3. Nell
My heart gallops in my chest, drying my mouth out like a desert.
But I’m not fleeing now.
I watch everything he does, though under the hood I cannot see his face, and hidden beneath the long casted shadow of the tree he’s even darker.
He keeps glancing down at his phone, typing something and then shoving it back into his pocket.
But he doesn’t glance back, doesn’t bother to check if anyone’s watching him.
His mistake.
I’m going to ruin him for this.
I have no idea what he wants with my best friend, but I’ll make him pay.
No one fucks with my girl and gets away with it.
He waits there for twenty minutes or so, just loitering with the air of someone who’s either plotting a heist or reconsidering his life choices. Then he strides off again—faster now that he’s not playing shadow puppet to her every move. I manage to keep up.
Just about.
I’m panting like a jogger who’s made terrible decisions, and sweating in places no one talks about, but I do it.
He leads me all the way to a sleek black gate guarding one of the poshest houses on the street.
Not what I expected, to put it mildly.
I had him pegged for a grotty flat above a takeaway—the kind with flickering lights and a permanent grease smell baked into the wallpaper.
But no.
This place is massive, all white-washed walls and quiet money.
There’s only one car in the driveway though, a small Mini.
I’m smart enough to take down the reg, noting it for later research.
I’m buzzing—pure adrenaline flooding my system, legs moving like a live wire.
And I can’t believe it.
The guy never once looked over his shoulder. Not even a glance.
Does he not realise he’s being followed?
That somewhere along the way, the hunter became the prey?
Clutching my phone with the prized information—his address, his car reg—I power through the streets, pushing my body harder than I have in weeks, desperate to reach my laptop. There’s a deep dive waiting, and I want everything; his name, his past, what he eats for breakfast if it’s listed somewhere.
My thighs ache.
Sweat clings to every limb—I’m basically a walking male repellent at this point—but inside, there’s a fire roaring to life.
God, I’ve missed this feeling.
This clarity.
This purpose.
And it was weirdly easy, wasn’t it?
No chase. No detour. Just a straight line to the man shadowing my best friend.
Maybe he’s not as clever as she fears. Just clumsy and careless. A wannabe predator with terrible instincts.
Still, I keep the victory quiet.
No texts. No hints. Not yet.
Darcy doesn’t need more fear tonight—not when she’s finally laughing again, lost in the distraction of average company. Her friend can keep her safe while I get answers.
Because when I come to her, I want it to be with certainty.
Receipts. Screenshots. Maybe even a name circled in red. She deserves more than just suspicion. And I’m going to give it to her.
Boomerang is wailing through the crack in the window as soon as he spots me outside.
Drama king.
Honestly, anyone would think I abuse him with how he protests. But after a little scratch behind the ear and a bowl full of kibble, he’s a happy boy again.
I don’t bother with food, I drag my laptop from underneath my bed, along with a dust ball, and will it to life.
I can’t remember the last time I turned it on, but it groans to life, the fans working overtime to clear the dust from the filters.
Oops.
Can’t say dusting has been one of my biggest priorities of late. Neither has anything else apparently.
Other than my hair—that is something I take pride in. Though I don’t know why, it’s not like it’s doing me any favours in the male department.
Adam used to remind me that I’m nothing special.
Just an average face.
Average body.
Average everything.
And maybe he was right, because apparently I possess the exact energy that repels romantic attention like bug spray. Apparently, it makes me invisible.
Though tonight, invisibility’s working in my favour.
If I can keep it up long enough to find this bastard—the one shadowing Darcy—I’ll call it a superpower.
Turns out, a car registration number doesn’t spill secrets like I’d hoped.
There I was, full Sherlock Holmes fantasy, expecting a treasure trove of intel from a few digits.
Instead? A digital wall and a shrug.
So, I pivot.
Land registry. Not ideal, but if it gets me a name, it’s a start.
Only catch?
The greedy little portal wants three quid for the privilege.
Darcy officially owes me.
Honestly, what kind of county charges you to protect your own safety?
She’s buying the next round. I’m a woman on a budget.
The PDF feels like it takes ages to download, the little spinning wheel of death mocking me, teasing me until I almost lose it completely.
Then in those little typed letters—
Cameron Reed.
A common name.
An inconspicuous name.
But a name I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.
I spend the next hour buried in social media rabbit holes, trawling for any scrap of information I can find on this man. And I’ve already hit my first roadblock—apparently his name is the digital equivalent of John Smith. Common, dull, buried under a thousand identical profiles.
None of them match.
Not the build. Not the vibe.
Not a single skull-wrapped hand in sight.
Not that I’ve seen much of him to know for sure—a shadow and a tattoo are hardly solid leads—but still, I expected something. Anything.
He owns a pretty swanky house, though.
Drives a Mini, which I suppose qualifies as ‘nice’ if your standards are flexible. Personally, I think the jury’s still out.
And social media?
He’s a ghost.
No tags, no selfies, no suspicious likes on bikini pics from 2012. Just digital air.
It’s maddening.
The deeper I dig, the more intriguing he becomes—like the absence of answers is a riddle in itself.
I stare at the land registry document like it might blink and speak. Give me a name with a criminal record. A search history. A motive.
Anything.
Because right now, all I’ve got is a postcode, a handful of assumptions, and a gut feeling that won’t shut up.
Who are you, stalker boy?