Stacy Vs. SEAL

“Oh, crap, this isn’t gonna be good,” she mutters under her breath, but following after me all the same. Sanders just stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at me with a confused expression on his face. He wasn’t expecting to see me here, not in a million years, and I recognize guilt when I see it. Whatever it is inside that envelope, he doesn’t want me to see it.

“Stacy? What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be at the studio,” he asks me, his voice just like always: flat and emotionless… Or, let me just say it, completely unreadable.

“The envelope, what’s in there?” I ignore his questions and make my own, my hands darting to the envelope in his hands - except, by now, there’s no envelope. “Where is it?”

“What are you talking about?” He starts, lying to my face. I notice a beige paper corner peeking from the pocket of his jeans, and I realize that he tucked the envelope in there the moment he saw me coming. He really doesn’t want me to see what’s in there, that much is for sure.

“Give it to me,” I tell him as calmly as I can, although I already feel anger bubbling up to the surface. I point at his pocket, but he just takes one step back, a sorrowful expression on his face.

“I can’t do that, Stacy.” This time, there’s some emotion on his voice. Sorrow, guilt, shame - heck, I have no idea what it is, but I’m glad he’s feeling something. At least I know he isn’t a robot from outer space or something.

Gritting my teeth, I take one deep breath - I’m not going to go anywhere using just words. Moving as fast as I can, I somehow manage to reach for the envelope and grab it between two fingers, pulling it out from his pocket. The moment I feel it in my hands, I take two steps back, holding it to my chest in case he tries to take it away from me.

“Stacy, don’t --”

“Don’t what? What exactly are you hiding from me, Sanders? Everyone has secrets, but I think yours are just a little over the limit, don’t you think?”

“Please, don’t open it,” he insists, a resignated tone to his voice. He’s asking me, not telling me what to do, and I know he won’t stop me now. Which, in a way, should be enough for me to trust him and hand him back the envelope; but I’ve came too far to let this go now. I’m getting to the bottom of this.

“Stacy, are you sure you want to--?” Erika nudges me with her elbow, lowering her voice as if she’s afraid to step between Sanders and I.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” I say without thinking, opening the envelope and turning it sideways so that its contents slide out and into my hand. I pass the empty envelope to Erica and look down at the stack of folded papers in my hands. “What’s this?” I look up at Sanders, and he just looks at me with an expression that tells me see for yourself, I won’t try to stop you.

And that’s exactly what I do.

Frowning, I unfold one of the papers and let my eyes wander over what seems like a random timetable. Except it’s not random - not at all. A column with large squares on the left marks a specific day of the month, and the smaller columns on the right seem to mark the exact time I leave my home, get to the studio and then back home.

It’s a detailed schedule of my day.

And it’s precise to the minute.

I pass the schedule to Erica and, now with trembling hands, I start unfolding the rest of the documents. The next one includes a list of addresses, phone numbers and other random information; there’s information about the gym I go to, my doctor’s office and, hell, even from the vet I once went to when my cat suddenly fell ill - and my cat passed away three years ago!

What the hell am I dealing with? Who the hell is Sanders?

I feel a sudden coldness taking over my body and mind, and my hands have started to tremble so much that I don’t even know how I’m still holding all these documents. I move on to the next one and then to the next, each glance I take making my heart thump so fast I start feeling lightheaded.

In these documents, there’s my entire life.

There’s information about my parents, about my friends from high-school,co-workers, and pretty much everyone I interact with on a daily basis. Jesus Christ, he even has my immunization cards in here!

I told you so, that annoying voice comes back to haunt me, each word cracking like a whip inside my mind. You got in bed with a super-stalker, Stacy. Maybe he’s even a serial-killer.

Feeling as confused as I’ve ever felt in my entire life, I lift my eyes to meet Sanders’ gaze, and I feel the icy grip of fear taking over my heart. I thought I knew him… I thought I understood him… But now I realize that I had no idea about who Sanders really is.

And I have no idea about what he’s capable of.

“Erica…” I whisper, never taking my eyes from Sanders’. “RUN!” I cry out, clutching the documents to my chest with one hand and grabbing Erica’s arm with the other. I turn on my heels as fast as I can and start running down the street; Erica stumbles as I pull on her, but I don’t let her slow down or lag behind. As far as I know, we’re now running for our lives.

Sanders is a dangerous man, that much is for sure. And I sure as hell don’t want to find out exactly how dangerous - so I run.

I run very, very fast.

16

Sanders

I have been shot seven times during the war, and I have the scars to prove it. Each time I didn’t feel a thing until the adrenaline finally washed away; afterward, it felt as if someone had injected the fires of hell straight into my muscles. But you know what? None of these bullets hurt as much as it h