Chapter 3
I Can’t Let Her Go
Eli's Search History: How to track a phone without the owner knowing.
Eli
“Eli?”
Her voice hits like a drug—immediate, invasive, electric. My neurons light up the second it slides into my ears.
I rise from the stiff plastic waiting room chair, brushing past a woman with wild red hair and a heavily pregnant belly as she exits Emily’s office. I barely register her—just another ghost passing through.
I follow Emily inside. Same room. Same worn blue leather sofa. I lower myself into it, like I do every week. This is session four. Four weeks of pretending I care about healing, when really, I’m just here for her.
Not that she knows the half of it.
She doesn’t know I’ve been in her flat.
Doesn’t know I’ve watched her sleep.
“How are you today?” she asks, crossing one leg over the other, her blouse shifting just enough to hint at the shape beneath. She leans forward, eyes scanning mine like she’s trying to see inside my scarred mind.
“Good, thank you,” I say, voice smooth. I compare the Emily in front of me to the version I saw last night—messy-haired, braless, half-asleep in bed.
Today she’s polished to perfection. Her dark hair sleek and straight, her blouse hugging her breasts—breasts that I know are bound in one of those awful full-coverage bras she wears like armour. Her pencil skirt clings to hips that haunt me.
“Any compulsions this week, Eli?” she asks, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue.
I shake my head, keeping my expression innocent. “No. I actually feel like these sessions are helping me keep it in check.”
Liar.
She beams. That smile is devastating. It nearly buckles me.
“That’s great. How about we talk more about Jenny today?”
And just like that, the warmth drains out of me.
Jenny.
I don’t want to talk about Jenny.
But I can’t let her go either.
Even while I’m drowning in Emily, some part of me still needs to know what happened. Why Jenny vanished. Why no one can find her. Why I can’t.
My mouth tightens. “Do we have to?”
Emily laughs—soft, musical, brutal. The sound knocks the air from my lungs.
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she says gently. “These sessions are for you.” She tilts her head, studying me. “But I do think it might help.”
Internally, I roll my eyes. But I indulge her. I always do.
“What do you want to know?”
She smiles again. “Why do you think she was someone you became fixated on? Why her?”
I remember the exact moment I first saw Jenny Taylor.
The memory lives in my bones. Still warm. Still sharp.
My sleeves are tugged down over my arms, fists clenched tight in the fabric. I’m terrified someone might see. Might know.
Tears sting at the backs of my eyes as I run, my rucksack thudding against my spine with every footfall. Behind me, my father’s voice still rings out—dripping with rage, thick with spit.
“Don’t you dare come back here, boy! You’re a fucking disappointment!”
I swallow the burn in my throat. Swallow the truth of it.
The wounds beneath my sleeves throb with every step. It hurts, but the pain is familiar. Comforting, in its own way. It’s better than feeling nothing. Better than the weight of being me.
My lungs are screaming, chest tight, but I don’t stop. Not until the house is long gone.
I end up near the train tracks. Fields on one side, slick with morning mildew. Metal on the other. I could disappear here, if I wanted.
And for a second, I do want to.
I could skip school. What would they do? Call my dad? Good fucking luck with that.
Then I see it.
Her.
The bench. My bench—the one I’ve crashed on during too many nights of bruises and broken things—isn’t empty.
She’s there.
Blonde hair falling across her face as she reads, brushing it back every few minutes only for it to slip free again. She smiles at something in the book, soft and private, but there’s a weight in her eyes. A loneliness.
It calls to me.
Like we’re the same kind of broken.
I stop walking. Don’t even realise I’ve frozen. I just watch.
She’s wearing a battered school skirt. Bag at her side. Fingers ink-stained from notetaking or doodles or—God, I don’t know. She moves like she doesn't want to take up space. I know that feeling.
When she stands, slipping the book into her worn black rucksack and heading toward the school gates, I tilt my head.
New girl.
Fresh blood.
Where the hell has she been hiding?
I follow her—quiet, unseen. I watch her check in at reception. Watch her smile nervously at the secretary.
I don’t go to a single lesson that day.
Instead, I haunt the halls, keeping her in my line of sight. I track her movements. Count how many times she tucks her hair behind her ear. Watch how she eats lunch alone.
By the time the bell rings for last period, I already know her schedule. I know which corridor she favours. I know how she avoids eye contact.
That night, I watch her house from across the street.
And the next day, I do it all over again.
And again.
It becomes routine.
It becomes her.
And somewhere along the way, the ache in my chest begins to dull.
I stop cutting.
Not because I’m healed.
Because I’ve found something better.
Something worth watching.
“Eli?”
Emily’s voice pulls me back, sharp and sudden—like a hook behind the ribs. Siren-like, as always.
She’s watching me closely now, head tilted slightly, studying me like she already knows where my mind wandered.
I shrug, playing it cool. “I just liked her,” I say, flat and noncommittal, offering her nothing.
She doesn’t buy it. Of course she doesn’t. Emily is too clever for that, too finely tuned to bullshit. But she doesn’t press.
And that’s one of the many things I adore about her.
She lets me lie.
She lets me keep my secrets.
The session wraps with a few more crumbs—carefully curated half-truths about Jenny. Just enough to keep Emily intrigued.
She walks me out of her office, clipboard tucked against her hip, her expression slipping effortlessly into something polite and professional as she prepares to greet the next broken soul on her schedule.
And then—he appears.
Some smug prick of a doctor loitering by the reception desk. His hair’s too neat. His shoes are too polished. The moment he sees her, his eyes light up like Christmas came early.
He smiles at my Emily.
My blood simmers. My fingers twitch.
I want to gouge his eyes out. Rip them from his fucking skull for daring to look at her like that.
“E—” he starts, catching himself. His gaze flicks to me. “Doctor Morgan,” he corrects, smoothing his tone, like I’m too stupid to notice the familiarity.
Then he leans in. Too close. His voice drops, just loud enough for me to hear. “Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
I nearly laugh.
The audacity.
She thinks she can go on a date?
With him?
I should’ve bugged her phone. Sloppy. Rookie mistake.
Sneaky little witch.
She’s practically begging me to kill this man.
I have to breathe. Deep and slow.
Count backwards from ten.
It doesn’t help.
The thought of his blood, hot and thick on my hands, of watching the panic drain from his eyes as he realises—too late—what I am…
God. I’m painfully hard.
Just the idea of it has me ready to spill.
Patience, Eli.
All in good time.
Emily
Tom is waiting for my answer, but I can’t stop watching Eli.
I’m sure—almost sure—I just saw something flicker in his eyes when Tom mentioned dinner. A flash of something dark. Possessive. Jealousy, maybe. But it vanished too quickly for me to be certain.
I shake myself internally, forcing a bright smile in Tom’s direction. I'm annoyed he'd bring up dinner in front of a patient. It's unprofessional. But still, it would be rude to cancel now. “Yes, absolutely. See you tonight.”
Tom’s face lights up like a kid who just got picked first for football. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says, already turning toward his office.
Eli doesn’t wait. He stalks off without a word, without even glancing back, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff.
And still, somehow, I feel guilty.
Ridiculous.
Every time Eli enters a room, it’s like the oxygen disappears. I can’t breathe properly when he’s near. Can’t think straight. It’s wildly unprofessional. I’ve never had this reaction to a patient before. Not once. Not in my entire career.
Tom texted me a few days ago—again—asking me out. He does this every few months. Ever since I transferred to this practice last year.
I always said no. Until now.
I don’t even know why I said yes this time. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe I just wanted to say yes to something.
Tom’s nice enough. Attractive in a clean, safe sort of way. Square jaw, tall, well-dressed, good teeth—he looks like he belongs on an NHS billboard about heart health.
Bit older than me. Bit too polished. Bit too perfect.
But maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Someone normal.
Someone who doesn’t look at me like they want to ruin me.
The rest of my day passes quickly, an endless stream of patients, all needing help with their problems.
By the time I get home it’s almost six, which gives me only an hour to get ready for the date.
My wardrobe is painfully dull. I have outfits for work, and outfits for lounging about the flat. I don’t even remember the last time I went on a date. I’m not even sure I remember the last time I left for something other than work or sustenance.
When was the last time I had fun?
I pull an old dress over my head, the fabric clinging in all the wrong places. It’s too tight. It still fits—barely—but that almost makes it worse.
In the mirror, I take myself in.
And instantly regret it.
The dress hugs my hips, accentuating every curve. My thighs press against the fabric like they’re trying to escape and my stomach rounds out, soft and unforgiving. Even with the spandex trying to suck me in.
My throat tightens. I want to cry.
I want to scream.
You’re disgusting.
My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to tear the dress off. To tear my skin off.
Fuck.
The urge to raid the kitchen hits hard. I want to fill myself up until I’m too full to feel anything—until the self-loathing quiets down, just for a moment.
The intercom buzzes, snapping me out of it.
I slip on a pair of heels and hurry to answer, pressing the button. “I’ll be down in a minute.” I don’t invite him up. I can’t. Not like this.
Tom is waiting outside when I finally join him. His grin spreads instantly, his eyes trailing over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. I force a smile. Pretend I don’t want to turn around and go back inside.
We walk side-by-side to the restaurant—some expensive place with candles and quiet music and plates the size of coasters. Tiny food at outrageous prices. Maybe that’s a blessing. I shouldn’t be eating much anyway.
He places a hand on the small of my back as we step inside. I stiffen but don’t move. Don’t react. Be polite. Be normal.
Inside, there’s a buzz of pompousness that grates on me. I have nothing against those with money—hell, I’m hardly struggling myself—but there’s something about the ones that flaunt it. The ones who turn their noses up at those they deem inferior. That’s what this place feels like.
By the time we’re seated, I already regret saying yes. The conversation so far has been a dull recap of work gossip and polite nothings.
“So,” Tom says once our wine glasses are full, “tell me about you.”
I lift one brow. “What do you want to know?”
He laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. “Likes, dislikes, hobbies, family… give me something.”
I plaster on a smile, picking the safest option. “My parents are still in Italy,” I say, my voice softening slightly at the thought of my dad. “They’ve retired now. Little cottage near the vineyards.”
It’s the first real smile I’ve managed all evening.
The waitress appears to take our order.
Before I can speak, Tom answers for me. Like he’s doing me a favour.
I grit my teeth.
Smile.
Say nothing.
I’m not a violent person. Not usually.
But right now, I’d quite like to jab my fork into his smug little temple.