As Jillian, Chloe, and Clara continued their walk home, the weight of the encounter with Margaret's former friends still lingered in the air. Jillian didn't show it, but she could feel a strange tension creeping up her spine. It wasn't just their threats—it was the way they spoke, the certainty in their voices, as if they knew something she didn't.
"They're just bitter," Chloe muttered, kicking a rock on the path. "They lost their leader, and now they don't know what to do with themselves."
Clara, always the cautious one, glanced at Jillian. "But what if they're planning something? What if… Margaret left something behind?"
Jillian exhaled, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bag. "If she did, we'll deal with it when the time comes."
But even as she said that, doubt gnawed at her. Margaret had been manipulative, cruel, and dangerous—if she had left something unfinished, Jillian needed to figure it out before it blindsided her.
As they reached a crossroads where Chloe and Clara would split off toward their homes, Jillian suddenly felt the sensation of being watched. It wasn't the usual paranoia—it was something sharper, heavier.
She turned her head slightly, scanning the street. That's when she saw him.
A man, dressed in a dark jacket, leaning casually against a lamppost a few feet away. His posture was relaxed, almost indifferent, but Jillian's instincts told her otherwise. He was observing. Watching her.
Her stomach clenched. Who was he? And why was he looking at her like that?
"Jillian?" Clara's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Are you coming?"
Jillian hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I'll see you both tomorrow."
She waited until her friends disappeared down their respective paths before glancing back toward the lamppost.
The man was gone.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Something was coming. She just didn't know what yet.
As she walked home alone, her steps slowed instinctively. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. But the unsettling sensation refused to fade.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.
A tall man dressed in a dark jacket stood a few feet away near an abandoned shop, half-hidden in the shadows. His face was partially obscured by the hood of his coat, but his posture was unmistakable—relaxed yet purposeful. He wasn't just passing through. He was there for a reason.
Jillian's heartbeat quickened. She kept walking, pretending not to notice, but her mind raced with possibilities. Who was he? Was he connected to Margaret? Or worse—was he sent by someone else?
She discreetly shifted her gaze to her surroundings, looking for an escape route if necessary. The road ahead was quiet, only a few scattered houses and dimly lit streetlamps. If he was following her, she had nowhere to run without drawing attention.
Just as she reached the small bridge that led to her neighborhood, she glanced back.
The man was gone.
Her breath hitched. Had she imagined it?
No. She knew what she saw. And she knew what it meant.
Someone was after her.
And she had a feeling she already knew who was behind it.
Camilla Robbinson.
A wave of anger surged through her, but she forced herself to stay composed. If Camilla thought she could send someone to scare her, she was wrong.
Jillian clenched her fists. If this man was meant to finish her off, he would soon learn she wasn't as easy a target as Camilla believed.
Jillian stepped onto the familiar dirt road leading to her grandmother's house, but something felt different. The evening air, usually filled with the distant chatter of neighbors and the occasional barking of stray dogs, was eerily silent. A shiver ran down her spine, but she kept walking, her schoolbag slung over one shoulder.
Her footsteps crunched softly against the gravel, and with each step, her unease grew. The sensation of being watched hadn't faded—it had only intensified. She discreetly glanced around, her eyes sweeping the dimly lit street. The houses were quiet, their windows dark, as if the entire neighborhood had retreated into an unsettling stillness.
Then she saw it.
A figure stood at the far end of the street, near the old streetlamp that flickered uncertainly against the night. The man was tall, clad in a long dark coat, his posture too stiff, too unnatural for a passerby. He wasn't just someone taking a late-night stroll—he was waiting.
Jillian's pulse quickened. Was this the same man from earlier? Her gut told her yes.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to remain calm. Running would only confirm that she was scared. Instead, she continued walking, though her pace slowed slightly. The closer she got to her grandmother's house, the more desperate she became to reach safety.
But the man moved.
Not towards her—at least, not yet. Instead, he casually stepped further into the shadows, blending into the darkness like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
Jillian clenched her fists. She refused to let fear take over. Whoever he was, he wasn't expecting her to fight back. That gave her an advantage.
She turned the final corner, her grandmother's house coming into view. The warm glow of a lantern flickered through the window, offering a sense of comfort. But she knew she wasn't safe yet.
She hurried up the small porch steps, pushing the wooden door open with urgency. The scent of herbal tea filled the air, and her grandmother, seated near the fireplace, looked up with gentle concern.
"You're late, child," her grandmother said, setting aside her knitting. "Did something happen?"
Jillian hesitated before shaking her head. "No, I'm just tired," she murmured, shutting the door firmly behind her.
She didn't want to worry her grandmother, not yet. She needed time to think. Time to figure out who the man was and what he wanted.
But one thing was clear—this wasn't over.
She had been followed home, and next time, she might not be so lucky.
Jillian stood by the door for a moment, her back pressed against the wooden frame as she listened carefully. Her breath was steady, but her heart pounded against her ribcage. The street outside was silent, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that the man was still out there, watching, waiting.
Her grandmother, unaware of the tension gripping Jillian, picked up her teacup and took a slow sip. "You look troubled, child. Did something happen at school?"
Jillian forced a smile, shaking her head. "No, just… a long day."
Her grandmother studied her with sharp eyes, the kind that had seen more in life than Jillian could comprehend. "Hmm," she murmured, unconvinced but unwilling to press further. "Come sit, have some tea. It'll warm you up."
Jillian nodded and made her way to the small wooden table, but her mind was elsewhere. As she reached for the teapot, she stole a glance at the window. The curtain was slightly parted, allowing her to see the street outside. Darkness had swallowed most of the view, but she swore she caught a flicker of movement near the far end of the road.
Her fingers tightened around the teapot's handle.
The man was still there.
She clenched her jaw, trying to think. He had followed her all the way home, but why? If he had wanted to attack her, wouldn't he have done it on the road? Was he waiting for the right moment?