Inside was NOT a storage room…
It was a small, dimly lit bedroom. But it wasn’t abandoned.
There were folded blankets on a narrow bed. A half-empty bowl of water on the floor. And pictures—taped to the walls, scattered on a desk, even pinned to a corkboard. Dozens of them.
All of me.
Photos I didn’t even know existed… Me at the coffee shop. Walking to work. Laughing with friends. Some were taken from angles that made it clear—I had no idea I was being watched.
Max whined beside me, sensing my panic. My legs went weak.
That’s when I noticed the journal. Open on the desk. The last entry was dated two days ago. It read:
“She’s starting to trust me. I just need more time before I tell her the truth. Before I show her everything.”
I stumbled back as I heard the shower turn off. Footsteps. My pulse was pounding in my ears.
I knew I couldn’t confront him alone.
Grabbing Max’s leash with shaking hands, I whispered, “Let’s go, boy.”
We ran. I didn’t even put on my shoes. I called the police the second we were outside.
Connor was arrested that night.
Turned out, his real name wasn’t Connor. And this wasn’t the first time.
But it will be the last.
And Max?
He’s with me. Safe.
Just like I am now.
Because sometimes… the person protecting you isn’t a person at all.
🐾🖤
