Gotcha

Gotcha

Morning

Phil’s day was ruined before it began.

His alarm clock betrayed him—an hour late. He hurled it against the wall, sneering at the wreckage, he rushed through his routine. Dropping his dry cleaning on the counter beside a hastily scrawled note, he grabbed his briefcase and bolted out the door.

He shoved through the crowded sidewalk, barking his coffee order as he went. Minutes later, he strode into The Java, drumming his fingers on the counter. That’s when his eyes strayed to the wall across the street.

Black paint, crude, uneven:

‘You’re next’

It was sloppy graffiti, not completed with the usual neighborhood flair.

“Phil,” Maria the barrister called out warmly, setting a cup on the counter.

Phil snatched it up, “About time.

One sip, and his face grimaced. “This is not what I ordered. I wanted real cream - not some hippie milk.”

He shoved past the woman behind him. Tossing over his shoulder, “Go back to Mexico, amiga”.

Maria’s smile never slipped but her eyes glinted.

Phil never noticed.

————-

At his desk, Phil tossed the cup into the trash and opened his email.

The first one soured his mood. His boy-boss- Doogie Howser, still in diapers, wanted an update on the Elliot portfolio, by Monday. The report wasn’t due until the end of the month. His weekend was ruined.

He stabbed the intercom, “Jazmine, where’s that portfolio I asked for- yesterday.”

Seconds later, she rushed in, eyes wide, “Here Mr. Gleason. I – I thought I gave it to you.’

“Your wrong. Jazmine. Again. I’m sick of repeating myself. Get it together.”

She nodded tightly, dropping a stack of mail on his desk. “Oh, it’s team day. Do you want to place a sandwich order?”

“Do I ever order a sandwich? Think, Jazmine.” He tapped his forehead. “Now leave.”

When the door closed, he muttered, “Stupid cow”.

He sifted through the stack of mail, tossing junk in the trash.

Then—one envelope stopped him.

The paper was yellowed, edges wrinkled. Sealed with strips of tape.

His name was scrawled across the front in jagged red crayon.

He tore it open.

Inside – one sheet. Scribbled letters pressed deep into the paper.

You know who you are,

You know what you did,

You're next.

He froze.

You’re next.

The same words from the wall.

His chest tightened with anger – and alarm.

He stepped out of his office.

“Jazmine, where did this letter come from?”She blinked at him, “I don’t know. Wasn’t it in your mail?”

“Yes, it was in my mail!” His eyes bulged.“Who gave it to you?”

“I… don’t know.” She blinked at him owlishly.

“Idiot,” he stormed back into his office.

She grabbed a Kleenex.

He never noticed.

Afternoon

Work blurred in a haze. His mind kept drifting back to the note, to the wall.

Lunch time was a relief. There was comfort in the same place, the same salad.

He didn’t notice when the plate was set down in front of him. His mind wouldn’t let the words go.

Was it a prank? Or something more?

Forbidden memories stirred at the edges of his mind.

The buzz from his phone cut through the fog. A text from Cleaning Lady. He’d never bothered to learn her name.

Mr. Phil, I found the smell. Bad eggs. Two cracked. Dropped all your suits at the cleaners.

He couldn’t focus and had to read it twice.

You know what you did.

He couldn’t breathe. He tossed cash on the table and walked out.

—————-

Back at the office, Phil noticed Jazmin’s desk empty. He scoffed. Team lunch. Figures.

The switchboard buzzed—“Urgent call, line two.”

He snatched the receiver.

“Hello?”

Static.

Then a raspy voice:

You know who you are,

You know what you did,

You’re next.

“Who is this,” he hissed.

More static, nothing else.

‘Who the hell is this!”

Nothing.

His face flushed crimson as he slammed the receiver down.

Fingers raked through his hair, tugging hard as he stood. Fury boiling over, he kicked the trash can -its contents scattered.

He became suddenly aware of the glass wall of his office.

Anyone could be watching.

Anyone could know.

He stormed out.

In the men’s room, he gripped the sink with both hands. His reflection stared back—sweat on his brow, jaw clenched.

Get a grip, man. It was years ago. A lifetime ago.

His breath was heavy. He forced one deep inhale, then another.

It’s a prank. Just a stupid joke.

The breathing steadied him.

Back at his desk, he crouched to right the overturned trashcan. His discarded coffee cup rolled free. The cardboard sleeve gone.

His hand froze mid-reach.

On the bare cup, thick black letters.

Gotcha.

Phil sat hard. And for the first time in years, he felt real fear.

————

The office walls were pressing in; he had to get out. Phil fired off an email. Working the rest of the day from home. He didn’t wait for a reply..

He told himself he needed normal. He needed routine. He needed food for the weekend—eggs, bread, milk.

The trip to the market was a disaster. The glare of the fluorescent lights, the shoppers too close, too fast.

The words whispered to him.

You’re next.

His mind was frazzled. Without thought, he sat his basket on the counter.

Looking up, he groaned.

The cashier- the one he always tried to avoid.

She snapped her gum, pink-and-blue ponytails bouncing as she beamed.

“Hi there!”

Phil nodded. He knew better than to engage.

Her nonstop chattering continued as she scanned his items.

Beep-Beep-Beep. The noise pelted his taunt nerves.

Almost done.

Then -she looked at him through oversized blue Beatle glasses, cheerful as ever. “You know, the Mills eggs are on sale—”

Phil snapped.

‘Do I look like someone who can’t figure out his own groceries?” His voice cracked like a whip. “Just ring up the rest and keep your mouth shut.’

Everything came to a halt. Customers looked.

The cashier fixed a smile on her face and finished the order.

Phil grabbed his bags and hurried out.

Her smile twisted a she flipped him off through the glass.

Laughter rippled among the customers.

He never noticed.

Evening

The cup on his mind, Phil detoured to The Java. Closed at three. Cursing, he headed home.

The apartment was silent as he unpacked the groceries.

A beer in hand, he stepped onto the balcony. The city below him hummed.

You know who you are.

The words echoed like a drumbeat, making his head pound.

He needed a shower. He needed to wash away the dread he was feeling.

The bathroom fogged as he let the water slice over him until it ran cold.

When he stepped out, the apartment was no longer silent. The television blared from the living room- the sound of heavy action spilling into his room.

He hadn’t turned it on.

Towel clutched at his waist, he edged forward.

The shock hit him.

Electricity ripped through his muscles. He collapsed, convulsing on the floor.

A voice chuckled in the shadows.

”Oh, that – was – awesome.”

Vision swimming, Phil lifted his head.

A figure sat in a chair pulled into the middle of the room.

His eyes cleared, and disbelief washed over.

The cashier.

“You?” his voice croaked.

She lifted the gun from her lap.

Not a taser.

A real gun—cold and black.

“Sit against the wall Phil- hands where I can see them.”

He tried for bravado, “Can I put some pants on?”

Her smile was cool, “I don’t think so.”

“What do you want?” His voice sharp with false confidence. “Take my wallet and get out.”

She ignored him, “Do you remember me?”

“You’re that annoying smart ass from the market.”

The corners of her mouth curled. She peeled away the wig, the nose ring, ridiculous glasses.

Someone else, someone older, and maybe a little familiar was revealed.

“Do you remember me now.”

Something flickered, a faint memory sparked, then it went out. Then he smirked. “Sorry- no.”

“You are always so sure of yourself. She leaned forward, voice cutting as sharp as a blade, she simply said -

“Gotcha”

The smirk drained from his face. Fear spread.

“There we go,” she said softly, settling back. “Now you remember.”

His lips parted, dry. “Kasey.”

The name landed like a punch to the gut.

Memories surged: the girls, the game, the Gotcha club.

“Look, it was just a college prank. We didn’t mean any harm.”

“Harm?” her mouth tightened, the gun rising. Her eyes burned. She fought to control the rage.

“You know, I thought you were so perfect…” Her voice cracked, fury still trembling at the edges.

“Until I woke up in my car—with this.”

From her pocket, she yanked out a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper. She shoved it toward him, the ink, thick black marker.

Gotcha.

Phil swallowed. “It was a joke- “

With great difficulty, she reigned in her anger. Lowering the barrel, her voice softened. “After that night, fear ruled me. Ruined me. For years, I could barely function.

“Until…” her eyes glittered.

“…until I went to my reunion,”

Her mood shifted like quicksilver and she sat back like someone sharing a punchline.

“Girls talk Phil. Did you know that? We compare notes. And that night, we found each other. Formed our own club.”

She leaned forward again, smile sharp as glass.

“When I decided you would be the first- my life was reborn.”

Phil’s breathing grew shallow.

“I made you my mission, Phillip.” Her voice was steady, almost proud. “I watched you. Studied you. I was everywhere you were.

You never noticed.”

She leaned in, eyes glinting. “I even cleaned your apartment.”

A laugh spilled out—cold, cruel delight. “Cracked a couple of eggs while I was at it.”

His eyes flickered in dawning horror.

She chuckled, savoring it.

“Racist—chauvinistic -stupid -little Phil—fooled by a wig and an accent.”

“You—all of you -thought you were untouchable.”

Her gazed locked with his.

“You were wrong.”

She rose slowly, the muzzle tracking him.

“I need to know something, Phil.”

His throat was dry.

“Were you ever sorry?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. He wanted to spit venom, to snarl—but the madness burning in her eyes froze him. Still, pride wouldn’t let him surrender. “I… regret the situation you found yourself in.”

Her smile spread, slow, deliberate. “Okay.”

Phil’s shoulders sagged. A breath of relief slipping free.

Then her tone shifted—almost playful.

“Oh, one more thing, Phil.”

The gun rose, steady, gleaming.

Her lips curved as her finger pressed.

“Gotcha.”