April 4, 1944

There’s a strange man outside my window.

He wears a black fedora and a trench coat, and he shields his face from me.

My hand trembles as I repeat the words in ink, forever ingrained in my journal.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him, and I’m convinced he’s here for John.

For two weeks now, my husband’s been working on getting our money back. Each night, it’s a different story. He wins some only to go belly-up.

He was out late playing poker last night, and it’s likely he didn’t make back enough to pay his dues. Maybe this man is here to collect on a debt he’s owed. Or to hurt me.

Whatever the case, I’m terrified.

I had hoped he was no more than an apparition when I first saw him, but now I can see there is nothing ghostly about this man. He is as real as the heavy beat of my heart, and his presence as potent as the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Yet I’m also intrigued. Even through the glass, I swear I can feel his burning stare. It’s caressing my face, down the column of my throat, and over my breasts.

An undeniable burn has settled low in my stomach—something I haven’t experienced in years. Not since John and I first began courting.

I’m unsure why this mysterious man is causing such a visceral reaction. Or why I’m allowing it to continue.

I should call the authorities. Call for help and plead for John to come home straightaway.

Still I do nothing—say nothing.

I’m home alone and terrified.

But I’m also intrigued.