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Things are different now. Very different.

This is no longer a series of odd notes in strange places.

This note was in her house. That will feel like an invasion to her. An invasion of privacy, yes, but even more that: this is a physical invasion. A violation of her home, her inner sanctum. The place where she is supposed to be safest, is vulnerable.

And if that is not safe, where is?

And who is? Are her kids safe any more? She will be wondering about that, as well.

Because this note is not only in her home: it is, for the first time, a threat.

That has been coming – although she didn’t know it – and it is a good thing it is now here. It raises the temperature, and with a higher temperature, the water boils more quickly.

The pace heightens.

More energy in equals more energy out.

She will soon conclude that she knows who is doing this. The detective’s classic triad – who has motive, means, opportunity?

The motive, at least as she will see it: love for her. The means: resources and access to information about her. The opportunity: someone who was there.

There is only one person who fits the bill, and she will reach this conclusion soon enough. You know, because you planned it this way.

Who, she will be thinking, is clear to her.

But then she will move on to the real question.

Why?

And she will find out. But by then it will be too late.

An Evil, Sickening Demon

Mary sat at the kitchen table, the dawn yet to light the window. She breathed in and out as deeply as she could. What she wanted to do was run. She wanted to run and keep running until she was far from here, until she was unable to run any more, her mind and body numb from exhaustion.

It was not a new feeling. Running was her go-to activity when she felt the familiar, hateful flutter of anxiety in her stomach, a flutter that, left unchecked, would grow and swell until it dominated her entire conscious being. It was like being possessed by an evil, sickening demon and the only way she could fight it at all, could stop it taking over completely and leaving her breathless and blank with panic, was to run.

And now she needed it more than ever. She had fallen asleep, eventually, but it hadn’t lasted. It was the same for Ryan; he had tossed and turned next to her. Sometime in the middle of the night, he had slipped into a deeper sleep, leaving her on her own, clenching and unclenching her fists, her anxiety a physical presence.

But she could not go for a run. Not any more, not alone at five o’clock in the morning.

Not with what might be out there waiting for her.

The note was on the table in front of her. At first she had put it away, hidden it under a pile of leaflets and paperwork in a kitchen drawer. She had not wanted the kids to find it, but she was also glad it was out of sight.

It had not kept it out of mind, however, and since she had woken it had been ever-present, a worm in her brain calling her to read it, to remind herself what it said. And so she had come downstairs and retrieved it from the drawer and now it was there, face down in front of her.

She stared at the back of the note. She knew she would read it again, soon enough, knew she would have to, whether she wanted to or not. If there was a way to get to the bottom of this she would have to confront it.

She reached for it and turned it over. The words were familiar – they had read them over and over the night before – but still shocking.

So, he did not tell you why he really wanted to marry you.

That is unfortunate: I was hoping he would, as that would clear all of this up. Once you knew that, the rest would be obvious.

But he did not. You should ask yourself what else he is lying to you about.

That, though, is now your problem. I tried to help you, but you did not listen to me.