25. Miles #3
A knot forms in my stomach.
My best guess? It probably happened the same night he texted Maddie.
I open the laptop and navigate to the hidden folder where I keep the camera software. My fingers move quickly as I log in, my impatience growing with every second it takes for the footage to load.
When the cameras finally appear on the screen, relief washes over me.
He didn’t find them.
For the first time since walking into my destroyed apartment, I feel like I’m one step ahead of him again.
The adrenaline that had started to fade comes rushing back, but this time it isn’t fueled by anger alone.
It’s the feeling that maybe, just fucking maybe, I finally have something he doesn’t know about.
Evidence.
I rewind through the footage until I find the moment my unexpected visitor breaks in. Hudson and Nate move closer as the video plays, and the three of us watch silently as the man walks through my apartment like he owns the place.
He doesn’t immediately start destroying things. That’s the part that bothers me the most. He takes his time. He looks around, studying every corner, piece of furniture, and detail. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His thumbs move across the screen as he types something.
“Maddie,” I say quietly.
There’s no other reason he’d be texting from inside my apartment.
A few seconds later, whatever he sees on his phone makes something in him snap.
He starts tearing through everything I own with a level of rage that’s almost impossible to understand.
He grabs a knife and starts stabbing my furniture, dragging the blade through the fabric before moving on to the next thing.
Bar stools are kicked across the room, some of them breaking apart on impact.
Watching it happen on a screen feels worse than seeing the aftermath. Because now I get to see the intention behind it. This wasn’t random for him, it was personal.
He pulls a red Sharpie from his pocket and walks over to my printer, grabbing a stack of paper before writing the same word across every single one.
MINE
Again and again. He throws them around my apartment like he wants the message burned into my brain. Then he walks over to my computer monitor and grabs it with both hands before smashing it against his knee.
I feel my hands curl into fists.
“Fucking asshole,” I mutter.
The man pulls his phone out again a few minutes later and sends another message. I watch closely, trying to make sense of it. Something about it bothers me. Maddie only received two texts from him, and they were sent almost immediately after one another. There wasn’t this much time between them.
So who the hell is he texting?
The man continues tearing apart my apartment until he finally finds the first camera. He doesn’t hesitate. He cuts the wire, removes the memory card, and slips it into his pocket.
He knew what he was looking for. He knew there were fucking cameras here.
“He came prepared,” Nate says quietly.
I don’t answer because I’m too focused on the screen. He searches for the others, moving through my apartment with a purpose, until something catches his attention. A noise, some kind of movement. Something.
A second person enters the apartment.
Nate immediately straightens beside me. “What the fuck?”
I stare at the screen, trying to process what I’m seeing. The second person is dressed almost exactly like the first one. Same dark clothes, same attempt to hide their identity. But unlike the first guy, this one is noticeably smaller.
A lot smaller.
The first man immediately starts yelling at them, his anger obvious even without sound. The second person doesn’t fight back. They just take it, standing there while the first guy continues barking orders.
None of this makes sense.
I lean closer to the screen, trying to catch any detail that might give me a clue. A tattoo. A piece of jewelry. Fucking anything.
But of course, there’s nothing.
The second person eventually leaves the apartment, only to return later carrying two buckets. I already know what they’re for. It’s the red fucking paint. Because apparently destroying my apartment wasn’t enough. They needed to leave a message, too.
I try adjusting the volume, hoping there’s something that might help us figure out who these people are, but then I remember these cameras were only backups.
No sound. Of course.
The two of them continue searching until they find the remaining cameras. They cut the wires, remove the memory cards, and make sure there’s no evidence left behind that someone else was helping him.
That was their mistake. Because now I know he isn’t working alone.
Before they leave, the first man walks back into my bedroom one last time. He picks up the paintbrush and slowly writes his final message above my bed.
She belongs with me.
I stare at the screen, feeling something cold settle deep in my chest.
This guy has no idea what he just started.
Because when I find him—and I will find him—he’s going to regret ever stepping foot inside my apartment.