Chapter 3: An Appraisal, Not an Invitation
1246 Words
Rhea didn’t go back to the office.
She stood on the sidewalk across the street instead, staring at the glass façade as if it might offer answers if she looked long enough.
Her phone burned in her palm, Marcus Vale’s last message etched into her thoughts like a brand.
You never told me your name. Not today. Not ever.
She replayed the encounter again and again, searching for some small, stupid mistake she could blame. A name tag at work. A social media post she’d forgotten to lock down. Mara mentioning her name aloud.
Nothing fit.
“Okay,” Rhea murmured, forcing air into her lungs. “Okay.”
She turned and walked. Not home. Not work. Somewhere public, somewhere crowded—somewhere Marcus Vale would be forced to be just another face.
The bookstore three blocks down fit the bill.
The bell over the door chimed as she stepped inside, releasing the comforting scent of paper and dust and old glue. Rhea wandered the aisles without really seeing the titles, fingers trailing along spines while her mind stayed locked on one question.
What do you want from me?
Her phone buzzed again.
She flinched this time, heart slamming hard enough to make her dizzy. She didn’t look at the screen right away. She counted to three.
To five.
When she finally glanced down, there was no new message.
Just a missed call.
Unknown number.
Rhea exhaled shakily and shoved the phone into her bag. She grabbed the nearest book—something thick and forgettable—and carried it to the counter, more for the excuse to stand still than any real interest in buying it.
The cashier smiled. “Find everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Rhea lied.
She paid, left, and stepped back into the street, the daylight feeling harsher than before. The sense of being watched crept back in, subtle but insistent, like pressure on a bruise.
She didn’t look around. She refused to give fear that satisfaction.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was vibrating with tension. She locked the door behind her, double-checked the windows, then paced the length of the living room until her thoughts started tripping over themselves.
This wasn’t just flirting gone wrong. This wasn’t a socially awkward guy misreading signals.
Marcus Vale was deliberate.
She pulled out her laptop and opened it on the kitchen table. If he existed—really existed—there would be something. A trace. A footprint. No one appeared out of thin air.
She typed his name into the search bar.
Nothing useful came up. A few LinkedIn profiles that didn’t match his face. An obituary from another state. A high school athlete with the same name.
Rhea narrowed her eyes and refined the search. Added the city. Then variations. Then reversed image searches using a grainy photo she’d snapped of him from the park without him noticing—at least, she’d thought he hadn’t noticed.
Still nothing.
Her pulse ticked faster.
She checked social media next. f*******:. i********:. Twitter. Nothing that lined up. No tagged photos. No mutuals. No evidence that Marcus Vale had ever existed before recently.
She scrolled through her call log again. The missed call had come from the same blocked number she’d received the texts from. She hovered over the contact, debating.
Don’t, she told herself.
Her phone rang.
This time, it wasn’t unknown.
It was Mara.
Rhea answered immediately. “Please tell me you’re about to say something normal.”
Mara’s voice came through tense but steady. “You left work.”
“Yeah.”
“That bad?”
Rhea sank onto the couch, fingers digging into the cushion. “I ran into him. Marcus.”
Silence stretched on the line. “And?”
“And he knows things,” Rhea said quietly. “Things he shouldn’t.”
Mara swore under her breath. “Rhea, this isn’t funny anymore.”
“I know.”
“Where are you right now?”
“At home.”
“Good. Lock the door.”
“I did. Twice.”
“Okay.” Mara paused. “I need you to listen to me carefully.”
Rhea’s stomach twisted. “I am.”
“There’s something I didn’t say earlier because I wasn’t sure,” Mara admitted. “But when you described him—Marcus—I
remembered where I’d seen him.”
Rhea sat up straighter. “Where?”
“At the fundraiser last month. The one for the women’s shelter.”
Rhea frowned. “You went to that with your sister.”
“Yeah. And he was there. Not as a guest. He was… watching. Standing near the exits. Not talking to anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Rhea said automatically.
Mara hesitated. “Rhea, I asked my sister about him afterward because he gave me a weird feeling. She checked the volunteer list.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t on it.”
Rhea closed her eyes. “Great.”
“There’s more,” Mara said. “When I asked the coordinator, she said she’d seen him at other events too. Always different names.
Always leaving before anyone could question him.”
Rhea felt a chill crawl down her spine. “So what—you think he’s stalking women through charities?”
“I think he’s selecting,” Mara said grimly.
The word landed heavy between them.
“I don’t like this,” Rhea whispered.
“Neither do I. Promise me you won’t meet him again. Not alone.”
“I don’t plan to.”
They hung up after a few more reassurances that did little to soothe Rhea’s nerves. She set the phone down and stared at it, dread coiling tighter with every passing second.
She was still staring when the knock came.
Three sharp raps against her door.
Rhea froze.
The knock came again, unhurried.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure whoever stood on the other side could hear it. She crept toward the door, silent, and peered through the peephole.
Marcus Vale stood in the hallway, hands visible, posture relaxed.
“Rhea,” he called softly, as if afraid of startling her. “I know you’re home.”
She backed away, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he continued. “But we need to talk.”
Rhea pressed her back against the wall, pulse racing. “Leave,” she said, louder this time. “I told you I’d call the police.”
Marcus sighed. “That would complicate things.”
“Good.”
Another pause. When he spoke again, his tone had changed—less charming, more intent.
“You misunderstand the nature of this, Rhea,” he said. “I didn’t approach you because I was interested.”
Her blood ran cold.
“I approached you,” Marcus continued, “because you met the criteria.”
She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, breath coming in short bursts.
“What criteria?” she demanded.
Silence stretched.
Then, softly, almost thoughtfully: “Resilience. Defiance. Compatibility.”
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut.
“This was never a date,” Marcus finished. “It was an assessment.”
The doorknob turned once—testing, not forcing.
And Rhea understood, with terrifying clarity, that Marcus Vale had never been trying to win her.
He had been judging whether she was worth taking.
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