6. Nell
Step one: complete.
I sink into the sofa, burritoed in my cosiest blanket, tea steaming on the table, eyes locked on my laptop screen. The live feed runs smooth, the tiny spy cam live and operational from its fruit bowl throne.
Obviously this isn’t sustainable—I can’t exactly quit my job to become a full-time surveillance goblin—but for today, I’m glued.
So far? No sign of him. Which means one of two things. He’s following Darcy…
Or he’s prepping his murder dungeon.
Maybe I’m catastrophising.
Maybe not.
Is she going to end up shackled in his basement, forced to wear collars and call him ‘Master’? Or is he just one of those freaks who gets off on shadowing someone’s life like a tragic understudy?
The possibilities are endless.
And terrifying.
And weirdly cinematic.
But one thing’s certain—I’m in deep now. There’s no turning back, no ignoring the gut-churn of needing to know more.
I will figure this man out. Every detail, every crack in that sexy armour.
Most of the day is spent snacking like a stressed raccoon and frantically Googling ways to legally extract data from a stranger. Spoiler—it’s slim pickings.
Spyware? Off the table.
Tech contacts? Non-existent.
Re-entering his house under a different alias? Yeah… no. My face has already featured in the pilot episode of this operation.
So, it’s back to basics.
The good old-fashioned method.
Legwork. Eyes open. Shadowing him like a ghost.
I’m not stalking. I’m investigating.
Totally different.
I nearly scald the roof of my mouth on the tea—freshly brewed, still steaming—when that sharp, unmistakable bleep breaks the quiet. Movement alert. My heart skips before instinct takes over.
I grab my laptop and swipe into the feed, and there he is.
Well, half of him.
The camera’s angled too low, annoyingly so—his face cut off clean at the nose.
Brilliant.
Rookie mistake.
I should’ve known better.
I’m used to short arses like myself and angled it for eye-level.
His eye-level, clearly, is a storey up from mine.
I mutter something low that even the steam rising from my mug can’t muffle.
The tea scalds my tongue, but I barely notice.
My gaze remains fixed.
He moves with an edge that betrays more than mere restlessness.
His tall frame cuts across the room in measured, deliberate strides, wrapped in a fitted black t-shirt that clings to every flex of muscle.
Each step is fluid, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders, a tension coiling through his spine like a compressed spring on the verge of release.
He’s not aimlessly pacing.
He’s calculating.
Listening.
Reacting to something invisible—an internal signal I haven’t yet deciphered.
So no, I can’t see his face, but I can see something just as telling.
And anyway, it’s not the way he looks I care about.
It’s what he’s saying.
His voice is urgent, just barely within the mic’s pickup range—and every word might be a thread I can tug at.
This is it. Spill your secrets stalker boy, I’m playing you at your own game now.
“Yeah, I know… once they’re here, I’ll be ready… no, I don’t need them, I’ve got everything under control.”
His voice drifts through the feed like static-laced riddles—fragmented, offbeat, stitched together in a way that makes no damn sense.
But one thing’s clear; he’s not working alone. And that’s what chills me. I’ve never heard of a stalker with backup. It’s supposed to be a solo obsession—one twisted mind trailing one unlucky soul.
So, what is this?
For a heartbeat, I consider it—calling the police. Just reporting it. Laying it all out. But then I remember the camera.
The one I planted inside his house.
The one that breaks about a hundred laws and definitely paints me as the unstable one.
Brilliant.
Dammit.
Did I really think this through?
No. I didn’t.
He hangs up, slipping out of frame. A sharp whistle follows—high-pitched, erratic, too distorted by the mic to catch clearly.
Like some eerie signal.
And I sit frozen on the sofa, wrapped in fleece and dread, watching a man I barely know unravel layer by layer.
This isn’t obsession anymore.
It’s orchestration.
And I’m not sure what the hell I’ve stepped into.
I need to call Darcy. If anything, right now, I need to keep her close.
She picks up after one ring.
“Babe, where have you been? There is no way you’re too hungover to be in today, Mick’s been chewing my ear off about what we did last night—”
“Are you still at work?”
My abruptness doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Yes… why?”
“What are you doing after?
“Well, I was going to spin class and then home. Why?”
“Can I come with you?”
I don’t even like spin class. But I’ll do it for her. To keep her safe.
“Seriously?”
She’s not even hiding her surprise. Is it that shocking that I could actually want to exercise?
I let the question fall into a black hole, not wanting to know the answer.
“Yeah, I just need to put my mind to something you know? And I feel like spin class might be it.”
“Babe, you get out of breath on a treadmill, you’re going to die in spin class.”
Sounds like a challenge to me.
“I’ll be fine. I just want some company, you know with Adam and all. It’s starting to get to me.”
I play the Adam card, not that he’s been on my mind at all today, but I know she can’t turn down a cry for help.
“Okay, sure. Meet me there at six?”
“Okay, love you bye.”
“Love you bye.”
Thank God.
As long as she’s with me, he won’t risk trying anything—or at least, that’s what I’m banking on. Until I know more about him, I need to stick to her like glue.
I’ll explain everything eventually.
But not yet.
She doesn’t need panic laced into her morning routine. Not when I’m already doing enough of that for both of us.
“I’m going to catch him, Boomerang,”
I mutter, watching him lick himself shamelessly on the edge of the sofa—legs splayed, zero regard for modesty.
“I’m going to make that sick bastard pay for whatever it is he’s planning for her.”
I pick stray ginger hairs off my blanket, letting them fall to the floor with the kind of defiance only someone deeply in over their head can muster. Vacuuming’s a tomorrow problem.
Right now?
I’ve got business.
Turns out, I don’t own any proper gym wear—not anymore. I’ve dropped weight since Adam left me splintered, and all my old leggings sag in ways that scream ‘discount loungewear.’
So I settle for sweats and a crop top.
Safe. Neutral. Nothing flashy.
The crop top’s a quiet rebellion—I’ve actually got a waist now. That should feel good… sort of. The stretch marks are still there, stubborn little ghosts of the girl I used to be. Maybe one day I’ll laser them away.
When I’m not buried in debt.
When I’m not pretending to be a PI in a hoodie.
I leave my hair loose and tug my cap low, shielding my eyes just enough. If stalker boy’s out there—and let’s be real, he is—at least I won’t be instantly recognisable.
Incognito mode: fully activated.