The Stalker Next Door

I sat under the glaring lights of the precinct. Daphne—the neighbor who constantly treated my car like her personal free ride—had just filed a missing person report on me.

But a few minutes ago, the detective spun his monitor around and hit play on the security footage.

On the screen, the same woman who claimed to be worried sick about my safety paced around my garage like a deranged stalker.

For the past three nights, she prowled through the shadows, bringing a different set of burglary tools each time. The grainy video caught her hammering against my car window.

She wielded a heavy steel crowbar, looking like a maniac hunting for prey as she clawed and hammered, trying to pry open my trunk. Faced with the undeniable proof, she snapped.

She lunged forward in the middle of the station, a raw shriek tearing from her throat.

She shoved her trembling finger inches from my face, screeching that I had stashed a massive fortune in my car. Ice water replaced the blood in my veins.

There wasn't a single dime hidden in that car. So what the hell was she actually looking for? Chapter 1 The precinct's number flashed on my phone screen.

The deafening roar of the morning subway commute faded into white noise. My gut twisted—trouble had just come knocking. "Hello, is this Julian? This is the Southside Precinct.

Can you come down here?" The officer's voice held a flat, professional tone, but a subtle edge beneath it set off alarm bells in my head. "What's this about?" "A woman filed a missing person report on you.

Claimed she last saw you acting suspiciously in your parking garage." A sharp ringing pierced my ears.

I ended the call, shoved my way out at the next stop, and switched trains heading straight for the station.

Pushing through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, my eyes immediately locked onto Daphne.

She sat huddled on a wooden bench, head bowed, shoulders trembling in a pictureperfect display of distress. At the sound of my footsteps, her head snapped up.

Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red as if she’d been sobbing for hours. "Julian! You're okay!

Oh, thank god!" She bolted upright and lunged toward me, hands outstretched to grab my arm. I took a hard step back, letting her hands grasp empty air.

Officer Marshall, a rugged guy in his forties, gestured sharply toward the chairs. "Have a seat." "Julian, Daphne here has been crying her eyes out, claiming you met with some tragic end.

But what we saw on those security cameras was a rather chilling surprise." Marshall scrutinized me, waiting for a reaction. "I've been going to work every single day.

I'm not missing." I kept my voice deadlevel, forcing down the sudden spike of anger flaring in my chest. "But your car has been parked in the exact same spot in the garage!

I walk past it every day. It's been three whole days!" Daphne's voice cracked, dripping with a sickeningly sweet, desperate sincerity.

A harsh, disbelieving laugh ripped from my throat.

I stared mockingly at the woman. "What, so taking the subway for a few days to lower my carbon footprint is now criminal evidence for a missing person case?" "It was three days ago!

I saw him with my own eyes, sneaking out of the bank across the street! He was clutching this heavy black briefcase for dear life and shoved it into his trunk!

And then he just vanished into thin air!" She waved her arms frantically, shrieking like a maniac. A cold knot formed in my stomach. What briefcase? What bank?

I hadn't stepped foot inside a bank in over two weeks. "Daphne, take a breath. Walk us through it," Marshall ordered, his pen hovering over his notepad.

Daphne wiped a stray tear and took a dramatic, shuddering breath, pivoting toward me.

A dark, unreadable gleam flashed in her tearfilled eyes. "I thought something terrible happened to you, Julian.

I was so worried." If I hadn't just watched the security footage of what she’d actually been doing in that garage for the past three nights, I might have bought her little performance.

Marshall shifted his heavy gaze back to me. "Julian?

Any truth to this?" "None," I fired back, my voice hard and absolute. "I haven't been to a bank in weeks, and I sure as hell don't own any black briefcase." "But I saw—" "What exactly did you see, Daphne?" I cut her off.

Chapter 2 A sudden thought hit me. "Officer Marshall, can I ask a question?

Since Daphne here was so incredibly worried about me, what exactly did she do for the last three days besides filing a report?" Marshall's expression shifted.

His gaze flicked from Daphne to me. "We pulled the security footage from your apartment complex.

Including the underground garage." He paused. "The tapes show that for the past three nights, Daphne did indeed visit your parking spot.

Sometimes lingering around your vehicle for extended periods." Daphne's expression faltered. "I was just worried about Julian!

I thought he might have collapsed in his car!" "But last night's footage shows you attempting to force open Julian's car door." Marshall's voice remained flat, but each word slammed down like a gavel. "I did not!

I just—" Marshall didn't let her finish. He spun his laptop around. The garage feed played on the screen. The timestamp read 11:43 PM. Daphne's figure was crystal clear.

She glanced over her shoulder, then crouched by my driver's side door, fishing something metallic out of her pocket and jamming it into the lock.

Despite the grainy footage, her sneaking posture was unmistakable. The blood drained from Daphne's face. A cold laugh ripped from my throat.

I leaned forward, trapping her under a dead, suffocating stare. "Daphne, is this your version of being worried about me?

Coming down in the dead of night to show your concern with a crowbar and burglary tools?" "I just wanted to make sure Julian wasn't inside!" "You wanted to check if I was inside, so you brought tools?" I jabbed a finger at the paused screen, pointing straight at the object in her hand.

That definitely wasn't a car key. Daphne's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted around the room as her fingers twisted together into tight knots.

Marshall snapped the laptop shut. He leveled a heavy stare at her. "Daphne, we're going to need an explanation." She kept her head down. Ten suffocating seconds ticked by.

Then her head snapped up.

The fragile, worried neighbor act vanished without a trace, replaced by a deranged, feverish glare. "The money!" she shrieked. "Where the hell did you hide the money?!

I saw you put it in the car with my own eyes!" Heads turned all over the precinct lobby. My brain shortcircuited. "What money?

I've never kept a single dollar of cash in my car." "Stop playing innocent! That black bag was stuffed with my cash!

You disgusting thief!" She lunged at me like a rabid beast, roaring with bloodshot eyes. Her shrill voice echoed through the room. Marshall's brow furrowed heavily. "Daphne.

Back up and calm down." "How am I supposed to calm down?! He took my money!

That's my money!" Tears streamed down her face again, but this time, I couldn't tell if it was genuine panic or just another pathetic performance. "Your money?

You think I stole two hundred grand from you?" I felt like I was trapped in a fever dream. What the hell was she raving about? "Last week!

I had two hundred grand in cash hidden in my closet, and it vanished!" Daphne locked her unhinged gaze on me. "You're the only suspect in the entire building!

You just bought a brand new car! Where did that money come from, huh?! And then I catch you sneaking back from the bank with a black bag!

If that wasn't my cash, what was it?!" The pieces slammed into place. So that was it. The whole missing person report, the frantic worrying—all of it was a cheap smokescreen.

What she really wanted was an excuse to tear my car apart looking for her imaginary two hundred grand.

Chapter 3 "First of all, Daphne, the money for my car came from five years of working and saving. I have the bank statements to prove it.

Second, there was never any black bag in my car, and definitely not two hundred grand in cash." I stood up, locking my eyes onto hers.

Marshall rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Daphne, we'll need a detailed statement regarding this missing cash you're claiming.

But first, your attempt to access someone else's vehicle last night is a criminal offense." "And another thing," I added, my voice cutting through the tension. "For the past three days, Daphne's been ambushing me at the lobby doors, demanding free rides to work.

When I shot her down, she threw a fit. That's exactly why I parked my car back in the garage in the first place." Daphne's head snapped toward me. Pure venom burned in her eyes.

A sudden commotion erupted near the precinct entrance.

A group of men in building management uniforms hurried inside, led by our apartment complex's property manager. "Officers, we got here as fast as we could after your call." The manager cast a complicated look between Daphne and me. "We have some new security footage regarding Julian's vehicle." Marshall gave a curt nod. "What kind of footage?" "It's from an alternate camera angle in the parking garage.

Also from last night." The manager pulled a flash drive from his pocket. The security feed was blown up on the monitor.

The video clearly showed Daphne reaching into her expensive designer purse, pulling out a heavyduty hydraulic bolt cutter, and going to work on the trunk's lock with shocking expertise.

The entire interrogation room fell dead silent. Even the cops sucked in a sharp breath. Daphne swayed on her feet, looking like she was about to collapse.

She braced herself against the chair, her lips quivering. "I just wanted my money back…" The words barely scraped past her throat.

Marshall's expression hardened into granite. "Daphne, you are a suspect in an attempted burglary. Come with me." He signaled another officer to escort her to an interrogation room.

Just before they dragged her away, Daphne threw one last look over her shoulder at me.

A twisted mix of resentment, sheer unwillingness to lose, and something dark I couldn't quite name swirled in her eyes.

Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something else, but the officers hauled her through the door.

Marshall turned his attention back to me. "Julian, we'll handle this according to the law.

As for her accusation about the two hundred grand, if we find zero evidence, she'll be looking at charges for filing a false report.

Anything else to add?" I let the question hang in my mind for a second. "Officer, can I ask you something?" "Go ahead." "Do you think she really lost that kind of cash?

Or is this all some psycho setup?" Marshall paused, weighing his words. "We can't confirm that yet.

But if she actually lost that amount of money, she should have called 911 immediately instead of running a covert operation in a parking garage.

We'll dig into it." By the time I walked out of the precinct, the midday sun was blinding. I stood on the concrete steps, the harsh light jarring my senses.

Three days ago, I was just a regular guy thrilled about picking up a new car.

Today, I was sitting in a police station, accused of stealing two hundred thousand dollars by a deranged neighbor. Reality was proving far more twisted than any latenight thriller.

I pulled out my phone and ordered a rideshare. I was done with the subway. And I sure as hell wasn't going back to that apartment. At least, not right now.

Chapter 4 My phone buzzed. A text from the property manager. [Julian, apologies for the situation today.

We reviewed the garage footage, and Daphne has indeed been loitering around your car for the past three days.

Also, we found out she's been hitting up several neighbors in the building for money recently. The reason is unclear.] I stared at the screen, letting the words sink in.

Borrowing money? Daphne was hitting up the neighbors for cash? Didn't she just claim a cool two hundred grand was stolen from her? Why the hell would she be begging for loans?

This was getting a lot messier than a simple lie. My ride pulled up. I slid into the back seat and told the driver to just drive, anywhere quiet. What exactly was Daphne's endgame?

Did she actually lose that cash? Or was this entire circus a meticulously staged setup from the start? And if it was, what was the punchline?

My fingers clamped around the car key in my pocket. A memory suddenly snapped into focus. Three days ago—the first day I got the car, the first time Daphne hitched a ride.

She sat in the passenger seat, hyperfixated on the interior. At the time, I brushed it off as someone checking out a new ride.

But looking back, her gaze was too sharp, too calculating. She scoped out the dashboard, the glove compartment, even peered under the seats.

I'd even joked, "You're awfully interested in my car, Daphne. Thinking of buying one yourself?" She had just smiled and stayed quiet.

Thinking about it now, that smile was painfully forced. Then there was the second day. While I was driving, she sneakily dug through the bag I had tossed in the back.

When I caught her, she played it off, claiming she dropped her phone. I knew something felt off, but I let it slide. Now it was obvious. She was hunting for something else.

What was she looking for? Was she really hunting for money? Or maybe there was some lethal secret hidden in that car, and she was dead certain I knew about it.

My instincts violently tripped the alarm bells. This wasn't some petty neighborhood drama anymore. I was standing on the edge of a very dangerous, very deep rabbit hole.

But what about the two hundred grand? If she really had that kind of cash, why was she begging for loans? And if she didn't, why would she swear up and down that I stole it?

Nothing was adding up. I pulled out my phone and fired off a text to my best friend, Reid. Trouble. We need to talk in person.

Ten minutes later, Reid's name flashed on the screen. "Julian, what the hell is going on?

Someone said you got dragged to the precinct?" I froze. "How do you know that?" "Someone in your building's group chat is blowing it up.

Said some woman called the cops on you for stealing her money. Tell me this is a joke." A chill dragged down my spine. The group chat?

Word traveled that fast? "It's Daphne, that psycho." I gripped the phone tighter. "First, she stalks my car like some deranged creep, and now she's trying to play the victim for the cops, framing me for stealing two hundred grand that doesn't even exist." "Two hundred grand?

Do you even have that?" "Hell no! I barely scraped together the cash for the car without financing!" Reid went quiet for a few seconds. "Julian, something's seriously wrong here.

I just saw a video circulating in your community chat. Do you want to see it?" "What video?" "It's Daphne.

She's standing in the middle of the complex bawling her eyes out, screaming to everyone that you stole her life savings." My knuckles turned white against the phone casing. "Send it." The line went dead.

A second later, the notification pinged. The video from Reid. Chapter 5 I hit play.

The screen showed Daphne standing right in the middle of our apartment complex's courtyard, surrounded by a gaggle of neighbors.

She was sobbing, putting on a flawless, heartwrenching performance of a broken woman. "I can't go on like this…" she choked out. "That was my mother's surgery money… Two hundred grand… just gone…" The camera shook, blurring the faces around her, but the disgusted mutters from the crowd bled clearly through the audio. [I never pegged Julian as that kind of scum…] [He always looked so decent…] [You really never know what kind of monsters are living right next door…] The blood pounded in my ears, hot and violent.

She didn't just file a fake police report—she was actively launching a vicious smear campaign to ruin my life! The video dragged on.

Daphne wiped at her tears. "I saw him coming back from the bank, carrying a black bag… I didn't want to suspect a neighbor… but my mom needs that surgery…" She dissolved into louder, hysterical wails.

The video cut to black. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "Where to, man?

We've been driving in circles for half an hour." I snapped back to reality. "Drop me off at the park. I need some air." The car made a Uturn.

I stared out the window as a memory clicked into place. Three days ago—the exact afternoon Daphne claimed she saw me hauling that black bag—I did leave the apartment.

But not to the bank. I went to meet a client. I remembered it perfectly.

Around three o'clock that afternoon, I was standing in the lobby of my client's corporate building, waiting for the elevator.

There was zero chance Daphne saw me at our complex coming back from a bank. The timeline was physically impossible. Unless she fabricated the entire story from scratch. But why?

Just to frame me for theft? Or was she trying to back me into a corner to force my hand on something else? My phone vibrated again. An unknown number flashed on the screen.

I let it ring for a second before hitting accept. "Julian?" a woman's voice asked. It wasn't Daphne. "Speaking.

Who's this?" "I'm Daphne's sister, Monica." My grip tightened on the phone. "What do you want?" "I'm so incredibly sorry for what my sister put you through." Monica sounded bonetired. "But she's not a bad person.

She's just… sick." "Sick?" "She has psychiatric issues. Paranoia and severe delusions. She accused you of stealing her money because she genuinely believes it was stolen.

But that cash… it never existed." My jaw locked tight. "You're telling me there was no two hundred grand?" "None.

Daphne lost her job six months ago, and her marriage is falling apart. Her mental state has been deteriorating rapidly. The two hundred thousand dollars was a hallucination.

Our family has been trying to get her medical help, but we never imagined she would pull a stunt like this." A heavy silence stretched between us. "I am so sorry for the trouble," Monica begged, her voice cracking with desperation. "We'll compensate you for all the damages.

We'll publicly clear your name in the building. Please… just don't press charges against her. Okay?

She desperately needs clinical treatment, not a prison cell." Chapter 6 I cut her off, my voice cold and hard. "Mental illness isn't a free pass for committing a crime.

If you want me to drop the charges, you'd better show some actual sincerity instead of playing these cheap sympathy cards." I killed the call. The ride ended at the park.

I got out, found an empty bench, and sat down, my jaw clenched tight. If Monica was telling the truth, it would neatly explain the madness.

The stalking, the wild accusations, the unhinged paranoia. But why me? Out of all the people in that building, why was I the chosen target? Just because I drove home in a new car?

Or did I just look like an easy mark? I leaned back against the hard wooden slats and closed my eyes, letting the dappled sunlight wash over my face.

A fleeting thought urged me to take Monica's excuse and walk away. Fighting a sick woman felt pointless. But a harsh, nagging instinct clawed at the back of my mind.

Nothing about this was that simple. Daphne's behavior on those security feeds was way too calculated.

She picked her moments, dodged the main cameras, and came armed with heavyduty lockpicking gear. That wasn't the random, chaotic impulse of a delusional patient.

That was a highly premeditated operation. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

The property manager again. "Julian, there's something else you need to know." "What is it?" "We dug through the older security archives.

A week ago, Daphne brought a strange man into the complex. He spent a long time pacing around your building, taking pictures of the layout." I bolted upright. "What did he look like