It was about five minutes prior that the rear camera caught someone running through the yard, wearing a black sweater with the hood thrown over their head. They only appeared on-screen for a couple of seconds and never looked toward the camera, so all we got was their frame and stature, but maybe that was enough?

“Do you recognize them?”

I took a breath, partially shocked at the fact that this was my life right now. I had spent one of the best nights of my entire life with Jake—friend, coworker, walking wet dream—and yet it was capped by the fact that someone was now following me. And for what? What did they plan on doing if the alarm hadn’t gone off?

“I don’t. That could be almost anyone.”

“Wait, see that? What are they holding?”

Jake brought the phone closer up to our faces. Sure enough, the person running away was holding something in their hands. “Another package?” I asked.

“Maybe…” Jake said. “But then why try to break in?”

“Unless it wasn’t a package and they had other plans with whatever was in there?” My thoughts crashed into a dozen different brick walls. I looked to the door again. Any second now, I expected the hinges to blow off the wall and the door to come crashing inward, whoever was behind this twisted shit standing there wearing a mask and holding a gun. When was this nightmare going to end?

Sirens sounded from down the street, cutting through the quiet of the early morning. Neighbors were likely just waking up, zombie-walking their way to their coffee makers and putting together lunches for their kids, the morning news playing in a dark living room and now police lights flashing through the blinds. Once again, I felt myself at the center of a very fucked-up kind of attention, and what was worse was that I’d brought Jake directly into the center of the storm. Just by staying over his for the night, I had put him in danger.

Maybe that’s a sign last night has to be the last…

The thought struck me like a dagger between my ribs. I yanked it out, focusing on the problem at hand instead.

Jake flipped the footage so that it showed his doorbell camera, and he scrubbed through that one with the same intensity. My mind reeled, unable to focus, barely registering a single thing that was on-screen.

Until a car drove past the camera. A beat-up Honda with a sun-damaged green paint job. This angle didn’t let me see the decal, but that didn’t matter—the entire license plate was in full view. I recognized those letters, having poked fun at Franky once for the plate spelling out BLLZ, which sounded very much like “balls,” and for someone deep in the closet, I thought that was a good touch from the universe.