My new name.
My address.
The name of my coffee shop. My gym.
Photos of me.
Fucking photos of me.
Two hundred people keeping tabs, as if I’m some kind of freak who needs to be studied. A science experiment.
Alice Hill is now Alice Gray.
She lives alone.
Here’s her house. Her bedroom is on the second floor, window on the right.
Alice at the Stone Rose. See the scar on her shoulder?
Sharp stings in my chest, needles of an impending panic attack. My hand shakes as I scroll through the pages, the book of my life as seen through the eyes of stalkers. They know everything about me. Perhaps I even know them. Maybe they are regulars at the Rose.
All these years of paranoia. But it’s real. It’s all desperately real.
These people. What are they, some kind of fans? Does the victim of every sensational crime have their own cult following?
Most posts are from one person, this Mr. Interested. His latest just three days ago.
She is beautiful. Her scars only make her more so.
That’s the extent of the post, no comments following it. I read a few others, as many as I can stomach. Posts from Mr. Interested usually consist of one sentence, often followed by a photo. Most have a creepy protective undertone.
We should do more for her.
Alice is lonely.
I want to hold her. Keep her safe.
I study each picture, try to think where I was in that moment. Most photos are me walking outside, taken from a distance. There is even one of me outside the movie theater a couple of weeks ago, the exact image that was later drawn into the book I received. Each photo is a candid one, and I have no memory of anyone being near me in those moments.
Only Mr. Interested posts photos. The others simply comment.
Mr. Interested must be here. In Manchester.
Yet the book I received was from England.
What is happening?
I look closer at the picture of my house posted a few months ago, my nose an inch from the screen. Trees in full bloom, my lawn green and lush, the sky a brilliant blue. Middle of the day, I’m guessing, so I’m likely at the Stone Rose. Everything seems perfectly normal about my house, but as I look closer, there’s something off. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, and then I see it. In the Perch window, the curtain is pulled to the side. Richard’s room. His curtains are always closed. But the picture is too small, and I can’t zoom in on the message board. So I right-click and save the photo to my hard drive, hoping Mr. Interested uploaded a large version. I open the saved photo and zoom in using the photo viewer app. The photo becomes grainier, but not so much that I can’t see what’s in that upstairs window.
It’s Richard.
He’s looking down. Directly at whomever took this photo.
I can’t take any more. I’ve only been in this world for twenty minutes, but I can’t survive another minute in it, at least not now.
I slam down the lid of my laptop, which I toss into my bag. Then I grab my coat, leave my office, and tell Brenda I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.
“Is it because of that guy?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “I mean, yes and no.” I’m out of breath.
She stands in front of me with Hepburn eyes full of worry. “Alice, you can share with me, you know. You’re so…coiled up all the time. Maybe it’d be good for you to talk.” Then she breaks eye contact and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to pry. Obviously it’s your life. I just want you to know I’m a good listener, is all.”
I look at Brenda and suddenly want a friend more than I’ve wanted anything in the world. I do want someone I can talk to. Share my worries, so that maybe they’ll erode just a bit. Maybe it’s okay to tell people what happened to me. Hell, apparently there’s a whole community out there already feasting on every detail, so why not let someone of my own choosing into my life?
I walk to the counter, grab a pen, and pull a flyer off the bulletin board. I turn it over and write on the back—www.mistertender.com password: gladstone—then I hand the paper to Brenda.
“I’m very private, Brenda. You know that. But five minutes ago, I learned privacy’s an illusion. So if you want to know more about me, just go here.”
She looks at the paper and reads the back.
“What is this?” she asks. “Who’s Mister Tender?”
That’s a question requiring a lifetime of answers, so I don’t give her any. As I head to the front door, I sweep my gaze through the coffee shop. Every face I see is a familiar one, customers I’ve served for months. Years, even.
The man with the salt-and-pepper beard and green eyes isn’t here.