My dad died. I was drowning in grief, so I fled to his beach house for comfort. As soon as I arrived, the neighbor, Nick, greeted me — but he knew too much: what I liked, what I ate, personal stuff no neighbor should know. It unsettled me, but I tried to ignore it.
That night I left and drove back home. The next morning I found an old toy my dad carved — one I thought was lost — sitting by my phone. My window was open. Someone had been inside.
Panic hit. I fled again, but while driving, I heard footsteps and then saw Nick running behind me. Before I could think, he grabbed me and whispered, “Didn’t your dad ever tell you I’m your real father?”