Another swore she’d seen the same man hours later, sprinting through her yard like he was being chased, vanishing between houses without ever looking back. Different streets. Same description. A man on foot. Alone. Late-night to early-morning hours. Jacket wrong for the weather.
Backpack sometimes, sometimes not. And the way they all hesitated before saying the same thing—that there was something strange about how he moved. By the third statement, my stomach had tightened into something cold and heavy. Because every detail lined up with the man I’d let walk the night before.