The attic was colder now.
Not by temperature—by presence. It felt like the moment I spotted those boxes, something had retreated. Not the intruder, no. Something else. Like the space itself had closed around its secret and dared me to open it.
The boxes were stacked with awkward symmetry. Three rows, four columns, taped together with labels scratched off or smeared with age. Nothing on the outside screamed significance—until I opened the first one.
Not digital prints, not files. Instant film. Dozens of them, tucked neatly in little sleeves, dated in red marker. Each one stamped in the corner with a time I couldn’t ignore.
I pulled the first from the front.
Jacob. Asleep. On his side. One arm hanging off the bed.
Lea. In the background. In her pajamas. Mouth open slightly in a child’s careless dream.
The date? A week ago.
Same angle. Slightly closer. Jacob’s mouth was open this time.
Lea. Alone now. Shot through the crack of her door. Her nightlight was on. The photo had a glare—but her outline was sharp. The timestamp was from four days ago.
I kept flipping through them.
Each one documented something that shouldn’t have been seen. Private moments. Sleeping postures. A torn blanket. A forgotten stuffed animal fallen to the floor. Always with the same sharp focus, the same deliberate spacing. As if the photographer was cataloging them. As if they were studying something.
My fingers were trembling now.
Number twelve had Jacob’s eyes half-open. Not in fear. Just mid-blink, caught between sleep cycles. And the picture was taken from less than four feet away.
He’d never even stirred.
By the time I hit picture twenty, my stomach had begun to knot. Twenty-five was worse. That one showed the corner of the kitchen, a late-night glass of water, Jacob shirtless in the background, reaching for a drawer.
This one had no timestamp.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. A broken clock. A half-drunk juice box.
Each one told me less about the family and more about the person behind the lens. Their patience. Their silence. Their obsession.
Curled into a corner of her bed.
Staring directly at the camera.
Did she know someone was watching her? That some...monster was in the room with her?
The photo crinkled slightly as I held it too long.
Grant climbed into the attic behind me with a grunt, flashlight beam swinging to catch the dust clouds I’d stirred.
He looked over my shoulder.
"...What the hell is all that?"
"Evidence," I muttered. I handed him the top stack. "Polaroids. All of Jacob and Lea. All taken from inside the apartment. Different days. Different angles."
He cursed quietly. "You sure they’re real?"
"They’re not manipulated, if that’s what you mean," I said. "Polaroids are hard to fake, and these aren’t prints—they’re originals. And that one—" I pointed to the photo of Lea staring into the camera. "—That one tells me we’re behind. Not just in time. In intent."
Grant took the box, his jaw tight.
"Scan them for fingerprints," I added. "If the suspect touched the film directly, there’s a chance."
"And if he wore gloves?"
"Then we’re screwed."
Grant nodded grimly. "Prints are unlikely. Guy’s careful."
"Not careful enough to hide this stash," I said. "He was interrupted. The ladder was halfway down. The last photo’s fresh—within the last day."
"You think he was about to move them?"
"I think he was about to escalate."
I stood and handed him the rest. "Catalog them. If the timestamps are real, we can track patterns. But more importantly—figure out when the break-ins started. That tells us how long they’ve been targeted."
Grant took the boxes carefully. "What about Jacob?"
"He’ll need protection," I said. "No debate. Witness relocation if we can swing it. A fresh unit, new ID tags. The department’s going to have no choice now."
Grant paused at the hatch. "You think they’ll actually approve it?"
"I’ll force them to. Not to mention that they can’t ignore a threat this big. I mean what are they going to say? ’Yeah someone might be in your attic taking pictures of you, but the mountain of proof simply isn’t enough for a big investigation.’"
When I emerged from the attic, Jacob was seated on the floor, arms wrapped around Lea. She was talking softly about her tablet game, completely unaware of the photos upstairs.
Jacob looked up at me, eyes hollow. "What did you find?"
"Enough," I said. "You’ll be moved. We’ll start the paperwork. You won’t stay here another night."
He looked like he wanted to cry again, but nothing came.
"I left her," he said, voice cracking. "I left her and he was right above—"
"That doesn’t matter."
"It does now," I said, kneeling. "Because now you do."
I let Grant explain the logistics—timelines, emergency contacts, protective detail. I stepped away, coat catching the slight morning wind that pushed through the broken seal of the stairwell.
But I didn’t take one.
Instead, I moved around the side of the building, toward the rear alley where the fire escape ended and a narrow patch of soil met the concrete lot.
The attic window was above me now.
High enough to twist a knee on landing if you weren’t careful. Or to break something if you missed your angle.
Eyes scanning the ground.
Dirt. Gravel. Cracked patches of sidewalk. Nothing at first.
A depression in the soil, just at the edge of the treeline. Soft. Too soft for an alley that hadn’t seen rain in five days.
I brushed it with my gloved hand.
Heel mark. Sharp pressure point at the toe. Someone had landed here. Hard.
I leaned down. Measured the size with my palm.
Average foot. Male. Standard tread pattern.
"Not careful enough," I whispered.
Because whoever this was—they were getting close.
And now they were leaving traces.