Chapter 2: Patterns and Trespasses
1473 Words
Obsession doesn't announce itself.
It arrives in moments.
A tab left open.
A search repeated just to feel the same thrill of recognition.
At first, it felt clinical—like studying a mythological creature I'd glimpsed once through a crack in the clouds. Alistair Joseph Van
Craven. A man with a name that belonged in oil paint, in gilt frames. A name that already lived in my throat when I wasn't paying attention.
It began the night after the gallery.
I sat in the dark, cross-legged on the floor of my studio, lit only by the cold glow of my laptop.
One search turned into five. Five into fifty.
What time he jogged.
Where he lived—penthouse overlooking the park, sleek and glass-walled.
What brand of running shoes he wore.
How he nodded to the security guard on his way out, but never once looked anyone directly in the eyes.
I started making notes.
Then diagrams.
A timeline.
At first, I framed it as artistic study. Movement. Form. Human ritual.
But I knew better.
I've always known better.
By the third day, I knew he ran at precisely 5:12 a.m.
I tested the theory twice, from a car parked three blocks down in a legal zone. Heat off. Windows cracked. Camera lens in my lap. I never raised it. Didn't need to. I was watching him, not recording.
His movements were... rehearsed. Mechanical. No wasted energy.
No variation.
He passed by me both times without ever knowing.
Or maybe—maybe he did know. Maybe he always knew.
Later that morning, Gretta barged into my studio with two coffees and an almond croissant she knew I wouldn't eat.
"Morning, stalker," she chirped, setting the cup down beside my laptop. "You look like someone who just googled five thousand years of bloodlines."
I arched a brow. "That specific?"
"You've got that manic spark in your eyes again," she said, flopping onto the couch. "Like before the Ashen Mirror series."
That made me pause.
The Ashen Mirror had come from another obsession. A different one. It had burned me raw and left no fingerprints to trace. Only the paintings. Gretta never asked for details, but she knew—on some feral, best-friend level—that I unraveled when I cared too much.
I reached for the coffee.
"You're not even gonna deny it?" she asked, grinning.
"Maybe I found something I want to explore." I sipped. "Inspiration comes in strange forms."
"Strange is your whole brand, babe."
I didn't reply and just casually laughed it off.
Gretta caught me printing a map of his building.
"Planning a heist?" she joked, grinning, half-draped over my couch in her usual fashion—like gravity was a suggestion.
I didn't look up from my notes. "Something like that."
"Is this about the new piece you're working on?" she asked, dragging one socked foot back and forth across the hardwood.
"Because whatever it is, you've been possessed lately. You even went outside. Jogged. I saw you."
I shrugged, scribbled another note.
Gretta didn't press. She never did when I got like this. She thought I was chasing a muse. She didn't know the muse had a name and a tax bracket and a jawline sharp enough to hurt someone.
I waited until she left before pulling up the spreadsheet again.
By now, it resembled a symphony of data. Color-coded, layered in dates and timestamps.
Jogging: 5:12 AM – East Ridge to Marlow Crescent loop.
Coffee: 6:04 AM – Brine & Bloom. Americano, oat milk, no sweetener.
Office Arrival: 7:30 AM – Craven Industries Tower, 21st floor. Private elevator.
Lunch Meetings: Tues/Thurs – usually The Harrington Club.
No social media activity beyond his public profile. No tagged images in the wild. And yet, I knew which shoulder he preferred to lean into when adjusting his coat. I knew how his right hand twitched near his watch when he was impatient.
People reveal everything if you're willing to look long enough.
That Thursday, I sat inside Brine & Bloom for the third day in a row.
It was austere. Pretentious. Too quiet.
I pretended to sketch in a worn leather notebook while keeping my peripheral vision trained on the door. It chimed exactly at 6:03.
He entered like he owned silence. Like sound itself bent around him.
Tall. Crisp. Always black coat. Always leather gloves removed before entering.
He ordered with the same phrasing, exact tone.
"Large Americano. Splash of oat milk."
No more. No less.
He didn't linger.
Didn't look at anyone.
Except, maybe... for the half-second his eyes passed my table.
I didn't dare lift my head. Just let the air still around me.
The barista—Chloe—watched him go.
I waited five minutes before approaching.
"Excuse me," I said, smiling in that way I rarely practiced. "I keep seeing him here."
She grinned. "Ah. Mr. CEO."
"You know him?"
"Alistair? Yeah. Who doesn't? The sole heir of Craven Group of Companies, and he's the CEO of CravenTech. Regular customer. Never talks unless he's ordering. But he tips well. And smells expensive."
I laughed politely. "Does he come in every day?"
"Pretty much. Same order, same time. Always on the phone when he leaves. I think he listens to podcasts."
That added a new row to the spreadsheet.
"Thanks," I said, pretending to scribble for a future character in a painting.
She nodded. "He's like... if a haunted library turned into a CEO."
I nearly smiled.
By Friday night, I was painting him again.
Not from photos. Not from sketches.
From memory.
The slope of his jaw.
The watch on his wrist.
The way his fingers curled when he wasn't thinking about being watched.
My hands moved before my thoughts caught up.
Each stroke felt like an invocation.
His name lived beneath my breath like it belonged there.
The canvas bled in gray and obsidian and wine-red.
The color of things people try not to say out loud.
Monday morning, I made the call.
It was a dangerous step. A foolish one. But I couldn't help it.
I put on my gallery-voice: warm, poised, rehearsed.
"Good morning, I'm calling on behalf of the Wexley Collection," I lied smoothly. "We're curating a private invitational series this winter. Someone suggested Mr. Craven as a potential sponsor. I wondered if you could confirm whether he's open to these types of engagements?"
The woman on the other end paused.
"This is Lydia, his assistant," she said. "Mr. Craven doesn't attend public events unless they align with his philanthropic ventures. May I ask who referred you?"
"Just an admirer of his recent foundation work," I replied smoothly, deflecting.
"He's very particular about his schedule," she said, tone clipped. "And I'm afraid I can't share it publicly."
"I understand. I only ask because we're attempting to avoid scheduling conflicts. I wouldn't want to impose on his existing commitments." I replied, hoping she would not pick up the nervousness in my voice.
Another pause.
"Well, he typically travels the first of every month. Otherwise, his mornings are reserved. If you forward a proposal, I'll pass it along."
I stopped myself from expelling a sigh of relief.
"Thank you. That's all I needed."
Click.
I added it to the timeline.
It was all going well as I could imagine.
Until that night came...
It was after 11 p.m. when I returned home.
Gretta had texted me about a party she was begging me to come but like usual, I just declined.
I was drained.
Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.
But underneath the exhaustion was a sick sort of satisfaction.
I had a full profile now. A daily rhythm. A pattern.
I entered the apartment quietly. No lights on.
Tossed my bag on the kitchen counter. Shrugged off my coat. Poured water.
And that's when I saw it.
The faint blue glow from the studio.
I frowned.
Something caught my eye.
A gleam.
I stepped in slowly, heart already hitching in my chest.
And there it was.
My laptop.
Open. Awake. Lit.
I stood completely still.
I was certain—absolutely, viscerally certain—I had turned it off before I left. I always did. My routine was ritual. Sacred. My system powered down. Documents closed. Tabs shut. I would never leave it on, not with that file open.
Because there it was.
On the screen. Maximized. Pulled up like someone had been reading it:
Alistair Craven – Schedule, Timeline, Habits.
It blinked back at me like a challenge.
No signs of forced entry. No broken lock. No missing items. Nothing touched.
Except this.
Just this.
And as I stood there, staring at the open screen, trying to feel the moment when the air had changed, I realized something else.
The timeline on the screen—
There was a new entry.
"Midnight – Aurora returns home. Alone."
- Writer
