The first was a thief—crude, violent, all adrenaline and shattered glass. He took the television and left a smear of blood on the curtain. The second was a ghost (or so I told myself), a draft that moved pictures on the wall and left faucets dripping.
The third intrusion came at 3:17 AM, not with a crash, but with the soft click of a key that shouldn’t have worked. I lay frozen, listening to the floorboards in the hallway confess their secrets one by one. Creak. Pause. Creak. intrusion 3
When I finally dared to read it, there was no threat. No ransom. Just a single, handwritten line: The first was a thief—crude, violent, all adrenaline
This was different from the first two.
I live alone. And my name is not Sarah.
But the third? The third knew my name.