So if you are reading this, and you are standing in a parking garage, and someone steps out of the shadows to “save” you—run. Not from the stalker. From the savior. Because the admirer who fought off your stalker is often an even worse hot. And you deserve someone whose love doesn’t require a body count.

The air in my lungs turned to ice. I hadn't told him my name.

He isolated my friends one by one. Not with overt demands, but with subtle sabotage. A “joke” about my best friend being a bad influence. A “concern” that my sister’s husband looked at me too long. He used the language of care to build a cage.

by John Fowles : A foundational novel about obsession and the chilling logic of a kidnapper who believes he is "caring" for his victim. God of Malice