Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 13: Everywhere
SLOANE
They’re everywhere.
At the coffee shop across from my work.
At the park where I walk with Jade.
At the pharmacy where I pick up my prescriptions.
Always at exactly 501 feet away.
Always watching.
Never approaching.
Cole documents every sighting.
Photos. Times. Locations.
“This is deliberate harassment,” he says. “They’re staying just outside the legal limit on purpose.”
“I know.”
“Your lawyer needs to see this.”
“She has. We’re filing for an extended restraining order. But it takes time.”
“In the meantime, they’re terrorizing you.”
“That’s the point.”
Work becomes impossible.
I can’t concentrate knowing one of them might be watching.
Dakota notices.
“You okay? You seem distracted.”
“Just going through some personal stuff.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Not unless you can make my stalkers disappear.”
Her eyes widen.
“Stalkers? Plural?”
Shit.
I didn’t mean to say that.
“It’s complicated.”
“Do you need help? Should we call security?”
“I have security. And lawyers. And documentation. I’m handling it.”
But I’m not handling it.
I’m falling apart.
That night, Jade suggests I take a break from work.
“You have sick days. Use them.”
“I can’t. I need the distraction.”
“You need rest. You’re running on fumes.”
She’s right.
I’m exhausted.
The medication helps me sleep, but I still wake up every few hours.
Checking the locks.
Looking out the window.
Making sure they’re not there.
But they’re always there.
In my head if not in person.
Dr. Chen increases my anxiety medication.
“You’re experiencing hypervigilance. Classic PTSD symptom.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s understandable given what you’re going through. But we need to manage it before it becomes debilitating.”
“How?”
“Continue therapy. Medication. Self-care. And most importantly—boundaries. You can’t control what they do. But you can control how much mental space you give them.”
“They’ve taken up all my mental space.”
“Then we work on taking it back. Little by little.”
On Monday, Rebecca calls.
“I have news.”
“Good or bad?”
“Mixed. The emergency hearing for extended restraining order is scheduled for next week. But the judge denied the request to increase distance from 500 feet to 1000 feet.”
“Why?”
“Not enough evidence of immediate threat. The twins haven’t made contact. Haven’t violated the current order. Just been… present.”
“That’s not ‘just present.’ That’s stalking.”
“I agree. But legally, it’s a gray area.”
“So they can keep harassing me and there’s nothing I can do?”
“Not nothing. We keep documenting. Building the case. Eventually, the pattern will be undeniable.”
“Eventually isn’t soon enough.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
That afternoon, I see both of them.
Together.
Standing across the street from Jade’s apartment building.
Looking up at her window.
My window.
Cole sees them too.
“Stay inside,” he says. “I’ll handle this.”
“No—the restraining order—”
“I’m not you. I can approach them.”
He goes downstairs.
I watch from the window.
See him cross the street.
See him confront them.
Can’t hear what’s being said.
But both twins are smiling.
Laughing.
Not intimidated at all.
Cole comes back five minutes later.
“What did they say?”
“They claimed they were just passing by. Didn’t even know you lived here.”
“That’s bullshit—”
“I know. But I can’t prove otherwise. And they know it.”
That night, I barely sleep.
Keep thinking they’re going to break in.
Come upstairs.
Finish what they started.
Every creak is a footstep.
Every car door is them arriving.
By 3 AM, I’m having a panic attack.
Jade finds me hyperventilating in the bathroom.
“Breathe. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“They’re going to kill me.”
“No, they’re not—”
“They’re going to make me kill myself. Drive me insane like my mother. That’s their plan.”
“Sloane, listen to me. You’re not your mother. And they’re not going to win.”
But it doesn’t feel that way.
It feels like they’ve already won.
The next day, Marcus calls with more information.
“I’ve been tracking their digital footprint.”
“And?”
“They’ve been researching you. Extensively. Your work. Your friends. Your family. They know where your brother lives. Where your parents vacation. Everything.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“It gets worse. I found evidence they’ve been monitoring your social media. Not just looking at it—tracking your location through check-ins and photos.”
“But I haven’t posted anything in weeks—”
“Your friends have. Jade posted a photo of you two at a restaurant last week. They commented on it.”
“Commented?”
“Not publicly. But I can see they viewed it within minutes of it being posted. They’re watching everything.”
“Can we use this?”
“Maybe. But most of it’s legal. Viewing public social media isn’t a crime.”
“Even if it’s for stalking purposes?”
“Intent is hard to prove.”
I’m so tired of hearing that.
Intent is hard to prove.
Evidence is hard to get.
Nothing I experience is enough.
Wednesday brings a new horror.
I’m at work when security calls.
“Ms. Mitchell? There’s a delivery for you at the front desk.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It says it’s from your husband.”
My blood runs cold.
“Don’t touch it. I’ll be right there.”
I call Cole.
He meets me at the front desk.
There’s a box.
Small. Wrapped in brown paper.
No return address.
“We should call the police,” Cole says.
“And tell them what? My maybe-ex-husband sent me a gift?”
“After a restraining order? Yes.”
He’s right.
I call Rebecca.
She conference calls the police.
They arrive twenty minutes later.
Open the box carefully.
Inside: A framed photo.
Of me and Ethan.
Our wedding day.
With one change.
Ethan’s face has been replaced with Everett’s.
Photoshopped.
Perfect.
Indistinguishable from the original except I know it’s wrong.
On the back, a note in handwritten letters:
“Who did you really marry? – E”
The police take statements.
Document the package.
Add it to my restraining order file.
But they can’t arrest anyone.
“No proof which twin sent it,” the officer says. “Could’ve been a third party. Could’ve been delivered weeks ago.”
“It arrived today—”
“Doesn’t mean it was sent today. Sorry, ma’am. Best we can do is document it.”
Document it.
Always document it.
Never actually DO anything.
That night, I break down completely.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I tell Jade.
“You can—”
“I CAN’T. They’re everywhere. They’re in my head. They’re destroying me and I can’t stop them.”
“The DNA results come back in three days—”
“And then what? I’ll know which one raped me? How does that help? They’re still out there. Still stalking me. Still working together to drive me insane.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know! Run away? Change my name? Fake my death?”
“You’re not faking your death.”
“Why not? It worked for them. They swapped identities for years and no one noticed.”
Jade grabs my shoulders.
“Listen to me. You are not them. You are not running. You are fighting. And you are going to win.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you have something they don’t.”
“What?”
“The truth. And eventually, the truth always comes out.”
I want to believe her.
But right now, the truth feels very far away.
And they feel very, very close.
Thursday morning, I wake up to more texts.
Different numbers.
All blocked after I receive them.
“Saw you at work yesterday. You looked stressed.”
“That medication’s not working, is it?”
“Three more days. Then you’ll know. Or will you?”
“We could stop all of this. Just come home.”
“Home is wherever we are. And we’re everywhere.”
I don’t respond to any of them.
Just screenshot and forward to Rebecca.
Add them to the evidence pile.
Evidence that’s apparently never enough.
Friday afternoon, Rebecca calls.
“DNA results are in.”
My heart stops.
“Already? You said 7-10 days—”
“Lab expedited them. Results are sealed until Monday’s hearing. But we’ll know then who was in your bed that night.”
“Will that be enough? To prove assault?”
“Combined with the pattern evidence, the witness statements, the stalking documentation—yes. I think we have a strong case.”
“Do you think they’ll go to jail?”
“I think they’ll face consequences. Whether that’s jail time or psychiatric treatment or both, I don’t know. But they won’t walk away from this unscathed.”
“Good.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m not. But I will. After Monday.”
“Three more days, Sloane. You can do this.”
I hope she’s right.
Because I’m running on empty.
And they know it.
END OF CHAPTER 13
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