The police station was chaotic, busy and a stark contrast to the quiet terror of her house. Sarah sat with a growing apprehension as she stared at the officer from across the desk. Sergeant Corbin, his nametag read, listened with a patient expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She could see a glaze of boredom and dismissiveness upon them as her words tumbled out too fast, while he jotted down a few notes on the computer in front of him.

 

Sarah played him the fourth voicemail. The whisper of her name seemed absurdly small and tiny in the large and noisy room. Sergeant Corbin’s typing stilled for a moment, then he continued tapping away.

 

“The number was blocked each time?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Yes. Unknown. It just said, ‘No Caller ID’.”

 

He nodded, a practiced and routine dip of his chin. “Okay, Ms. Jones. We see this every now and then. It’s usually just a prank. Kids with burner apps, or someone trying to get a rise out of you. They probably found your number online somewhere and thought it would be funny. It is harassment and violating, absolutely. But without a number to trace, there isn’t a whole lot we can do at this point.”

 

Sarah looked at him, stunned. “So that’s it? You won’t do anything?”

The sergeant let out a tired sigh. “Well, we can hardly post an officer outside your door based on this. I suggest you block any number the calls come from, keep a log of all of them, and change your routine for a few days. Then if anything suspicious happens, you can call us immediately. I have saved everything you have told me today and made a file for you, so we can update it should you notice anything strange. That’s my advice.”

 

He said it with a tone that indicated the matter would not be discussed further. Sarah gave him a half-hearted thank you and shuffled out the door. The walk home felt longer than usual. Every passing car seemed to slow just a fraction too much. The eyes of every person she passed lingered on her too long. Every shadow was someone following her, waiting for the perfect moment to reach out and grasp her. The officer’s advice was a flimsy shield against the voice that knew about her kitchen window.

 

Back inside her house, Sarah locked the front door and deadbolted it as well. She dragged a chair from the dining room and wedged it up against the handle. Sarah leaned her head against the nearby wall and took a deep breath. It’s just a prank; just some stupid kid who found her number. She repeated this to herself over and over, trying to sand down the sharp edges of her fear.

 

She was exhausted; mentally and physically. Who knew voicemails would drain her so much. It was still early in the morning, and she hadn’t had her morning coffee yet. That will help. Pushing off the wall, she walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard where she kept her mugs. Her hand reached up to grab her favourite, the “World’s Best Aunt” with the slight chip on it, gifted from her niece. But her hand found nothing.

 

Her eyes shot up to the cupboard and scanned it quickly. It was in the wrong place. It was on the left side, nestled between two plain white mugs. But she always, always, kept it on the right. Alone. So that it wouldn’t get chipped again.

 

Her breathing began to quicken again, its pace rising. This was a tiny detail. The kind of thing no one would ever know unless they saw it directly.

 

“You forgot to close the kitchen window”.

 

The voicemail echoed in her mind. She turned to look out the window, searching for anything, some indication of what was going on. Did something just move? What was that reflection of the light? Is someone watching right now in the distance? This wasn’t a prank. It wasn’t a wrong number. Someone had watched her use this mug, more than once. Someone had been in her home. They had stood right where she was standing. They had moved her mug.

 

With a shaking hand she put the mug back and closed the cupboard door. Whoever this was knew the intimate details of her life. The cold fear she felt when she heard her name in the voicemail rushed back in, cold and absolute. Overwhelming. Every shadow was a hiding place. Every closed door a risk. Even the quiet hum of her refrigerator could mask the sound of footsteps.

 

Her eyes turned to the window once more. It was closed. Locked. But on the sill, just beside the lock, was a single faint smudge in the thin layer of dust. Her breath caught in her throat. Sarah didn’t need to check if it was hers, she knew it wasn’t. She never touched that part of the windowsill.

 

She was not safe. She was not paranoid. She was prey.