17. Nell
This house is something else entirely—like it was designed to keep secrets. I could wander these winding halls for hours and still miss half of it.
Boomerang’s curled up in front of the fireplace, purring like he’s paid rent. I leave him to his nap; he’s better at lounging than I am. Twiddling my thumbs has never been my strong suit, so I go looking for… something. I don’t even know what. Just a clue. A crack in the perfect surface of stalker boy’s life.
His room was a bust earlier—besides the hoodie, which fits like a mitten, it’s practically made for me. I might hang onto it. Generous of me, really, considering the absurd number he had crammed in his wardrobe. He’ll survive without this one.
I glance down the corridor, catching the faint whistle from the kitchen. He’s still distracted.
Perfect.
Slipping through the only door I haven’t explored yet—excluding the Fort Knox–level lockdown of his office—I cross the threshold and freeze.
I wasn’t expecting this.
It’s not just a room—it’s a shrine.
Shelves sag under the weight of old photos and dust-heavy boxes. A faded cardigan hangs limply from the corner of a chair. Teddies, keepsakes, tiny tokens stamped with I love you. The air itself feels thick, like it hasn’t moved in years.
Someone lived in this space. Someone he cared about deeply.
I swipe dust from a frame, and the image startles me. It’s him—stalker boy—smiling, those full lips pulled up revealing perfectly straight teeth. And beside him, a girl. Beautiful in that effortless, sunny kind of way. Sandy hair, bronzed skin, teeth so white they seem to glow. Her smile bursts from the frame, too bright for the shadows clinging to the walls.
But this room… it doesn’t echo joy. It breathes grief.
There are dozens of photos. Too many to study, but enough to tell the story. They were close. Lovers, maybe. Something real. Something that still matters—enough to keep her sealed away like this, untouched and unmoved.
I wonder what happened to her.
This room doesn’t belong to the rest of the house.
He told me he’s a clean freak—not in those exact words, but the message was clear. Everything in his home is pristine, controlled, curated.
Except this.
The dust here is undisturbed, layered thick across shelves and frames. Even the air smells still, like it’s been unvisited for years. Untouched by anything living.
He doesn’t come in here. That much is obvious.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
His voice slices through the air—low, controlled, but sharp enough to stop me cold. Like a kid caught somewhere they weren’t supposed to be.
“Sorry, I—I was just…”
The excuse sticks to my tongue. We literally just had a conversation about boundaries, and here I am already trampling them.
“Get out.”
No room for negotiation. His jaw’s clenched, his eyes locked on something over my shoulder—some memory heavy enough to anchor him in place.
I took it too far.
“I wasn’t trying to—I was just looking.”
“Well don’t,”
he snaps.
“I let you into my house. Gave you a place to sleep. Even took in that fucking cat. But if I ever catch you in here again, the deal’s off. And you’ll be right back where you started. Got it?”
Crystal.
Dinner is… tense. He stabs at his food like it owes him money, every bite chewed with silent aggression—as if the pasta personally offended him.
I keep my eyes down, too sheepish to meet his. Instead, I push vegetables around my plate, carving patterns into the sauce like it’s an art project.
The kitchen’s massive, but somehow, at this island, it feels cramped. Like the air’s pressing in. His presence doesn’t help—he takes up most of the counter space, broad shoulders brushing mine more than once.
Maybe it’s just me who notices.
Maybe he doesn’t feel the static that crackles where his arm touches mine. Doesn’t feel how every stray contact sends a trail of goosebumps marching up my skin.
I think I need to release some tension. Good thing I packed the essentials. That vibrator is going to come in handy tonight.
“She was my wife,”
he says, plain and unceremonious—like dropping a live grenade into the room.
I freeze, mouth half-open, every retort evaporating.
Of course I know who he means—the woman in the photos. The smile, the sandy hair, the room sealed off in dust and longing.
I just… never pictured stalker boy married.
He doesn’t wear the history. No telltale tan line. No worn-down band of skin on his ring finger. Nothing to suggest a life shared—let alone one lost.
“Was?”
I ask softly, careful not to make it sound like a challenge. This feels as fragile as glass. One wrong move and something important will splinter.
We still don’t look at each other.
“She was taken. Years ago, by a ring similar to Manticore.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
Of course he’s wrapped up in this. Of course it’s personal.
“Hence the company,”
he adds, voice clipped.
“Did you ever find her?”
I regret the words the second they leave me. Stupid. If he had, she’d be here. Duh!
“No. That was before we knew how they operated. Before we could track anything. But I’ll see her face again someday.”
He’s not blinking.
“And when I do, I’ll be ready.”
And now I get it.
He’s not just fighting monsters. He’s chasing a ghost—one smile locked in time, one what-if that still ties his bones in knots.
It’s heartbreak without closure. A life paused mid-breath. Not grief, exactly. Something more punishing.
Hope.
“I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that must be.”
And I mean it. I’ve suffered, sure—but not like that. Not the kind of loss that rips through your life and leaves everything frozen around a single name.
Well… maybe Darcy. Maybe she’s the closest I’ve ever come.
I think back to Adam, to what we had. It wasn’t love—not the kind that consumes you, not like what stalker boy clearly felt for her. There was no fire in that life, no ache. Just convenience and routine and a slow unravelling I mistook for stability.
But something catches me. He was her husband. That’s how he said it. Past tense. And yet he talks like he still expects her to walk through the door one day.
Does he really believe she’s out there? Or is that the lie he tells himself just to make it through the night without drowning?
Still, one thing’s obvious—grief hasn’t put his life on pause.
The woman on the live feed made that clear enough.
But then again, who am I to judge? From the outside, someone could look at me and say I’m still hung up on Adam—no rebound, no flings, nothing. But that’s not it.
It’s rejection I’m afraid of. More than I care to admit.
Maybe that’s why Darcy and I work so well—worked. We’re total opposites. Chalk and cheese. And she was always the brave one, the bold one. She led. I followed. That’s just how it was.
“I need a word with you after I’ve cleaned up,”
he says, breaking the silence as he stacks the plates.
“So don’t wander.”
The subject of his possibly-dead wife is very much off the table.
“I can do it—”
“No.”
He snaps the words fast, tugging the plate out of my hands like I’ve offended his honour.
“I’ll handle it. I like it done my way.”
“Sorry my skills aren’t up to scratch for you,”
I mutter, trying not to bristle—but it still hits a little sharper than it should. He makes everything feel like a test I didn’t know I was failing.
He’s a clean freak. But he’s just going to have to get used to me and my ways I’m afraid, at least until we’ve found Darcy.