Love You to Death

This is how it starts:

A beep. Just one. Then another. Text message, unread.

Where are you? Miss you. Call me.

And it’s sweet, right? Romantic. You think it’s just some poor girl sitting alone on her couch, bundled up in a hoodie three sizes too big, staring at her phone like it’s a lifeline. You picture her biting her lip, glancing at the clock, waiting for that reply.

Like she’s hanging on your every word. Every pause. Every silence.

But here’s the thing: her name isn’t Sarah or Lizzie or whatever cutesy, wide-eyed, love-drunk name you’d give her. She’s Ruth, as in Ruthless. Ruth like the book in the Bible where everyone dies except the women who survive by following.

"Where you go, I will go; where you stay, I will stay."

Ruth's thumb hovers over send. The Camry idles in neutral. Tuesday marking five days in this Walgreens parking lot, diagonal view to your building. Third floor, corner unit. The only window with aluminum foil taped behind the blinds. She knows because she checked. Fire escape, maintenance hallway, everything.

The texts show delivered. Never read. Your iPhone settings hiding the truth.

In the cupholder: Red Bull number four. Prescription bottle with someone else's name. Daniel Vasquez. Xanax, 0.5mg. Take as needed for anxiety.

She takes two.

Bottom drawer. Under the Uniqlo sweaters she bought because you bought them. Under concert tees from bands you mentioned once in passing. The archive:

Left Gold Toe athletic sock. Retrieved from your gym bag at 24 Hour Fitness. The Post-it: oat milk, frozen pizza, Xanax refill. Your handwriting, practiced until perfect. Green Starbucks straw, your DNA in the teeth marks. Hair from June 15, July 8, August 22. Each Ziploc labeled like evidence.

Tuesday: your Gillette razor, still wet. Wednesday: the wine glass you drank from at Whole Foods. Thursday: library card you reported lost. Friday: nothing. You stayed home. Saturday: credit card receipt from CVS. Trojan Ultra Thin. Astroglide. Plan B.

Ruth arranges these objects on her bedroom floor. A constellation of you. Map of your patterns. Your rhythms. The receipt gets special attention. Smooth between her fingers. She knows about the Hinge girl. Knows her name. Emma. Knows where Emma lives.

Knows Emma won't be a problem much longer.

Messages accelerate. Metronome losing control.

Please call me.

Where are you?

Don't do this.

Your phone vibrates across the IKEA Malm nightstand. The one you assembled wrong. Drawer facing backward. You haven't noticed. Or you have and don't care.

Do you know what's really funny?

The vibration stops. Silence like held breath.

You left the window unlocked.

Now you move. Slow head turn toward the window. The latch painted shut by three different tenants. Except you pried it loose last month. For air circulation, you said. For the cross breeze.

The sweat starts between your shoulder blades. Travels down your spine. Vertebra by vertebra.

Still not gonna talk?

Fine. Let's play a game.

The phone vibrates itself off the edge. Hits hardwood. Screen cracks in a spider web pattern. Keeps buzzing against the floor like something dying.

The Daniel Vasquez situation:

Software developer. Sriracha enthusiast. Matched with Ruth on Bumble, February 14. Ironic holiday for a first date. Disappeared March 3. Missing person report filed March 10. Case closed April 1. Insufficient evidence.

Ruth wears his Timex Weekender. The second hand ticks against her wrist pulse. Keeps his North Face draped over her Herman Miller knockoff. Sometimes she puts it on. Sits at her desk. Writes in his journal. Continues entries like he never stopped:

March 4: Feeling better. Need time to think.

March 5: Ruth means well. Just overwhelming.

March 6: Decided to stay off grid for a while.

The last real entry, his handwriting:

March 2: She won't let me leave. The door. She changed the locks. Help.

Ruth's addition, perfect forgery:

March 3: Never mind. Misunderstanding. Everything's perfect now.

The door opens without sound. WD-40 applied during your Tuesday morning gym routine. Ruth memorized your schedule. 5:45 AM alarm. 6:15 AM Planet Fitness check-in. 7:30 AM shower. 7:45 AM protein shake. 8:30 AM barista shift.

Except today you called in sick.

She moves through your studio. Knows every square foot. Seventeen previous entries. While you worked. While you fucked Emma. While you slept off Ambien, prescribed by the same doctor who prescribed Daniel's Xanax.

You're on the bed. Scrolling her messages. She watches from the kitchen pass-through. That vein in your temple. The one that pulses when you're deciding something.

I can see you.

Your head snaps up. Scanning. Empty room. Just shadows and the furniture you assembled incorrectly. Backwards. Like you're living in a mirror.

You have two choices. Come to me, or I'll come to you.

Then the unexpected:

You smile.

Stand. Phone steady despite the cracked screen. Turn a slow circle. Like a jewelry box ballerina. Like you're showing yourself to someone. Or for someone.

Ruth's breathing changes. This isn't the script.

Your response arrives:

Funny thing, Ruth.

Three dots. Typing. Pause for effect.

Your bedroom light's still on.

You should probably turn it off.

The phone slips from her hand. Samsung screen meets hardwood. The sound like breaking teeth. She spins toward your window. Across the street. Building 4B. Her unit. Third floor. Corner.

In her bedroom window: a figure. Wrong height. Thinner shoulders. But the same stance she knows. Weight on the left foot. The specific gesture. Hand raised. Waving. Slow. Methodical. Familiar.

The Pottery Barn lamp she bought on sale illuminates him from behind. Standing in her space. Her archive. Her collection room.

Ruth's lungs forget their purpose. Because she knows that silhouette. Knows that wave.

Daniel.

Inventory of things Ruth doesn't know:

You spotted her at Trader Joe's, February 20. Following your route through produce. Mirroring your movements. You let her follow you home. Let her think she discovered your address.

You applied for an apartment in her building, March 5. Two days after Daniel stopped answering texts.

You found her spare key. The one in the fake rock by the juniper bush.

You've been in her apartment twenty-three times.

You read her journal. Both of them. The one about you. The one about Daniel. March 2: She won't let me leave.

You found the deadbolt she installed inside. The chair wedged under the doorknob. The boarded bathroom window.

You found Daniel on visit nineteen. In the closet. Behind the winter coats. Zip ties. Duct tape. Three months of beard. Fifteen pounds lighter. Still breathing.

Ruth backs against your wall. The drywall cold through her Lululemon jacket. The one she bought because Emma has the same one. Navy blue. Size small.

How?

Instant reply. Like you were waiting.

I followed you home.

Been following for a while.

You like games, Ruth? 'Cause I'm just getting started.

Through her window, Daniel shifts. Something different about how he moves now. Looser. Free. The way someone moves when they've been untied.

Her Samsung buzzes. New message. Photo attachment.

It's her bedroom. The closet door open. Winter coats pushed aside. Zip ties cut. On the floor.

Another photo. Her journal. Open to March 2. Daniel's real last entry. The one about the locks.

Another. Daniel's driver's license. Clean. No stains. Held between living fingers.

Another. Daniel and you. Selfie. Both smiling. Recent. Today.

Found your collection.

Found everything.

Found him.

The power cuts. Her apartment goes black. Only the phone screen glowing:

I love you, Ruth.

I love you to death.

This short story is part of my compilation of short stories, Dream City and Other Stories.

Want more? Dive into Dream City and Other Stories, a collection that lives in the shadows, that keeps you guessing, keeps you wanting just one more page.

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