Chapter 4
Caleb
It was predictable, this reaction—entirely, completely, boringly predictable.
I didn't choose Marty on accident. Every decision I make is calculated. Weighed and measured against a dozen variables until I know exactly what outcome to expect.
I didn't miscalculate how he would react to his assignment, didn't misjudge his character or overestimate his spine.
He's a twenty-two-year-old Jackson Hole trust-fund brat who spent every single formative year of his privileged little life learning how to roll over and show his belly.
The kind of kid who inherited more money than sense when he turned eighteen and immediately proved he had no idea what to do with either.
What kind of eighteen-year-old buys a pottery business with their trust fund? What kind of kid looks at millions of dollars in liquid assets and thinks, "You know what Idaho Falls needs? Another artisanal ceramics studio."
Marty, that's who. Marty with his expensive fleece vests, and his earnest expressions, and his complete inability to say no to anyone with even a whisper of authority in their voice.
He was absolutely perfect for this assignment.
Immediately after he leaves the pizzeria, my phone starts blowing up with texts.
Srry man
coulnt do it
im out
I'm not even annoyed that he told Scarletta the truth—though I admit I wasn't entirely certain that would be how this played out. There was always the possibility he'd follow through, that his need for my approval would outweigh whatever nascent moral compass he pretends to navigate by.
But no. He cracked. Folded like wet cardboard under the slightest pressure of her direct, unflinching stare.
Now she knows.
Now. She knows.
I'm sitting in my Tahoe across the street from the pizzeria, engine off, windows tinted dark enough that no one walking past would even register my presence.
But I'm not watching the street. I'm watching Scarletta on the dash display—a custom setup I had installed last month, three high-definition screens mounted seamlessly into the console, each one capable of cycling through every camera feed I currently have access to in Idaho Falls.
Right now, all three screens are locked on her.
I watch her sit perfectly still for forty-three seconds.
Not frozen—there's a distinction I've learned to recognize through almost a year of surveillance footage. Frozen means the body locks while the mind scrambles. This is different.
She's choosing to remain motionless.
Her chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths.
Her hands rest flat on the table on either side of the abandoned pizza.
Her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, not tracking Marty's retreating form, not examining the five hundred-dollar bills he left behind like an apology he couldn't voice.
Just... sitting.
I zoom the feed slightly, adjusting the angle. The camera I have control of inside the restaurant, courtesy of a hack into their pathetic security system, gives me a perfect three-quarter view. I can see her profile, the line of her throat, the way her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
She's thinking.
Processing.
And I know exactly what she's processing because I designed this entire scenario to force her into this exact mental state.
He's still watching.
He knows where I am.
He knows what turns me on.
He paid someone to say those specific words.
The thoughts probably aren't that articulate—trauma and arousal don't produce linear thinking—but the core realizations are landing. I can see them registering in the subtle shift of her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly against the laminate tabletop.
Fifty-one seconds now.
A waitress approaches, says something I can't hear. Scarletta doesn't respond immediately. The waitress lingers, awkward, probably asking if everything's okay, if she needs anything, standard hospitality script.
Scarletta's lips move. Short response. The waitress retreats.
Fifty-eight seconds.
Then she moves.
Not dramatically. Not a panic response or a flight reaction. She simply picks up one of the hundred-dollar bills Marty left, places it deliberately on top of the check, and stands.
Leaves the other four hundred dollars sitting there.
Interesting.
She walks toward the exit with the same measured control she maintained while sitting—back straight, steps even, face carefully neutral. Someone who didn't know her might think she's perfectly composed.
But I know her.
I know the way her fingers flex at her sides means she's fighting the urge to ball them into fists. I know the slight tension in her jaw means she's clenching her teeth. I know the deliberate pace means she's forcing herself not to run.
She exits the pizzeria and turns left down the sidewalk.
Not toward her apartment—that's the opposite direction.
She's walking deeper into downtown, which means she hasn't decided where she's going yet. She's moving because staying still felt dangerous, but she hasn't formed a plan beyond get away from here.
I switch camera feeds, cycling through the network I have positioned throughout her regular routes. She appears on the next screen—different angle, same controlled stride. I watch her pass the bookstore she never enters, the wine bar she's been to twice with yoga dates who bored her.
Her phone is in her purse. I know because I saw her stuff it in there as she entered the pizzeria for her date.
She hasn't pulled it out yet.
Hasn't called anyone, hasn't texted anyone, hasn't opened her banking app to check if more money appeared like magic the way it did after Christmas. The way it has every week since Valentine's Day.
Scarletta Mae Desmond has several million dollars in a slew of bank accounts all across the Rocky Mountains. I doubt she has any idea what her net worth is at this moment.
She's got no sense of money at all. She didn't even file taxes.
It's fine, though. I did that for her. Just like I do everything for her. Unaware, unappreciated, don't care.
She's walking, and thinking, and probably spiraling. And I'm sitting in my Tahoe across the street from where she just was, watching her move through my city like she still believes she has privacy.
Like she still believes I'm not everywhere she goes outside her new apartment.
The arousal from watching this is different than what I felt watching her in the old apartment. Or with the attendants. Or any other time, actually. It's entirely different than any experience I've had with her so far.
This isn't about her body surrendering to physical stimulation she can't control.
This is about her mind.
Right now, Scarletta is realizing—truly, fully realizing—that six months of silence from me didn't mean I went away. It meant I was letting her think she could build a life without me while I watched every single attempt.
Every coffee shop writing session where she stared at blank documents.
Every gym workout where she went through motions without purpose.
Every yoga class where she met nice men with gentle hands who couldn't give her what she needs.
I watched all of it.
And now she knows I watched all of it.
She stops walking.
Middle of the sidewalk, no clear destination, just... stops.
She turns around in a slow circle. Looking everywhere at once. Scanning, searching.
For me.
Then… she begins to scream.
Not panic scream, actual, articulate words.
"You motherfucker!" It comes out loud.
People stop, stare, laugh.
"You sick, sadistic, creepy, fucked-up motherfucker! I know you're watching me!"
Well, that was perfect.
Everyone in the vicinity has now labeled her.
Psycho.
She's still screaming.
"You think this is romantic? You think paying some fucking—some yoga bro to recite lines at me like I'm a character in one of my own goddamn stories is—"
A couple walking past crosses to the other side of the street.
Smart.
"—is what? Proof you understand me? Proof you know me?"
Her voice cracks on that last word, and something hot and visceral tightens in my chest.
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what it means.
"You're a fucking stalker!" She spins again, arms spread wide, addressing the entire downtown corridor like she's performing for an audience she can't see. "A murderer! A psychopath who gets off on—"
She stops herself.
She's not stupid enough to say what I get off on. Not out loud.
"—on controlling people!" She finishes instead, breathing hard. "On manipulating them into thinking they want things they don't actually want!"
A man in a business suit pauses near the corner, phone already out. Probably deciding whether this constitutes a 911-worthy public disturbance or just another downtown crazy.
I zoom the feed tighter on Scarletta's face.
Her cheeks are flushed. Eyes bright. Chest heaving with each ragged breath.
She's furious.
And she's alive.
For the first time in six months of surveillance footage, she looks genuinely, viscerally present in her own body instead of performing existence for invisible judges who've already convicted her.
"I destroyed your cameras!" Her voice goes shrill on that word. "I deleted everything! I left! I left, and you were supposed to—you were supposed to just—"
Let you go?
Is that what she thought?
That I'd orchestrate months of elaborate psychological seduction, spend literal millions of dollars creating experiences tailored specifically to her darkest fantasies, confess to multiple homicides, and then just... what?
Move on?
Find another broken girl who writes prettily about her own destruction?
The business suit guy is definitely calling someone now. Probably not 911—he doesn't look concerned enough—but security, maybe. Downtown has private patrols that deal with public disturbances.
I should feel something about that. Concern, maybe. Strategic recalibration.
Instead, I'm just watching her.
"You don't get to do this!" She's crying now, tears streaming, and she doesn't bother wiping them away. "You don't get to—to leave me alone for six months and then—"
She stops.
Realizes what she just said.