Chapter 2 - The Ultimatum
The first message arrived six days after I left.
Brooke: You should be ashamed of yourself.
I stared at my phone from the guest room of my friend Melissa's apartment.
I didn't answer.
Thirty seconds later, another appeared.
Trying to isolate someone from their friends is abusive, Hannah.
Then:
Caleb finally sees what you are.
I blocked her.
I expected that to end it.
Instead, Caleb emailed me the following morning.
He wanted his belongings.
That was reasonable.
What wasn't reasonable was the list.
The television.
The dining table.
Two lamps.
The expensive coffee machine.
The bedroom dresser.
Half of the kitchen equipment.
Several items had belonged to me before Caleb and I met.
I replied with receipts.
Caleb accused me of being petty.
For two weeks, we exchanged increasingly tense emails until we agreed on a Saturday when I could collect the remainder of my belongings.
I arrived at our old apartment with Melissa.
Brooke opened the door.
My stomach dropped.
“Where's Caleb?”
“Inside.”
Then she raised her phone.
She was recording me.
“What are you doing?”
“Protecting everyone.”
“From what?”
Brooke smiled.
“Just get your things.”
Melissa whispered, “Don't engage.”
I didn't.
We packed boxes while Brooke followed us with the camera.
At one point, I picked up a lamp I'd owned since college.
Brooke said, “That's Caleb's.”
I put it down.
Not because she was right.
Because suddenly I understood that everything I did was being documented.
I finished packing and left.
Two weeks later, Melissa invited me to a birthday party.
Caleb and Brooke were there.
I considered leaving.
Melissa stopped me.
“You were invited. They don't own Portland.”
So I stayed.
Brooke photographed me from across the room.
I saw the flash.
Then again at a concert several weeks later.
And again at a mutual friend's engagement party.
Each time, Brooke pointed her phone toward me.
Eventually I stopped attending anything where I thought they might appear.
I changed grocery stores.
I avoided restaurants Caleb liked.
I stopped going to the neighborhood where we'd lived.
My world became smaller because I wanted theirs to disappear.
Then one afternoon, Caleb emailed me.
Stop following us.
I nearly laughed.
Instead, I typed:
I am not following you.
His response arrived immediately.
Brooke has photos.
That sentence disturbed me more than I wanted to admit.
Photos of what?
Me standing at parties where I'd been invited?
Me attending concerts I'd purchased tickets for months earlier?
Me existing in the same city?
I wrote:
Tell Brooke to stop photographing me.
No answer.
I blocked Caleb's email.
For almost three weeks, there was silence.
I started rebuilding.
I rented a small apartment on the east side.
Bought secondhand furniture.
Started running again.
I even went on one terrible date with an accountant named Patrick who spent forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency.
It felt wonderfully normal.
Then someone began calling from blocked numbers.
Whenever I answered, nobody spoke.
The calls came every few days.
I changed my number.
They stopped.
I told myself it had probably been spam.
Then, one rainy afternoon, I came home and found an envelope pushed under my door.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed me leaving Melissa's building.
No message.
No name.
Nothing.
I called Melissa.
“Did you take this?”
“No.”
I told her everything.
There was silence.
“Hannah, call the police.”
“And say what? Somebody took a picture of me?”
“Yes.”
I didn't.
That was a mistake.
Because whoever was creating a record was already several steps ahead of me.
Three months after I left Caleb, someone knocked on my apartment door.
I opened it.
A uniformed sheriff's deputy stood in the hallway.
“Hannah Pierce?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a stack of papers.
“You've been served.”
My heart began pounding.
“With what?”
He couldn't explain.
I closed the door.
Sat at my kitchen table.
And read.
Petitioner: Brooke Ellis.
Respondent: Hannah Pierce.
Request for Protective Order.
My hands became cold.
Brooke claimed I had repeatedly followed her and Caleb.
She listed dates.
The birthday party.
The concert.
The engagement celebration.
The day I collected my belongings.
There were photographs.
Screenshots.
Statements.
Near the bottom of the first page, four words appeared beside my name.
ALLEGED STALKING BEHAVIOR.
I read them twice.
Then a third time.
And finally understood why Brooke had been holding up that phone.
May you like
She hadn't been documenting harassment.
She had been constructing it.
