It is never wrong to be curious. But it can sometimes be dangerous. - Timothy Zahn

As I sat in the hospital room, the sterile smell of disinfectant filling my nostrils, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease creeping up on me. Jon, my best friend, lay motionless on the bed, beside me, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he slept.

My mother sat in a chair by the window, her fingers deftly working the knitting needles as she crafted yet another masterpiece—a hobby she said she picked up shortly after her grandmother's, my great-grandmother's, death.

Her grandmother had knitted, but my mom said she never had the patience to learn. Only after her grandmother had passed did she finally teach herself how to knit.

And knit she did. Before I was born, my mom had gained tons of practice and knitted loads of things for me: booties, hats, mittens, and my favourite quilt.

It was a neutral pastel colour quilt with green, yellow, white, blue, and purple, as my parents didn't know my gender until I was born. They'd wanted to be surprised. And they were. Overjoyed but surprised.

I glanced down at my laptop screen, the soft glow illuminating my face in the dimly lit room.

But work was the furthest thing from my mind.

The latest note stared back at me, taunting me with its cryptic message. Who was behind these mysterious messages? And why were they targeting those closest to me?

At first, it was only the one I'd received while sitting in my mom's bakery. Then, a couple days later, in my locker, which I just realized I had yet to read. I'd been so busy with school and what, I'd just shoved them all in a hidden compartment in one of the books on my bookshelf in my room.

I delved into the depths of the internet, searching for answers to the mystery that had consumed my thoughts. The word "stalkers" glared back at me from the screen, a chilling reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows.

The articles I read painted a grim picture of obsession and delusion. It seemed that my stalker fit the profile of an intimacy seeker, someone who believed their feelings were reciprocated when they clearly weren't.

But then I stumbled upon a term that sent shivers down my spine—erotomania. A condition where individuals believe that another person is in love with them, regardless of reality. Could this be what was driving my stalker's twisted actions?

It mentioned that this condition was more common in women and often involved an unhealthy obsession with someone of higher social status.

As I read further into the article, detailing primary and secondary forms of erotomania, my mind raced with possibilities.

What if this wasn't just primary erotomania but secondary, linked to a more severe mental disorder? The possibility sent shivers down my spine as I considered what kind of danger I might be facing.

Secondary erotomania often coexists with other mental disorders, such as paranoid schizophrenia. This form of erotomania may be accompanied by persecutory delusions, hallucinations, and grandiose ideas.

The gradual onset of secondary erotomania suggests a more complex interplay of underlying mental health issues, such as bipolar I disorder or schizophrenia.

In these cases, the erotomanic delusions may be exacerbated by factors like alcoholism or the use of antidepressants.

The thought made my blood run cold. What if this wasn't just about obsession anymore? What if there were darker forces at play here?

One of the key challenges faced by individuals with erotomania is their inability to accept the unavailability or disinterest of their perceived object of affection. This can lead to persistent stalking behaviours in men and more subtle but equally distressing obsessions in women.

My mother's voice broke through my thoughts as she mentioned Florence's upcoming gender reveal party.

Florence, another one of my mom's employees, was currently eight and a half months pregnant. She only recently went on maternity leave, and my mother was tasked with throwing her a gender reveal party.

"The gender reveal is only a couple of days away. We would have had it sooner, but she's been in and out of the hospital."

Florence had had quite a few scares recently. Mainly being admitted for dehydration due to non-stop vomiting and being able to keep nothing, not even water, down.

"I'm glad she's doing better." I smiled. Florence had always been kind to Jon and I, always ready to take our order, even if she knew all our favourites by heart.

"She really would love it if you could come, you know? Both of you." She gestured to Jon.

"Yeah. I'll let him know when he wakes up." I promised.

"The cake is amazing." She took out her phone, scrolling through it before turning it around.

My mom, of course, had also been asked to make the cake. At their last appointment, Florence and her husband, Michael, had asked the doctor to seal the gender in an envelope, which they then gave my mother.

They want the inside of the cake to reveal the gender of their baby.

From what I could see, it was a three-tier vanilla cake that was covered in white fondant. All over, bits of blue and pink were scattered for both boy and girl. On the top tier lay a figure likely made from modelling chocolate of a tiny baby diapered bum with two little legs. On the back of the diaper, it read, "Boy or Girl?"

"Aww. That's adorable, mom. They're gonna love it."

"I hope so. We even made pinata cupcakes and tons of other treats."

"Wow. You really went all out."

The distraction was welcome, but it didn't last long before she dropped a bombshell that shattered any semblance of peace I had left.

"Harley," she began hesitantly, setting aside her knitting and coming closer to where I sat. "Sheriff Reyes wants you to come in for questioning about Miranda."

Miranda. The name alone sent shivers down my spine.

"What does he want to know?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the rising panic within me.

"He didn't say much, just that he needs to ask you some questions," my mother replied, avoiding eye contact.

I knew Sheriff Reyes had never been fond of me. My reputation as the town's amateur detective had rubbed him the wrong way more than once. But now, with Miranda's death looming over us like a dark cloud, his suspicions seemed to be turning towards me.

"He can't seriously think I had something to do with it," I muttered under my breath, disbelief and anger bubbling up inside me. "I didn't do anything,"

"I know that, and you know that," my mother reassured me. "But he still wants to ask you some questions."

I nodded reluctantly, knowing that I had no choice but to comply with the sheriff's request. As much as I disliked him, I needed to clear my name and put any suspicions to rest.

Admittedly, at a time or two, my nose was indeed somewhere it probably didn't belong.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The day that changed everything for me was the day my curiosity led me down a dangerous path.

It was a warm summer afternoon in our small town, with the sun shining brightly as I rode my bike down the familiar streets. Little did I know that this ordinary day would soon turn into a nightmare.

As I made my way towards the corner store for some candy, something caught my eye. A strange red truck trailed behind a young blonde girl, no adults in sight, just an eerie silence enveloping the empty street. Alarm bells immediately went off in my head as I watched the scene unfold before me.

I hopped off my bike and began walking with it, keeping a close eye on the young girl skipping down the sidewalk, unaware of the danger lurking behind her. The van slowed down next to her, and that's when I knew something was terribly wrong.

The man behind the wheel grabbed the girl and pulled her inside before speeding off, leaving nothing but dust in his wake.

Taking note of every detail—an old red Ford truck with scratched paint on the passenger's side and part of the license plate number—I followed them discreetly as they drove towards an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town.

Pedalling as fast as my legs could carry me, I followed the red truck through sharp turns until it came to a stop at an abandoned factory. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him drag the crying girl inside and tie her up with rope.

I watched as he took out his cell phone, turning away from her, appearing to punch in numbers, enough for a phone number.

"Yeah?" He said. "I've got another one. You got the couple lined up? Perfect. Meet me at the usual spot in fifteen minutes."

I'd heard about things like this before. Illegal adoptions. Children were kidnapped and sold off to couples all over the world. Which meant if I didn't get her out in fifteen minutes, she could be on a plane halfway across the world.

Suddenly, a clanging noise was heard from deeper inside.

"What was that? I gotta go." He hung up before inching his way towards the back.

Waiting until he was no longer in sight, I ran over to the girl, who was still sobbing.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened before I placed a finger over my mouth.

"I'm going to get you out of here. But you need to be quiet. Can you do that?"

She nodded frantically, and I began working on loosening the tight ropes that bound her delicate wrists.

The knots were tight, digging into her delicate skin, but I focused on freeing her as quickly and quietly as possible. However, in my haste, I failed to notice the man returning until his voice cut through the silence like a knife.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" His voice sent chills down my spine.

I turned around to face him—a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and cold eyes that sent shivers down my spine.

"Change of plans, boss. How quickly can you find another family? I have a nosy little thing here that I think could be a real money maker. Really exotic-looking."

The word 'exotic' always made my skin crawl. It was a label that had been slapped on me since birth, simply because of my mixed heritage.

Being biracial wasn't something I chose, but it seemed to define me in the eyes of others.

It had always made me stand out in our small town, drawing curious stares and unwelcome attention from those who felt entitled to comment on my appearance.

There were moments when strangers would approach me with comments about how beautiful they thought I was because of my skin tone and hair.

By no means was all the attention to my appearance positive. There had been occasions where I had been approached by various girls who had concocted the notion that I thought I was so beautiful because of my skin tone and my hair, especially since, again, no one else in town looked like me.

What they failed to realize is how long it took me to actually be okay with how I looked. When our parents tell us we're beautiful, we're often quick to dismiss it as them being parents who feel obligated to tell us how beautiful they think we are to preserve our self-esteem. You know, before we get to high school, where it's put to the ultimate test.

My skin was a blend of two worlds, neither fully belonging to one or the other. My hair curled tightly around my face, defying any attempts to tame it into submission, unless I used a flat iron.

My ethnicity was just one facet of my identity, not the sum total of it.

Beneath the surface, beyond the colour of my skin or the texture of my hair, there was so much more to me than met the eye. I was Harley—strong-willed, independent, and fiercely determined to carve out my own identity in a world that often tried to confine me to narrow stereotypes.

In a split-second decision, I urged the girl to run and get help while distracting the man myself. She hesitated for a moment before bolting out of the room.

The man turned his attention back to me, his gaze filled with malice. "Now why would you do that?" he sneered, grabbing hold of my hair as I struggled against him. "It's not every day you see a ginger half-breed," he spat out, disdain dripping from his words.

"I'm not a half-breed," I retorted defiantly, despite the fear coursing through my veins like wildfire.

He lunged forward and grabbed my hair roughly, forcing me back against the wall. Panic surged through me as his grip tightened like a vice around my throat.

But just when all hope seemed lost and darkness threatened to consume me, shouts echoed through the room, followed by heavy footsteps approaching rapidly.

"Police! Put your hands where we can see them!" A commanding voice rang out. "Step away from the girl!"

Quickly coming to the realization that he was vastly outnumbered and unarmed, my would-be abductor did exactly as he was told.

"We've got to stop running into each other like this, Ms. Masterson," Reyes chided gently while leading me outside. "Leave detective work to professionals next time."

The Sheriff may not have approved of my methods or interference in his cases, but deep down, we both knew that when duty called, I would always answer.

I couldn't help but smirk at his remark. "Well, maybe if you were better at your job, we wouldn't have to."

Reyes sighed heavily before leading me outside, where my worried parents and Jon were waiting anxiously. They enveloped me in a tight embrace, showering me with relieved tears and admonishments for putting myself in danger once again.

"Oh, baby girl. Don't you ever do that again. You nearly gave your father and I a heart attack. Not to mention Jonathan, who was worried sick about you." My mom rambled, pulling me into another hug.

"I'm sorry, mom. I just wanted to help. They haven't been able to catch this guy. I just thought I would follow him and see where he went, and then I'd go for help. But then I saw how scared that little girl was. I couldn't leave her there."

"My darling Harley," my dad's quiet voice sounded. "Your empathy is both your greatest strength and Achilles heel. You must learn to exercise caution while using it."

"I know, dad." I agreed. "I will try better."

Try as I may, I think we all knew that would not be the last the Sheriff saw of me.

I guess we were right.