So when she called me last night, her voice trembling, I knew something was off.

“I don’t want to sound paranoid,” she whispered, “but something keeps happening at work.”

Then she told me about the bottle.

Three times this week, she’s come out to the parking lot after her shift at the clinic and found the same thing—a crumpled plastic bottle jammed between her tire and the wheel well. She thought it was trash at first. But now? She’s scared. And so am I.

Because I know what that means.

It’s an old carjacking tactic. They wait for you to start driving, hear the bottle crinkling, and when you stop and get out to check? That’s when they strike.

I didn’t tell her that, not yet. I didn’t want to frighten her more.

But here’s the part that really made my stomach twist:

Sabine doesn’t drive the same route every day. She doesn’t park in the same space. Whoever’s doing this—they’re watching her.

I asked her if anyone at work has been acting strange. She hesitated. Then she said one name.

And it was someone I know.

Someone who used to be close with Emil. Too close.

I haven’t told Sabine what I suspect yet. Not until I’m sure.

But tomorrow, I’m going to that parking lot. And if I see that bottle again… I’ll know.

I parked two rows down from her clinic around 5:15 PM the next day, pretending to be reading a magazine through my windshield. Sabine’s shift ended at six, but I was early. I didn’t want to miss anything.

It was quiet. A few nurses and admin staff trickled out, heading to their cars, laughing, totally unaware. I watched every movement like a hawk.

At 5:57, I saw him.

Bastian.

He was walking along the sidewalk, holding what looked like a water bottle in his hand. I leaned forward, my stomach in knots.

He didn’t see me.

He ducked quickly behind a dark green sedan, glanced over his shoulder, and crouched near a small white car.

Sabine’s car.

I almost threw my door open, but something told me to wait. He stood up a moment later, empty-handed, and walked away like nothing happened. I waited until he was around the corner before I got out and walked over.

The bottle was there. Just like she said—tucked snugly behind her rear tire.

I took it. Tossed it in my bag.

When Sabine came out minutes later, I waved her over and told her everything. Her face went pale.

“Bastian?” she whispered. “He used to… be around a lot. Before Emil and I got married. They were friends, but I always felt like he resented me.”

I nodded slowly. I remembered.

He used to drop by our house constantly. Little things—bringing Emil records, helping him move furniture, inviting him out even when Emil would rather stay in with Sabine. There was something possessive about the way he treated their friendship. Back then, I thought I was imagining it.

Apparently not.

We went straight to the police.

I handed them the bottle. Gave them Bastian’s name. Sabine showed them photos of her car from the other days.

They took it seriously.

Turns out, Bastian had a record. Nothing major, but enough for them to keep an eye on him.

And that’s when something surprising happened.

A week later, an officer called and said they’d spoken with Bastian. And according to him… he wasn’t trying to hurt Sabine.

He claimed he’d been putting the bottles there on purpose—to get her attention.

“I knew she’d notice,” he’d told the officer. “I just wanted to talk to her. I figured if she got scared, maybe she’d reach out.”

It was twisted logic, but it checked out. No signs of forced entry, no attacks, no stolen items. Just a desperate, confused man who couldn’t let go of the past.

Sabine didn’t press charges.

She said it wasn’t worth it.

But she did change her schedule. Switched parking spots permanently. And blocked his number—again.

And I? I finally told her about the promise I made Emil. About how I’d look after her, no matter what.

She cried. We hugged for a long time in my kitchen. And I realized something I hadn’t said out loud until that moment:

I lost a son, yes.

But I still have her. And that matters.

Life doesn’t always wrap up in a perfect bow. But sometimes, knowing you’re not alone—that someone is watching out for you—is enough to start healing. 💛

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