharp and breathless.
"You're losing it," she whispered.
Still, she didn't sit in that chair.
She dragged it back under the table with her foot and kept her distance the rest of the evening.
The news broke on the third day.
Rhoda sat on the edge of her couch, the TV volume turned low, remote clutched in her hand like she might need to mute the world at any second.
"…the armed robbery took place just before noon," the anchor said. "Witnesses report four male suspects, estimated to be in their late twenties to late forties. All were dressed in neutral clothing, baseball caps, and gloves."
The screen shifted to shaky surveillance footage.
Four figures moved through the bank with unsettling coordination — one at the doors, one at the counter, one at the manager's office, one standing still in the center of the floor like a pivot point.
"No faces were visible," the anchor continued. "Police say the suspects left no identifiable fingerprints, no abandoned weapons, and no confirmed DNA."
Rhoda leaned closer.
"At this time," the anchor said, "investigators are asking the public for any information related to the incident. Authorities stress that even small details could be crucial."
The footage replayed.
Again, the man in the center never looked at the camera.
Her phone buzzed.
This time, it wasn't spam.
Unknown Number:
You don't have to be afraid if you don't do anything reckless.
Her hands shook so badly she had to set the phone down.
He hadn't threatened her.
That was worse.
That night, Rhoda sat on her bed and stared at the wall until her eyes burned.
She realized something then — something she hadn't wanted to admit.
He hadn't come back for the wallet because it was irreplaceable.
He'd come back because she was the loose end.
The variable.
The risk.
And he was the kind of man who removed risks personally.
Her phone vibrated again.
She didn't pick it up this time.