The Stalker Next Door: 18. The Glass Walls

Mara woke to birdsong instead of city noise. For a moment, she thought she’d dreamed the whole escape — the sprint, the motel, the shadow in the doorway. She opened her eyes to a ceiling of raw cedar beams and a window framing trees and fog.

The bed beneath her was enormous, soft, blanketed in muted gray linen. Her skin still smelled faintly of motel soap and sweat. She sat up too quickly, heart hammering, and the room tilted.

Not a dream.

She was in another place.

Another cage.

The cabin was beautiful in a spare, deliberate way — exposed wood, slate floors, a long leather couch in front of a stone fireplace. But everything was too neat, too curated. No photographs, no clutter, no hint of a life lived here. Just a set piece.

Her clothes were folded on a chair beside the bed. Clean. Pressed. The bruises on her wrists peeked out like dark bracelets as she reached for them.

There were no locks on the bedroom door. No bars on the window. It almo