Letters At Night

Time to write!
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!

Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.

I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.

Sweet dreams, Tara.

Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.