Chapter 5: Static
1754 Words
I didn't move. I barely breathed. My eyes scanned the dark.
The smoke detector on the ceiling. Was there a tiny red light? I couldn't tell.
The bookshelf. A little black dot in the spine of a book?
The framed print on the wall. Was the glass a little too thick?
My skin crawled. He could see me right now, sitting up in bed, wild-eyed and guilty.
I forced myself to lie back down. Slowly, I pulled the covers up to my chin like I was just cold. I turned onto my side, facing what I hoped was a blank wall. My heart was a hammer against my ribs.
I had to act normal. But what was normal for a woman who just found out her husband was watching her sleep?
I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep but I couldn't because my mind was all over the place.
He said he installed them today, maybe while I was out at the jeweler or at the clinic. Which meant he could have seen me leave. He could have people following me. He could know everything.
No. If he knew, he’d have confronted me. This was a warning. A power move, he's trying to say 'I’m always watching'.
I had to be smarter.
The next morning, I moved through the apartment like I was in a minefield. I avoided looking directly at anything that could hide a lens. I talked out loud to myself, just dumb stuff. “Need more coffee.” “Forgot to water that plant.”
It felt insane.
Anya came into the kitchen around ten. She looked tired. “You okay?” she asked, pouring orange juice.
“Cameras,” I mouthed silently, pointing vaguely at the ceiling.
Her eyes widened. She understood fast. She gave a tiny nod.
We didn’t speak freely after that. Our conversations became stiff, performative.
“The doctor said you should eat more protein,” I said loudly, sliding eggs onto her plate.
“Thanks, Clara,” she said, her voice flat. “You’re so thoughtful.”
It was a bad play. We both sounded like robots.
Marcus called at noon via video call. My stomach dropped. I answered on my tablet, holding it up.
His face filled the screen. He was in a hotel room, crisp white shirt. “Clara. Let me see the living room.”
A test. I walked the tablet around, my smile stuck on my face. “Everything’s fine here.”
“Pan to the right. I want to see the new orchid.”
I did. The orchid was fine.
“Where’s Anya?”
“Napping. Doctor’s orders.” Another lie.
“Good.” He studied me through the screen. “You look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well. Missed you.” The words tasted like ash as soon as I said it.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He liked that. “I’ll be back Thursday. Have you picked up the jewelry?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Appointment’s at ten.”
“Send me a picture when you have it.”
“Of course.”
We hung up. I put the tablet down and my hands were shaking.
I had to get out of this apartment.
I wrote on a notepad and showed it to Anya: Grocery store. Need air. Play along.
She nodded.
I grabbed my purse and left. The moment the elevator doors closed, I slumped against the wall. My phone buzzed in my purse. A text from a blocked number.
Blocked: The organic market on Elm has better yogurt. You should go there next time.
He was watching the feeds. He’d heard Anya’s lie about the yogurt yesterday. He was reminding me.
I wanted to throw my phone against the wall.
Instead, I went to a park. I sat on a bench surrounded by normal people with normal problems. I called the number Linda had texted me from.
“Hello?” It was her.
“It’s Clara. From yesterday.”
“Honey. What’s wrong?”
“The payment plan. The charity fund. Is it… real? Or was that just pity?”
“It’s real,” she said, her voice firm. “We have the paperwork started. But Clara, the first treatment is scheduled for next Friday. You need to be here. You need a support person to drive you home after. It’s mandatory.”
A support person. I had no one.
“I’ll find someone,” I said.
“Good.” She paused. “And your situation? Any change?”
“He installed cameras. All over the house.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Oh, Lord. You can’t go back there.”
“I have to. For now.”
We hung up. I had a week to figure out how to get poisoned and hide it from my husband who watched my every move. And I needed a driver.
An idea came. It was terrible. But it was all I had.
I went to a crappy electronics store and bought a cheap, prepaid cell phone. A burner. I paid cash. I set it up on the bench, my back to the street.
Then I scrolled through my real phone’s contacts. I found the number. I hadn’t called it in four years.
My finger hovered. Then I dialed on the burner.
It rang three times.
“Hello?” A man’s tired voice sounded over the receiver.
“David?” I said, my throat tight.
A long pause. “Who is this?”
“It’s Clara. Clara Blackwood. Well. Clara Vance.” My maiden name.
There was a long pause. “Clara.” It was my older brother. The one who told me not to marry Marcus. The one I stopped returning calls to.
“I need help,” I whispered, the words breaking. “I’m in trouble. The bad kind. And I’m sick.”
“Where are you?” He didn't hesitate. Just like that.
I started crying quiet, hopeless tears. “I can’t tell you where I live. He’ll see. He’s watching everything.”
“Who’s watching, Clara?” David’s voice was hard. Colder than I remembered.
“Marcus. He… it’s a long story. I need a ride next Friday from a medical clinic. I just need a ride to a safe place. Anywhere.”
“Are you dying?”
“Maybe.”
A curse on the other end. “Text me the address and time. On this number. I’ll be there.”
“David… thank you. I’m so sorry I—”
“Don’t,” he cut me off. “Just send the details. And Clara? Don’t call me again on this line unless it’s an emergency. Assume he’s tracking your regular phone.”
He hung up. Just like that. Four years of silence, and he was back in one minute.
I sat there holding the cheap plastic phone. It was the most valuable thing I owned now.
When I got back to the apartment, I was careful. I put the burner phone inside a box of tampons, way in the back under the sink. Not foolproof, but the best I had.
Anya was in the living room, sketching on a notepad. She held it up when I walked in. It wasn’t a drawing. It was a note.
We need to talk. Where he can’t see.
I nodded. I pointed to the bathroom.
Five minutes later, the shower was running, steam pouring out under the door. We stood in the cloud of it, the roar of the water drowning our words.
“I can’t live like this,” Anya hissed, her face pale. “He’s a psychopath.”
“I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “I’m getting out. And you should too.”
“How? I have no money. No family. I’m having his baby.”
The water beat down. “I might have a little money soon,” I whispered. “Not much. But enough for a bus ticket. For a few weeks in a cheap motel somewhere he’d never look.”
She stared at me. “You’d give it to me?”
“If you’re ready to run.”
Tears mixed with the steam on her face. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
The shower timer beeped. Our time was up.
The next day was my fake jewelry pickup. I dressed nicely. I went to Martin and Sons. The old man was there. He looked at me with pity. “It’s not ready,” he said, loud enough for anyone to hear. “Needs another day. So sorry.”
I played my part. “Oh, that’s disappointing. Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
I left empty-handed. I texted Marcus the update. He didn’t reply.
That night, the doorbell rang. Anya and I looked at each other. No one ever came here.
I looked through the peephole. A delivery guy with a huge flat box.
“Clara Blackwood? Sign here.”
It was a painting. A large, abstract, ugly thing. Colors that clashed. I hauled it inside.
My phone rang. Marcus.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s… bold,” I said, staring at the chaotic swirls.
“I had it commissioned. It’s called ‘Domesticity.’ It’s for the living room. Hang it today. I want to see it on the camera.”
A new eye in the room, but one he chose.
I hung the painting. It dominated the space. It felt like he was in the room, watching us.
Later, I was in the kitchen getting water. I passed the new painting. And I saw it. In the thick, gloopy paint of the lower right corner, almost hidden in the mess… a tiny, perfect, shimmering lens.
He hadn’t just bought a painting. He’d bought the perfect hiding spot.
My blood went cold. I turned away, not letting my face change.
But he’d seen me see it. He had to have.
My phone buzzed.
Marcus: Do you like the artistry? Every detail matters.
I looked straight at the painting, at the hidden eye. I forced a smile, giving the lens a small, obedient wave. Then I walked to my room, shut the door, and slid down to the floor. My burner phone was across the room, buried in a box. Useless. He was in my head now. I couldn’t even think without him hearing.
- Writer
