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888 Words
5:00 AM
Liv had stopped crying. Just like that.
Grief didn’t evaporate — it folded itself inside her like a knife under skin.
She opened her notebook again. A new page. A new heading:
“Connect: Milk. Walkers. Lift. Papers. Yara.”
Her eyes were sharper now.
If someone left her a trail, they messed with the wrong girl.
---
8:00 AM
No sleep. Just black coffee and bone-deep resolve.
She walked into the kitchen, hair tied like she’d wrestled with it, and said, “I’m going out.”
Her mom looked concerned. “Where?”
“Corridor. Evidence hunt.”
“Liv—”
She was already gone.
---
The hallway was still. Dead quiet.
Liv scanned every inch.
And then—
A pen. Ordinary-looking. But placed too deliberately near the stairwell.
She stared at it.
Didn’t touch it. Not yet.
She pulled out a ziplock from her hoodie pocket and used tissue to bag it like a real crime tech.
“Something’s always left behind,” she muttered.
---
Next stop: Security Room.
She walked in like she owned the place.
“Morning. I need lift footage from the past three nights.”
The guard blinked. “You what?”
“Camera footage. Corridor. Lift area. Just play it.”
“No. Not without official police clearance.”
Liv’s jaw locked. Her eyes flared.
For a full second, the man probably thought she might lunge at him.
But instead, she turned with a fake smile. “Have a good day, Mr. Unhelpful.”
---
Back home.
She texted someone labeled Ahem Fav Sir in her contacts:
> “Sir, do you have any tutoring jobs available? I need something evening shift. Urgently.”
He replied in 3 minutes:
> “You can take a 3 to 9 slot. Few kids need regular help. You in?”
> “Always.”
Because sometimes to solve a mystery… you had to blend in with the normal.
And Liv Macaulay was the queen of doing both.
One month later, Liv had become someone else entirely.
She tutored kids six hours a day, moving from house to house, faces to faces — all while pretending she hadn’t shattered.
Every time someone said Yara’s name, her eyes flicked sideways and she felt that sharp twist in her chest.
Crying became a habit.
So did carrying tissue packs — one in her bag, one in her hoodie pocket, one stuffed into the sleeve of her journal.
Sleep? Less than three hours a night, if at all.
Because every night, after tutoring, Liv logged into an online teaching platform. A job meant for “night owl students.”
It fit her perfectly.
She gave grammar lessons with the same voice she used to study autopsies.
She never let her tone c***k.
---
In the daytime, she started frequenting a small café near the corner of Ridgewood and North — not for coffee this time.
She applied for the job. Waited. Got selected.
A week later, she was behind the reception desk, fake-smiling at people who didn’t know her sister was dead.
Every hour was a transaction. Every breath, another lie.
She stopped collecting physical evidence.
But she never stopped watching.
The Walkers still came.
Sky-blue shirts. Black pants. Always in pairs… until they weren’t.
She saw them three nights in a row.
Then none.
Then again, exactly a week later.
Liv started charting the days, the timing, the outfits, the direction they walked in.
She created an entire spreadsheet.
Because even if she’d paused the case…
She hadn’t let it go.
And now, Liv Macaulay was working three jobs.
Chasing sleep. Chasing answers.
And slowly becoming the one person who might break this case open — even if it broke her first.
It was supposed to be a quiet Thursday.
Coffee shift, tutoring, grammar class. All by-the-minute. All rehearsed.
But at exactly 2:18 AM, Liv’s spreadsheet shattered itself.
Three figures again — same clothes, same silent routine — except one stopped.
Dead center in the road.
The other two kept walking, but the one in the middle turned.
Faced the building.
Not a glance — a direct stare. Right at the 13th floor.
Right at Liv’s window.
She froze, notebook in hand, curtain barely parted.
No motion. No blink.
She didn’t move either. Couldn’t.
Her chest didn’t rise until he turned back and continued walking like nothing happened.
She grabbed her pen.
> “2:18 AM. Middle one turned. Looked directly at me.”
But that wasn’t the part that haunted her.
At 3:33 AM, she got a notification.
Unknown Number:
“Still watching, Liv.”
She didn’t text back.
Not because she was scared.
Because she had jobs.
No time to chat with a serial killer.
Besides, she'd just started investing in stocks and crypto again. Something she’d picked up back when she was fifteen.
Two months passed.
Liv still tracked the Walkers. Still worked. Still survived on coffee and purpose.
Then—
One night while watching from the balcony…
She noticed something off.
The Walkers were back.
But this time… there were four.
And just then — a sharp, clean click echoed from the front door.
Liv didn’t flinch.
She grabbed her hammer with one hand. Cutter with the other.
Because now, this wasn’t just a pattern.
It was a provocation.
- Writer
