Mitchelle woke at 3:47 AM, thirteen minutes before her alarm, with the certainty that someone was outside her window.
She lay perfectly still in the darkness, listening. The house was silent. No footsteps, no voices, no sounds that didn't belong. But the feeling persisted—that animal awareness of being observed, prey instinct screaming danger.
She reached slowly for her phone, pulled up the camera feeds without moving her head. All four screens showed empty views—the front door, back door, driveway, hallway. Nothing moved. Nothing was there.
But her skin crawled with the knowledge that something had changed.
Mitchelle sat up carefully, reached for the revolver in her nightstand. The weight of it was grounding, real. She moved to the window, staying to the side, and peered through the curtains.
The street was empty. Frost covered everything, turning the world silver and still. Her breath fogged the glass.
She stood there for five full minutes, watching, waiting for movement that never came. Finally she pulled back, checked the camera feeds again. Still nothing.
Paranoia, she told herself. Just paranoia.
But she'd learned to trust her instincts, even when they looked like paranoia from the outside.
She got dressed for work, made coffee with hands that shook slightly, ate toast she didn't taste. The routine helped center her, gave her brain something to do besides spiral. By 4:15 AM she was in her car, checking mirrors constantly during the drive to the bakery.
No one followed. No headlights appeared behind her on the dark country roads.
The bakery was cold and quiet when she arrived. She turned on lights, preheated ovens, began pulling ingredients for the day's bake. Flour, salt, yeast, water. The familiar measurements calmed her racing thoughts.
She was shaping baguettes when she noticed it: her evidence folder icon on her laptop, sitting open on the small desk in the corner. She'd closed it last night—she always closed her files, a habit ingrained from years of careful documentation.
Mitchelle wiped her hands and walked to the laptop, clicked open the folder. Everything was there—photos, timestamps, notes. Nothing appeared deleted or changed.
But the last modified date was wrong. It showed 2:34 AM—hours after she'd last accessed it.
Her heart rate spiked. She opened another file, checked its properties. Also modified at 2:34 AM. And another. All of them, every document in her evidence folder, showed the same timestamp.
Someone had accessed her files while she slept.
Mitchelle's hands moved on autopilot, pulling up her cloud storage, checking the activity log. Multiple logins from an IP address she didn't recognize, all between 2:15 and 2:47 AM. They'd accessed every folder, every document. They'd had complete access to everything she'd documented.
She should have been terrified. Instead, a cold clarity settled over her. This confirmed it—she wasn't paranoid, wasn't making connections where none existed. Someone was watching her closely enough to hack her files, to see what she knew.
The question was why they hadn't deleted anything. If they wanted to eliminate evidence, they could have wiped everything. Instead they'd just... looked.
Unless they'd changed things. Subtle alterations that would undermine her credibility if she showed this to anyone.
Mitchelle began cross-referencing. She pulled up printed copies of her evidence log from yesterday, compared them line by line to the digital versions. Most matched perfectly. But some timestamps were different by ten or fifteen minutes. Some observations had slightly different wording. Nothing dramatic, but enough that if someone compared her physical notes to her digital files, they'd see inconsistencies.
They were making her look unreliable. Making her evidence look manufactured or confused.
She sat back, breathing carefully through the rage building in her chest. This was sophisticated, calculated. Not random criminals—someone with technical skills, resources, intent.
Someone who wanted her to appear unstable so no one would believe her when she reported what was happening.
Mitchelle closed her laptop and returned to her baking with mechanical precision. Her hands shaped dough while her mind worked through possibilities. If they were trying to discredit her, that meant they saw her as a threat but not an immediate one. They were laying groundwork for later dismissal, not planning imminent violence.
That gave her time. Time to prepare, to build evidence they couldn't access, to create backups they didn't know existed.
She pulled out her phone and opened the notes app—not the one that synced to cloud storage, but the basic one that stayed local. She began documenting everything: the file access, the altered timestamps, the pattern of subtle changes. Then she took photos of her printed evidence logs and saved them to a USB drive she kept in her work bag.
Physical evidence. Unhackable, unalterable.
By the time Marcus arrived at seven AM, Mitchelle had baked three dozen baguettes, two trays of croissants, and compiled a secondary evidence folder that existed only on physical media.
"You're here early," Marcus said, surveying the loaded cooling racks. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Something like that." She pulled a tray of almond croissants from the oven, the ones for Daniel Mercer's order tomorrow. "Hey, do you have a safe here? Somewhere secure?"
He frowned. "For the deposit bag, yeah. Why?"
"Could I store something in it? Just temporarily. A USB drive with some important files."
"Mitchelle—"
"Please. I know it sounds strange, but I need somewhere secure that isn't my apartment. Somewhere no one would look."
Marcus studied her face for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. But I want you to promise me something."
"What?"
"If things get worse—if you feel unsafe—you'll tell me. Let me help."
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The kindness hurt more than the fear.
The day passed in a blur of customers and routine. Mitchelle moved through it efficiently, smiling at the right moments, making small talk about the weather and weekend plans. Inside, her mind was cataloging, analyzing, preparing.
At 10:47 AM, the door chimed. She looked up and felt that same discordant note from before—Daniel Mercer, expensive clothing and kind eyes, ordering tea and settling into his corner table.
He smiled when he saw her. "Hello again. I wanted to make sure everything was still on track for tomorrow."
"Yes, your order will be ready at two." Mitchelle rang up his tea. "Two dozen kouign-amann, one dozen almond croissants."
"Perfect." He accepted his tea, but didn't immediately move away. "I hope I'm not overstepping, but you seem tired. Is everything alright?"
The question was innocent, concerned. But something about it made Mitchelle's skin prickle.
"Just a long week," she said carefully.
"I understand. Running a bakery must be demanding work." He gestured at the display cases, the evidence of her labor. "Though the results are certainly worth it. Are you the only baker here?"
"There's one other, but she's part-time. Mostly it's just me."
"That's impressive. And you manage all this while living alone? That must be exhausting."
Mitchelle's hand stilled on the register. "How did you know I live alone?"
Daniel blinked, his expression shifting to mild confusion. "I... assumed, I suppose. You seem like someone who values independence. Did I misspeak?"
"No, it's fine." But it wasn't fine. She'd never mentioned living alone. The assumption could have been innocent—many single women in their twenties lived alone—but combined with everything else, it felt calculated.
"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," Daniel said, his accent softening the words. "That wasn't my intention. I'll get out of your way."
He retreated to his corner table, and Mitchelle watched him from the corner of her eye while she helped other customers. He sat reading a newspaper, occasionally sipping his tea, looking for all the world like a normal customer.
But normal customers didn't comment on your living situation. Normal customers didn't time their visits to coincide with your work schedule. Normal customers didn't make you feel observed even when they weren't looking at you.
She pulled out her phone during a lull and added a new note: Daniel Mercer - Custom order customer. European accent. Knows I live alone (never mentioned). Visits timing suggests surveillance of my schedule. Could be coincidence. Could be connected.
When she looked up, Daniel was gone. His teacup sat empty on the table, exact change left beside it.
And underneath the saucer, barely visible, was a business card.
Mitchelle waited until the lunch rush ended before approaching the table. The card was cream-colored, expensive stock, with minimal text:
Daniel Mercer
Security Consultant
Available 24/7
A phone number, nothing else. No company name, no website, no address.
She turned the card over. On the back, written in neat script: If you need help, call. No judgment, no questions.
Mitchelle's hands trembled slightly as she tucked the card into her apron pocket. A security consultant who happened to wander into her bakery, who noticed she seemed tired, who somehow knew she lived alone, who left his card with an offer of help.
Either an incredible coincidence, or someone who knew exactly what was happening to her.
The question was which side he was on.
That evening, Mitchelle sat in her car in the bakery parking lot for fifteen minutes before driving home, trying to decide if she should call the number on Daniel Mercer's card.
Pro: If he was legitimate, he might be able to help. Security consultants knew about surveillance, protection, evidence gathering.
Con: If he was connected to whatever was happening at Ashwood Lane, calling him would confirm she saw him as a threat.
Con: Even if he was legitimate, involving another person put them at risk.
She tucked the card into her wallet and drove home, checking mirrors constantly, taking a circuitous route that added ten minutes to the trip. No one followed. No cars appeared repeatedly in her rearview mirror.
The duplex looked the same as always when she pulled into the driveway—weathered blue paint, sagging gutters, overgrown yard. Mrs. Kowalski's side remained dark and empty. Her own windows reflected the gray November sky.
Inside, she locked the doors, checked the windows, pulled up her camera feeds. Nothing unusual. Just another quiet evening in the countryside.
Mitchelle made dinner—stir-fry with vegetables, eaten while watching the camera feeds on her phone. The motion sensor light at the back door activated twice, both times just wind-blown branches. The street remained empty.
At 7:30 PM, she checked her evidence files again. More subtle changes—a timestamp here, a word there. Whoever was altering them was being careful, surgical. Making her look confused rather than dishonest.
She pulled out the USB drive from her work bag and began creating a new master file, one that existed only on physical media. She printed copies of everything—photos, notes, timeline—and stored them in a fireproof box she'd bought that afternoon.
If they wanted to make her look crazy, she'd have evidence that proved otherwise.
By 9 PM, she'd compiled three separate backup systems: USB drive, printed documents, and photos stored on an old digital camera that wasn't connected to any network.
By 10 PM, she was sitting on her bed with the revolver, watching camera feeds, waiting for the surveillance sedan that didn't come.
The street remained empty all night. No cars, no men, no obvious threats.
Which somehow felt more frightening than the surveillance had been.
Saturday morning arrived cold and crystalline, frost turning the world into something brittle and beautiful. Mitchelle woke at her usual time, made coffee, checked the camera feeds that showed nothing but empty streets and quiet darkness.
The custom order for Daniel Mercer was due at 2 PM. She'd spent yesterday afternoon preparing everything—the kouign-amann were perfect, layers caramelized to golden perfection. The almond croissants were filled with dark chocolate and sliced almonds, exactly as requested.
She packed them carefully in the bakery's best boxes, tied them with string, added a complimentary card. Professional, perfect, exactly what any customer would receive.
But her hands shook slightly as she worked, and she couldn't stop thinking about the business card in her wallet.
Marcus noticed. "Those the boxes for your custom order?"
"Yeah. Pickup at two."
"The security consultant guy?"
Mitchelle's head snapped up. "How did you know?"
"His card is sitting right there." Marcus pointed at the desk where she'd left her wallet. The business card had slipped halfway out, visible. "I wasn't snooping, just noticed it. You thinking about hiring him?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Might not be a bad idea, given everything you've got going on." He paused. "You ever figure out what happened with your neighbor?"
"No. She's just... gone. The apartment's empty."
"That's weird as hell."
"Yeah." Mitchelle returned to packing the pastries, needing something to do with her hands. "Marcus, if something happened to me—if I didn't show up for work one day—would you call the police?"
The question hung in the air. Marcus set down the tray he'd been holding and turned to face her fully.
"Mitchelle, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
"I just need to know someone would notice. Would look for me."
"Of course I would. But why—"
"I'm probably being paranoid," she said quickly. "I just... I need someone to know that if I disappear, it wasn't voluntary. That someone should ask questions."
Marcus crossed to her, took both her hands in his flour-dusted ones. "Listen to me. If you're in danger—if someone is threatening you—we call the police right now. Together. I don't care if they dismissed you before, we keep calling until someone takes it seriously."
"I don't have proof. Just... observations. Patterns."
"Then we document the patterns. We build proof. But Mitchelle, you don't face this alone."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that documentation and persistence would be enough, that the system would protect her if she just followed the right steps.
But she'd learned the hard way that systems failed. That by the time anyone took her seriously, it was often too late.
"I'll be careful," she said. "I promise."
At 1:55 PM, five minutes before the scheduled pickup, the door chimed. Mitchelle looked up, heart rate spiking, and saw Daniel Mercer entering. He was dressed casually today—dark jeans, a wool coat, looking like any other customer.
"Right on time," he said with a smile. "I hope I'm not too early."
"Perfect timing." Mitchelle retrieved the boxes from the back, carried them to the counter. "Two dozen kouign-amann, one dozen almond croissants."
"They look beautiful." He pulled out his wallet. "What do I owe you?"
She named the price. He paid in cash, exact change, then hesitated.
"I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I realized after I left that my comment about you living alone might have seemed intrusive."
"It's fine."
"It's not, actually. I work in security—I notice patterns, make assessments. It's a professional hazard. But that doesn't excuse making you uncomfortable." He picked up the boxes. "I also wanted to say, regarding the card I left—the offer is genuine. If you need assistance with anything security-related, I'm available. No strings attached."
Mitchelle studied his face, looking for tells. His expression was open, concerned, professional. Either he was exactly what he claimed, or he was very good at lying.
"Why would you offer that?" she asked. "You don't know me."
"True. But I recognize when someone is carrying the weight of being watched. I've worked with enough clients in similar situations to see the signs." He paused. "You keep checking the windows. You positioned yourself so you can see both the door and the parking lot. Your phone is within reach at all times, probably with emergency contacts ready. These are defensive behaviors, survival instincts."
"Or paranoia."
"There's a difference between paranoia and appropriate caution. The question is whether the threat is real or perceived." His green eyes held hers. "In your case, I suspect it's real."
The words should have been comforting—validation, finally, from someone who understood. Instead they made Mitchelle's throat tight.
"What makes you think that?"
Daniel glanced around the bakery, confirming they were alone. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "I've been in this area for a few weeks, working on a separate matter. During my surveillance, I noticed some unusual activity in your neighborhood. Ashwood Lane, correct?"
Mitchelle's blood went cold. "How do you know where I live?"
"Your address is on the custom order form." He said it calmly, matter-of-fact. "I wasn't trying to frighten you. I'm trying to help. The activity I observed—vehicles coming and going from your duplex at odd hours, men entering and leaving the adjacent unit—it raised red flags. When I saw you here, noticed the signs of hypervigilance, I put the pieces together."
"If you've been watching my street, then you know what happened. You know about—" She stopped herself, unsure how much to reveal.
"About the waystation operation next door? Yes. I know the apartment was being used as a temporary holding location. I know it's been cleared out. And I know that makes you a potential liability to whoever was running it."
The casual way he said it, the complete certainty, made Mitchelle's head spin. This stranger knew about the trafficking, knew about the danger, knew exactly what was happening.
Which meant he was either law enforcement, or something else entirely.
"Who do you work for?" she asked.
"Myself. Private security, corporate protection, sometimes consultation on sensitive matters. I'm not law enforcement, if that's what you're asking."
"Then why get involved?"
Daniel set down the pastry boxes and leaned against the counter, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Because I've seen how these operations work. They're efficient, ruthless, and very good at eliminating witnesses. You filed a police report—they know. You installed security cameras—they know. You're documenting everything—they definitely know." He paused. "And they've already decided you're a problem."
"The men who were watching my apartment—"
"Are dead. Traffic accident on County Road 14, if you've been following the news."
Mitchelle's breath caught. "You think that was—"
"I don't think, I know. Those men were sent to assess you as a threat. Someone else decided to eliminate them before they could report back." Daniel's expression was neutral, professional. "Which means there's a third party involved. Someone watching the watchers."
This was too much information, delivered too easily. Either Daniel Mercer was exactly what he claimed and had been conducting his own investigation, or he was connected to the third party and was revealing himself deliberately.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're in danger, and you're trying to handle it alone, and that's going to get you killed." His tone was blunt now, stripped of politeness. "Whoever eliminated those men did you a favor, but they're not going to be able to protect you from an entire network. You need to either leave the area immediately, or accept professional protection until the situation resolves."
"And you're offering that protection."
"I'm offering my services, yes. At cost, since I'm already working in the area. And before you ask—no, I'm not connected to the trafficking network. No, I'm not law enforcement trying to recruit you as a witness. I'm just someone who recognizes when a civilian is caught in something they can't handle alone."
Mitchelle wanted to believe him. Wanted to accept that someone finally understood, finally had answers. But trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.
"I need to think about it," sshe said
Daniel nodded, unsurprised. "Fair enough. But don't take too long. These situations tend to escalate quickly." He picked up the pastry boxes. "Thank you for the excellent work. I'll be in touch."
After he left, Mitchelle stood frozen behind the counter, replaying the conversation. He'd known about the trafficking, the cleared-out apartment, the dead men. He'd observed her neighborhood, noticed the surveillance, connected the pieces.
Either he was telling the truth, or he was part of an elaborate setup.
She pulled out her phone and did what she should have done before—searched for Daniel Mercer, security consultant. His website was professional, minimal, with a client list that included corporations and high-net-worth individuals. His credentials checked out—former military, private security training, multiple certifications.
But credentials could be fabricated. Websites could be fronts.
Mitchelle closed her phone and went to the back room where Marcus was prepping tomorrow's dough.
"I need your honest opinion," she said. "That customer—Daniel Mercer. Did he seem normal to you?"
Marcus looked up, considering. "Define normal."
"Like someone who'd order custom pastries. Not like someone conducting surveillance."
"Honestly? He seemed professional. Polite. A little intense, maybe, but some people are." He paused. "Why? You think he's connected to the neighbor situation?"
"I don't know what to think anymore."
"Then maybe that's your answer. When everything is confusing, when you can't tell who to trust, the safest option is trusting no one until you have proof."
It was sound advice. Practical, safe.
But Mitchelle was running out of time to be practical. The network knew about her. The third party was eliminating threats but couldn't protect her forever. And she was trapped in her isolated duplex, waiting for someone to make the next move.
Maybe Daniel Mercer was exactly what he claimed—professional help she desperately needed.
Or maybe he was the next threat, just wearing a friendlier face.
Either way, she'd find out soon enough.