EPISODE 34 — Unravelled
POV: Marcus
I didn't start with cameras.
That was the mistake people always made — assuming obsession announced itself through technology. Cameras only showed movement. Obsession showed return.
I'd been tracking returns.
Same places. Same hours. Same pauses that lasted just long enough to matter.
The bookshop wasn't on any official list. No alerts. No flagged activity. Just a narrow storefront tucked between a café and a stationery store, its sign faded like it had chosen invisibility on purpose.
Juno & Adel — Used Books and Prints.
I'd passed it twice already this week without going in. Today, I stopped.
The bell above the door chimed softly when I entered. The smell of paper and ink wrapped around me immediately — old pages, new graphite, drying paint. It wasn't crowded. Two students near the back. A girl flipping through a print rack. A man behind the counter with glasses slipping down his nose.
Normal.
That was always the most dangerous part.
I drifted toward the shelves without urgency, eyes scanning without staring. The place was organized in a way that looked chaotic but wasn't — art books clustered together, psychology volumes lining one wall, sketch pads stacked low near the counter.
I noted the details automatically.
Three security cameras inside. All pointed toward theft zones. None covering the small table by the window.
The window table mattered.
It was littered with loose paper, charcoal smudges, a cup holding half-dried pens. No one was sitting there now, but the surface told a story — repeated use, careful hands, someone who cleaned up just enough to return again.
I picked up a sketch pad from a nearby shelf, flipped it open like a casual browser.
The first page showed a campus quad.
The fountain.
Not detailed. Not labeled. Just enough lines to recognize it if you knew where to look.
I closed the pad slowly.
"Those are popular," the shop owner said mildly from the counter. "Students like drawing familiar spaces."
"I can see why," I replied, tone neutral.
I replaced the pad and moved closer to the window table. A single sheet lay half-hidden beneath another, edges curled.
I didn't touch it.
I didn't need to.
The angle was wrong.
It wasn't drawn from eye level. It was drawn from a distance — elevated, slightly obscured, as if the artist preferred not to be seen.
That tracked.
I stepped back, letting another student pass, and moved toward the psychology shelf instead. Fingers brushed spines. Titles blurred. I wasn't reading.
I was counting.
Three psychology books missing from the row. Same subject range. Same level.
Someone checked them out regularly.
Someone with patience.
I paid for a notebook I didn't need and left.
Outside, I didn't look back.
I never did.
—
I met Ethan an hour later in a quiet corner of the student center, away from the open tables and the glass walls. He didn't ask why I'd chosen the spot.
He never did.
"You find something," he said.
"Yes."
"Is it bad?"
"It's precise."
That made him still.
"Talk to me."
"There's a location," I continued. "Neutral. Public. Low surveillance. Repeated use. It's not where the videos were posted from — it's where the watching happens."
He didn't interrupt.
"The sketches aren't trophies," I added. "They're rehearsals."
His jaw tightened.
"So she's planning."
"She's refining," I corrected. "Obsessive behavior isn't chaotic. It's methodical. She's not reacting anymore. She's anticipating."
Ethan exhaled slowly. "How close?"
"Closer than before."
"And Layla?"
"Not targeted directly. Not yet. The focus is still you."
That landed heavier than anything else I could've said.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"Time," I replied. "And for you to keep doing exactly what you're doing."
"Which is?"
"Public normalcy. Predictable routes. No deviations."
A pause.
"And Layla?"
I met his eyes. "She doesn't change either. That's what keeps this clean."
He nodded once. "Chloe and Mia?"
"Mia's already involved," I said. "She doesn't know it yet."
He frowned. "Explain."
"She sketches," I said simply. "And she notices details other people ignore. I want her to keep doing that."
"And Chloe?"
"She watches people," I replied. "Let her."
Ethan leaned back slightly. "You're confident."
"I'm careful."
There was a difference.
—
That evening, I sat alone in my car across the street from the bookshop, engine off, lights dark.
I didn't go inside.
I watched.
At 6:42 p.m., she arrived.
Black hoodie. Backpack worn on one strap. Head down, but not nervous. Comfortable.
She entered the shop and headed straight for the window table.
No hesitation.
At 7:11, she left.
No rush.
I noted the time.
Tomorrow, I'd be here again.
Patterns didn't expose themselves all at once.
They unraveled — slowly, quietly — until there was nowhere left to hide.