The saying, hindsight is 20/20, had never been more true than now. Looking back, there had been hints all along that something wasn't right about the young man who had showed up at every single lecture he'd given within the last week. He'd seemed lonely, and it wasn't difficult to imagine he had few, if any, friends. People like that latched on to the slightest bit of attention, and that first night, Rossi had autographed his book and spent a few minutes chatting with him. Overzealous, sure, but he hadn't seemed dangerous. Clearly, he had completely underestimated the depth of his obsession, and just how committed he was to apparently having Rossi all to himself.
Somehow he'd managed to get Rossi's phone number, and had been calling him at work the last two days. There had also been that letter sent to his office, telling him how much he looked forward to spending time with him soon. That had been worrisome, and that had come yesterday. But in typical Rossi fashion, he was reluctant to say too much to anyone on the team, lest they worry, or get hurt themselves. More than himself, he needed to protect them.
Before he had a chance to deal with it, however, his stalker had beaten him to it. When he'd gotten in his car this morning, he'd had a knife pressed to his throat before he could put his keys in the ignition. He'd let the man lead him back inside before he fought back, which had a doubly negative effect: he'd managed to stab Rossi in the thigh, and the struggle had shattered the stalker's delusion that Rossi would be a willing captive, endeared to him instantly. Before he could think of anything else to say or do, the stalker slammed his head against the wall, and he saw nothing but blackness.
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