Chapter 13
Thirteen
SUMMER
“What the hell?”
“Don’t judge me for popcorn and peanut butter sandwiches for dinner.” Hazel’s voice crackles from my phone. “I’m an adult.”
“No, it’s not that.” I scan my apartment that I’m certain was trashed when I left. My plan was to come home and do a deep clean. Did I hallucinate that? Something is definitely off. “This is going to sound weird, but I think someone broke into my apartment and . . . cleaned it?”
“Cleaned it or took half your shit?”
“No, cleaned it.” I hurry into the kitchen, the bathroom, but everything is here. They left the television, my tablet, anything valuable that would be worth stealing. “Nothing’s missing.”
“Are you sure you didn’t drink too much, blackout, and clean while you belted hits from the nineties? You’re prone to drunken cleaning frenzies.” She’s entirely too calm for this situation.
“I’m positive. When I left my apartment this morning, I had clothes all over the floor, dishes piled in the sink, literal trash on my living room carpet, crumbs in the couch cushions—I don’t want to talk about it—and now it’s all cleaned up and put away. Did you do this?”
“Did I travel from Miami full of beaches with shirtless men to freeze-your-nuts-off Maine so I could secretly clean your apartment and not even take credit for it? No. Maybe it was your mom?”
“She’s skiing in Colorado with her boyfriend. If I bring it up to her, she’ll ask if she needs to hire a cleaning service for me if it’s getting this bad.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’s made the offer.
Hazel hesitates, crunching on a handful of popcorn. “Not to downplay the concern you’re probably feeling right now, but if someone went into your apartment to clean for you, that’s . . . kind of nice? Maybe leave them a note to hit my place next.”
“After I figure out who they are, that will be my first priority.”
Obviously, whoever broke into my apartment is the same person who has been texting and following me.
I could’ve stopped the stalking by now. But when the mechanic found the magnetic GPS tracker on my car, I made an excuse that I’d put it there for security before I’d even thought it through. My stalker has obviously been using the tracker to follow me, to monitor my location.
A sane, more logical person would’ve had the tracker removed and called the police. A sane person wouldn’t be relieved by the tidiness her stalker left behind. A sane person definitely would not be hoping her stalker sticks around.
“You think it’s the same person who’s been texting and tracking you?” Hazel asks.
“Definitely. Who else could it be?”
“It’s gotta be Noah.”
“Noah?”
“Obviously. The guy sent you toys for your hedgehog and books. He’s in love.”
I’ve considered the possibility that Noah could be behind all of this.
The stalking started after I met him. He has my phone number from when I texted him a reminder to clean my bathroom and fix my front door.
He sent gifts, showed up at the bistro while I was there, and the texts from my stalker always come in when he’s not around.
The more I’ve gotten to know Noah, the more breaking into my apartment to clean it seems like exactly the kind of thing he would do.
He’s thoughtful and kind and generous, and it’s clear he likes making me happy. Exactly what my stalker professed to want.
But why would Noah do this? Why stalk me when we’re friends and he could simply ask me where I’m at, what I’m doing? Why go to all this trouble?
Consensual stalking. I confessed to him one of my darkest desires the night we met, but he can’t possibly remember that. He doesn’t remember anything about that night.
Except he did remember what I do for work, and the odds of my stalker being anyone else are slim. Who else would go to all this trouble for me? Who else would go this far out of his way just to make me smile?
I need confirmation, though. Suspicion isn’t enough. I need to know if this really is Noah. And if it is, what will I do then? Call him out on it or play along?
In my room, Prick is resting peacefully in his tunnel and the mountain of clothes that I dumped from the dryer onto the foot of my bed is gone. When I yank open my dresser drawers, I find all my clothes neatly folded.
Damn. This is princess treatment.
Then my heart drops. I yank open my sock drawer—
Relief rushes through me. My gun is still here. There’s no way he could’ve missed it when he put my socks away. If my stalker didn’t steal my gun, he doesn’t intend to hurt me.
I don’t really want the thing, but Mom insisted I get one for self-defense if I was going to be living alone.
I took lessons so I’d know how to use it properly, but I still ended up forgetting it existed when I was drunk and Noah broke in.
At the very least, pointing a gun at an intruder should scare them away.
On my bed, a box waits for me. Another gift.
I smile when I pull out the camera. He must’ve left this for me to set up. Is this his way of telling me he wants to watch me while I’m home? But he’s giving me the chance to decide if that’s what I want.
“He left me a camera,” I tell Hazel.
She gasps. “Oh my god! Set it up and taunt him! Strip and talk dirty until he can’t help but break in again and then break your bed and your back.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m on my period, but that sounds like my exact fantasy right now.”
Noah’s face flashes through my mind. If he is my stalker, maybe he wants me to point this camera at my bed. Watch me while I undress, while I masturbate. And every part of me wants to let him watch.
“Set up that camera and let me know what happens. I’m seething with envy right now.”
When Hazel ends the call, I head for the shower, trying to talk myself out of it.
Hazel is a terrible influence. I shouldn’t be willing to play a stalker’s game.
I shouldn’t voluntarily place a camera in my bedroom for him to spy on me.
I definitely shouldn’t be contemplating what I would do in front of that camera for him.
I chant this to myself until I’m out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. The temperature is noticeably cooler in my room now, and I freeze.
My window is open.
I race to close and lock it, heart thundering.
This whole time, my stalker was hiding somewhere in my apartment. They must’ve snuck out while I was in the shower.
Holy shit. Someone was in my apartment with me, and I had no idea.
The sensible part of me—a small part deep, deep down—knows that I should be horrified by this invasion of privacy. But even as my heart flutters in an appropriate fear response, warmth pools low in my belly.
He could’ve slipped into the shower with me. He could’ve done anything. We could’ve done anything, together.
On my dresser, my phone lights up.
A text from my stalker. My breath catches.
But this time, there aren’t any words. Only a video.
In my throat, my pulse drums erratically as I hesitate. Who knows what’s in this video. If I watch this, there’s no going back.
“Talk me out of this, Prick.”
When I don’t get even a squeak in response, I press Play.
A tall man in a mask and all-black clothes leans against a doorframe. In my apartment. In my bedroom.
He reaches up to hold onto the top of the frame and leans closer, muscles on his biceps rippling deliciously beneath his hoodie—
But then his fingers miss the doorframe, and he yelps just before he hits the carpet with a hard thud.
I can’t help but giggle. He groans and stands back up, the camera shaking as he heads into my bedroom. He props his phone up again and flexes in the mirror. Somewhat awkward, mostly sexy, and completely adorable.
He’s trying so hard to be seductive, but he obviously has no idea what he’s doing and that somehow makes the whole video ten times better.
From his pocket, I spot something pink sticking out. Oh my god. Those are my fucking panties. He stole my underwear.
I grin.
In the background comes a clattering sound, and my stalker freezes with his fingers on the second button of his shirt. I can’t see his eyes beneath his mask, but I’m sure they’re round and panicked.
He snatches his hoodie and his phone, and the video ends.
I type out a message.
Summer
Cute.
But next time you break into my apartment, close the window behind you. I don’t want any crazy people getting in.
I drop my phone and grab the camera.