“What’s the verdict?” Kimmie asks, peering back at me.I stare down at the jumble of words. “I can’t quite tell yet.”“Give us a clue,” Wes says. “I love puzzles.”“That’s because you are one,” Kimmie jokes.I read them the list of words: ARE, ALONE, YOU, NEVER, EYE, WATCHING, ALWAYS, AM.Not five seconds later, Wes has the whole thing figured out. “YOU ARE NEVER ALONE. EYE AM ALWAYS WATCHING!” he says, making his voice all deep and throaty.“Wait, seriously?” I ask, completely bewildered by the idea that he’d be able to unravel the message so quickly. I look at the individual words, making sure they’re all included, and that he didn’t add any extra.“What can I say? I’m good at puzzles.”“Are you good at making them, too?” Kimmie asks. “Because it’s a little scary how you were able to figure that out so fast.”“Do you think it matters that the “eye” in the puzzle is the noun and not the pronoun?” I ask them.“Since when is it a requirement for psychos to be good in English?” Wes asks.“Only you would know.” Kimmie glares at him.“Plus, it’s a puzzle,” he says, ignoring her comment. “You have to expect a few quirks.”“I don’t know,” I say, still staring at the words. “Maybe there’s some other message here. Maybe we need to try unscrambling it another way.”“Such as ‘EYE AM NEVER ALONE. YOU ARE ALWAYS WATCHING,’” he suggests. “Or perhaps the ever-favorite. ‘YOU ARE NEVER WATCHING. EYE AM ALWAYS ALONE.’”Kimmie scoots farther away from him in her seat. “Okay, you really are starting to scare me.”

“Wes knocks a couple of times, but Adam doesn’t answer. “Jackpot,” he says, kneeling down to examine the lock. He takes the bundle of wire from his pocket and proceeds to make a key of sorts.“You’re not going to break in?” I ask.“Well, um, yeah. Kimmie rolls her eyes, as if the answer’s completely obvious.Wes sticks his key into the lock and starts to jiggle it back and forth. A moment later, the doorknob turns. Only, Wes isn’t the one turning it.Piper then whips the door open. “Oh, my god,” she says, smacking her chest like we’ve scared her, too. “We were looking for Adam.” I peek past her into the apartment.“He isn’t here,” she says, glaring up at Wes, no doubt annoyed that he’s attempting to pick the lock.“Would you believe that I dropped the contact?” he asks, before finally getting up.“Not likely, since you’re wearing glasses.” Kimmie bops him on the head with her Tupperware purse.”

“I shrug, suddenly remembering how Adam never called me this morning, even though he said he would. “I should probably go back to Adam’s apartment to have a look at his door.”“Want some company?” Wes asks. “I can bring along my spy tool. I’ve got a cool UV-light device that picks up all traces of bodily fluids.”“You’re kidding, right?” Kimmie asks.“You know you want to give it a try.” He winks. “I’ll even let you borrow my latex gloves.”“Say no more,” she jokes. “I’m in.”

“If I understand you right,' he says, 'you're saying that you're basically a calculating manipulative person who always says what you think will get somebody to approve of you or form some impression of you you think you want.' I told him that was maybe a little simplistic but basically accurate, and he said further that as he understood it I was saying that I felt as if I was trapped in this false way of being and unable ever to be really open and tell the truth irregardless of whether it'd make me look good in others' eyes or not. And I somewhat resignedly said yes, and that I seemed always to have had this fraudulent, calculating part of my brain firing way all the time, as if I were constantly playing chess with everybody and figuring out that if I wanted them to move a certain way I had to move in such a way as to induce them to move that way. He asked if I ever played chess, and I told him I used to in middle school but quit because I couldn't be as good as I eventually wanted to be, how frustrating it was to get just good enough to know what getting really good at it would be like but not being able to get that good, etc.”

“You know what's really freaky? Wes segues. "The fact that the psycho in question was the same guy who was after Debbie Marcus."The whole fiasco with Debbie Marcus had happened at around the same time that I was getting stalked. But instead of taking her seriously, people chalked her stories up to pranks and practical jokes, concluding that Debbie had gotten paranoid as a result.But there was obviously a lot more to it."Actually, its not nearly as freaky as the fact that Camelia decided to go to the psycho's house without even calling us first," Kimmie says."I already told you guys, I didn't have my phone.""And you've obviously never heard of a collect call," Wes says."Nor have you heard of nine-one-one." Kimmie's barbell-pierced eyebrow rises high. "Because I hear that's free as well.”

“He fakes a smile and then turns to unlock the door.I follow him inside; he stops me at the kitchen island. “I found it right here.” He points to the countertop.“You found what right where?” I ask, feeling my face scrunch up in bewilderment.“The crossword puzzle from today.” He pulls it out of his pocket. “I found it here when I was making breakfast this morning.”“Wait, you didn’t get it in the mail?”“I’m sorry; I thought I mentioned that.”“No,” I say, holding back from whacking him in the head. “I think I would’ve remembered if someone had broken into your apartment.“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then lets out a stress-filled sigh.“So, someone broke in here last night while you were asleep?”“I’m not sure. I was thinking that, too, but then . . . what if I just didn’t see it last night when I got home?”“Are you sure you didn’t set your mail down here, maybe even for a second, and then leave this piece behind?”“What difference does it makes?”“It makes a huge difference.” My voice gets louder. “The difference between someone breaking in or not.” I peer around the kitchen and living room, trying to see if anything looks off.“I don’t know.” He reaches for a box of cereal. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed getting another puzzle in the mail, especially since we’ve been talking so much about this stuff.”“Who has a key to your apartment?”“No one that I know of.”“None of your friends? Did you leave a spare under the doormat, maybe?”“No, and no.”“Then what?” I ask, completely frustrated.“Look,” he says, running his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t have all the answers. That’s why it’s a puzzle.”“This isn’t funny,” I tell him. “Someone’s sending you threatening notes, writing twisted messages on your door, and possibly breaking into your apartment. Worrying isn’t an option. It’s an order.”“So what do you order me to do?”“Call the police.”“And tell them what? That someone’s sending me crossword puzzles? That I got an angry message on my door, but I didn’t even feel the need to save it? They’ll give me a Breathalyzer test and ask me what I’ve been drinking.”