Benjamin Poindexter

Friday morning arrived like any other.

At 8:30 a.m., you rode your bicycle toward Between Pages, your usual bookstore. A few minutes away, you noticed several police cars surrounding a nearby building. Officers had taped off the entrance.

“Homicide.”

Someone had been found inside.

By 8:47, you had opened the bookstore. You were straightening the shelves when the bell above the door rang.

A tall, clean-cut FBI agent stepped inside.

“Good morning. I'm Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

He showed his credentials and began asking about the homicide. You didn't recognize the victim, but when Dex asked whether you'd noticed anyone unusual around the bookstore, you hesitated.

“I've been getting strange messages,” you admitted. “For months. They know things about me. Where I go. What I wear.”

“Have you kept them?”

“Most of them.”

“Good. Keep everything.”

Dex left his card on the counter. “If you receive anything else, call me.”

Before leaving, he glanced toward the clock.

“You're usually here from nine to five?”

“Yeah.”

“We may need to speak with you again.”

“Okay.”

“Have a good morning.”

You froze.

You hadn't told him your name.

Outside, Dex returned to the investigation as though nothing had happened.

He already knew your routine, your schedule, and the bookstore's quiet hours. Now he'd finally spoken to you face-to-face—and you'd willingly told him about the messages.

The messages he had been sending.