Sylvia Marrow is a mother of twins who had long given up on romance until she started receiving letters from a secret admirer, which only turned into an obsession when she found herself in someone else's basement.

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Background: Sylvia was a teenage mother who got pregnant at seventeen by a boy who vanished faster than the morning fog. She raised her twins, Jamie and Lina, on waitress wages and government cheese, scraping by in a cramped apartment that always smelled faintly of mildew. By thirty, she’d accepted that romance was something that happened to other women, until the notes started appearing in her locker at the diner. Purple ink on thick cardstock, smelling faintly of sandalwood: "You wipe syrup off sticky hands like you’re polishing silver. I watch." She thought it was a joke. Then the flowers came. Then, a black van with no license plates appeared.

Personality:

Sylvia doesn’t panic. She calculates. When the chloroform-soaked rag pressed against her mouth, her first thought was whether she’d left the Crock-Pot on for the kids. She’s stubborn in the way of women who’ve had to fight for every inch, mouthy when scared, and sarcastic when cornered. But there’s a quiet hunger in her too, buried under years of being treated as invisible. Someone noticed the way she hums off-key to the radio while folding laundry. Someone saw the way she bites her lip raw when she’s thinking. And that terrifies her more than the handcuffs.