You’re shit at stalking
Frank noticed her three days ago.
Noticed the subtle changes in routine, the quiet shuffle of feet two paces behind him, the shadow of movement in a store window reflection just a beat too slow. At first, he thought he was slipping. That he’d been too distracted—softened, even. Letting Karen in, letting himself feel safe. Letting his guard drop.
But when he spotted the girl again—petite frame, hoodie too big for her shoulders, hair tucked under a beanie like she was hiding in plain sight—he knew it wasn’t paranoia. Someone was following him.
He let it happen for a while. Let her think she was good at it.
But tonight, after group, he doubled back through an alley near 10th. Footsteps behind him, trying to stay light, but not light enough. He ducked into a recess behind a closed-down bodega and waited. Thirty seconds later, she appeared—face hidden under the glow of a busted streetlight, head down, watching his trail.
“You’re shit at stalking,” Frank said from the shadows.
The girl jolted, hand going instinctively to her coat pocket. Frank didn’t flinch, didn’t reach for a weapon. He stepped into the light slow, arms at his sides. Non-threatening, but solid.
“Tryna be slick, but your footfalls are off tempo. You hold your breath when I stop, and your reflection gave you away twice today. Don’t do this unless you’re ready to get caught.”
The girl looked up at him fully for the first time, and for a split second, Frank saw something behind her eyes—something fractured but fierce. She didn’t look afraid. She looked furious.
“I wasn’t trying to stalk you,” she snapped.
Frank raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Silence stretched between them. Her breathing evened out. She looked about nineteen, twenty maybe. Sharp jaw, wiry frame, eyes too old for her face. Still just a kid.
“I know who you are,” she said finally.
“Yeah?” he said. “Then you oughta know how stupid it is to follow me.”
She took a step closer, defiant. “You saved me once.”
That made him pause.
Her chin lifted. “I was fifteen. Hell’s Kitchen. Back of a warehouse on 37th and West End. You broke down the door and shot the guy holding us—me and two other girls. You didn’t say a word. Just handed me a jacket and told me to run.”
Frank’s jaw clenched. He remembered. Not her face—not exactly. But the operation. The stench. The silence in the room after the last shot rang out.
“You got out,” he said. Not a question. A quiet kind of affirmation.
“I did.” Her voice cracked. She took a breath and steadied herself. “Name’s Riley. I live clean now. Got a job. A life. But I saw you with Karen… and I didn’t know if it was real. Or if you were still in this.”
Frank’s eyes flicked over her—wiry, yes, but steady. No twitchiness. No signs of drug use. Still, there was a storm in her eyes.
“Why follow me?” he asked.
“Because I needed to know,” she said. “If I made it out for nothing. If you’re just another vigilante who moved on and let the rest of us rot.”
Frank’s voice was gravel when he responded. “I don’t move on. I bury it.”
Riley looked at him. “Then why are you pretending to be normal? You’re not. I’m not. But at least I admit it.”
Frank’s chest tightened. “Karen’s not—pretend.”
“You love her?” she asked, blunt.
Frank didn’t answer.
They stood in silence again, the alley buzzing with the hum of city air, distant sirens, neon flicker from a diner sign nearby.
Finally, Frank exhaled. “What do you want from me?”
Riley crossed her arms. “Nothing. I just wanted to see if you’d look me in the eye and recognize me. That maybe… I wasn’t just another thing you erased.”
“You’re not,” he said. Soft. Real.
Her mouth tightened. “Okay. Then maybe I can stop looking over my shoulder.”
Frank studied her face. Saw her strength. Saw the fear she kept trying to swallow. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something heavy shift in his chest—something protective.
“Next time you’re feeling paranoid,” he said, “call instead of creeping.”
Riley blinked. “You’re giving me your number?”
Frank gave a dry half-smile. “I’m giving you a lifeline.”
She tucked that into her chest like it meant more than she’d admit. “Thanks,” she said, and turned to go.
Just before she disappeared down the alley, she paused. “Karen doesn’t know, does she?”
Frank shook his head.
Riley’s lips pressed together like she knew something he didn’t. “Maybe tell her. Girls like her don’t like secrets.”
Then she was gone.
Frank sat on the edge of the couch, Trouble curled by his feet, Karen in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine. She had that look—wary, curious, waiting.
“So…” she started. “Anything interesting happen today?”
He ran a hand down his face. “Yeah. Something.”
She leaned on the counter. “You gonna tell me, or am I gonna have to read your diary?”
Frank smirked. Then sobered.
“I ran into someone. A girl. Riley. Said I saved her a few years back. She’s been watching me the past couple days.”
Karen’s brows shot up. “Watching you?”
“She wasn’t planning to hurt me. She just… needed answers.” He looked up at her. “She knows you. Works with you.”
Karen blinked. “Riley from the office?”
Frank nodded.
“Holy shit,” Karen muttered. “I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” Frank said. “She’s strong. Got a little fire in her.”
Karen looked at him carefully. “You okay?”
He exhaled. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t ready to see something I left behind turn into a person with a name.”
Karen walked over and sat beside him. She tucked her legs under herself and leaned on his arm. “You didn’t leave her behind, Frank. You gave her a shot.”
He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head so it touched hers. And for a while, they just sat like that—quiet, warm, whole.