CHAPTER 13
Stalker
I thought you’d lie to your friends.
You always lie. I watched you on the screen, over and over, tell your clique your curated version of what happened at Househill Manor. It didn’t matter how many times I looked at that recording, I couldn’t spot it, the tell that had to be there.
Now, I pull up the live feed of you on my phone, keeping the image of you from fading to black as your pixelated form moves from one side of your living room to the other.
Placing a cup down. You’re alone, and I watch you move around the house, flicking on every light.
I send a little prayer of thanks that I managed to get the cameras in so quickly.
Without them, I’d never be able to see the way you didn’t lie to your friends, and you didn’t call the private investigator, you didn’t do all the goddamn things you’re supposed to.
My foot kicks, whacking the solid leg of your boss’s cheap table. I try to shake off the tension of watching you, loosen my shoulders, deepen my breath.
“Calm,” I say as your pixelated form resettles on the sofa. You’re reading a goddamn book, Ella. As though I’m not working my ass off over here, trying to rip at your every–
“Hello, sorry to keep you waiting.” The door of the pokey office swings open, offering more light than the dusty window behind the desk can.
I stand, tucking the phone away and letting your face play out from my pocket. Pressed against my thigh.
I shake your boss’s hand, stocky and clammy, with tendrils of hair running across the knuckles. Brian Oslow sits at his desk, placing his clasped hands in front of him. I straighten my suit jacket and sit back down, waiting a moment.
You might not realise this, but he doesn’t like you.
I can tell by the way he grimaces when I say your name.
I’m not surprised, though. Your work isn’t what I’d call fundamental.
You’re a glorified psychic who makes sweeping assumptions based on character traits.
You work in a law firm building testimonials and character descriptions while claiming to help prevent more crimes.
Does it work, Ella? Selling that level of bullshit.
“So, you want to make a complaint about Ella Ademonde.” Your name sounds clunky on his tongue, and my fingers itch to slap him for it.
“Not a complaint, as such,” I say, pushing my glasses up with the three fingers.
“Then?” Brian says, doubt crawling across his brow. He’s sceptical, and so he should be. I lower my shoulders, slouching forward.
You know it’s important to stay unassuming.
“I was listening to her podcast, Crimin-El.” I look at him for a beat, my smile bright, on the cusp of laughter at a horrendously crass joke. It’s an awful name you chose, Ella.
I cough. “Well, I wondered how…” I wave my right hand ahead of me, swiping dangerously close to a large vase at the edge of his desk so that he jolts forward just in case.
“…ethical it is? I don’t know much about police work, you see, but I did think that it was odd that some cases tried right here in Sussex appeared in her podcast.”
Brian blinks at me.
I understand why you hate him.
“I can assure you that Ella is reporting on no live cases,” he says, and we both know he’s lying. He doesn’t even know you had a podcast, and you can see that in the way his fingers are twitching against his knuckles.
“Oh, of course! I do not doubt that you’ve all done your due diligence,” I say, reaching into the small bag at my feet. “I printed these for you if you wanted to double-check against her current episode list.”
I place them on the desk, rising.
“It would be a shame for there to be any crossover between cases she’s worked on and cases she’s shared details over,” I say, wiping off a speck of invisible lint from my arm.
Brian leans forward, his eyes scouring the sheet as I leave.
You won’t have a job by the end of the week.
I push the door with my shoulder, still busy with commuters rushing from here to there. The sun creates a warm, yellow hue low in the sky. A bird flies overhead, sweeping its great wings as it dips and weaves amongst the clouds. Its call is lost to the sound of a bus rushing past.
“Move it, asshole.” The sound comes close to my ear, my shoulder nudged as a young woman with large headphones and an angry stare pushes past me. My feet move, keeping pace with her, the muscles of my palm tingling as I draw my fists close.
People nowadays are so quick, always too busy for common courtesy or thought. She turns right at the traffic lights, and I let her. Her justice will come, like the many others I let leave, but it won’t be from me.
The crowd rushes across the road at the signal, and I become part of them, straightening my jacket. It’s nice to be in a suit again, and I wanted to dress for the occasion.
Your boss thinks very little of you, do you know that? Your work, it seems, is more of a gesture than a pivotal part of the team. It’s unsurprising; who wants someone who floats around a crime scene drawing vague conclusions when you could have hard evidence? I’m sorry, was that rude?
When I told your boss what I was there to do, he didn’t seem that surprised, he encouraged it.
A noise above snatches my attention, a bird flapping wildly at the grey netting that runs along the top of the parking unit.
The soft echo of my footsteps stops as I do.
I think it’s stuck, Ella. There’s something poetic about that, a trapped bird just out of reach. But it’s too high up for me to get.
I unlock my car, my attention drawn back to you as you fill my screen from your sofa.
Sat flicking on your phone. I’m aware that at some point, you will find the little black dot placed on your fireplace that gives me a view of the far end of your living space; but for now, it’s a guilty pleasure.
I don’t need to be watching you, but I do.
You pull at a loose curl from your ponytail and worry at it, tugging the strand down until it reaches your shoulder and then pings back up.
That face makes my fingers tighten around my phone.
I can see your mouth moving, but it’s not speech.
No. Squinting offers no further detail, but I can imagine what you’re doing.
I’ve seen you do it before, just like my brother used to.
The small tip of your tongue is running across the top of your teeth.
When I was at university, I tried it out, a suitable look for someone working hard, but it didn’t suit me.
I didn’t make a formal complaint, by the way.
Simply nudged your boss to do a little digging.
“Oh no, nothing like that. And it’s probably not the right thing to do, all things considered. But I thought it was odd.”
That’s all I said, enough of a nudge to spark his curiosity, and all I have to do is wait.
And he took the bait, lifting the folder that showed printed titles of your podcast episodes. You were smart, though, never directly choosing ones that you worked on, but it was close enough.
I run my finger over the edge of the screen, touching your pixelated face.
“Careful,” I say, even though I know you can’t hear me.
Pressing play, your voice fills the car, vibrating with your passion and conversational tone.
Despite what Rufus says behind your back, you do have a skill for this podcast thing.
As much as talking into a microphone is a skill.
In this episode, you’re dissecting the mind of a killer, and your guest adds interesting comments based on their lived experiences.
You murmur an agreement before speaking: “A killer, whether serial or otherwise, is inclined to feel that each of their victims matters. Every death becomes a new part of their life. However, I would also argue that with every death, they see themselves reflected. Their flaws, whether consumed or experienced, are laid out in their victims. And thus, can be used as an indicator of their mentality.”
My scoff fills the car. You’re so naive.
The screen of the car’s display reads 5.45, the little green digits slowly creeping up as I sit and listen to your inane droning. My fingers work to undo the top button of my shirt.
I flick through my phone until I land on the number, waiting for the call to connect.
“Yes?” The man on the other end of the line is gruff, a slight slur to his words. Jesus.
“Hello to you too. I need your help,” I say, but I don’t need to ask him, Ella, he’ll say yes.
“What is it?”
“Ella. I need more eyes on her.”
There’s the sound of shuffling through the phone. I wonder where he is.
“Like what?” he says finally, angry.
I rub my eyes. The fake glasses now sit in the passenger seat. The incident at the café can’t happen again.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Another rustle from the phone. The clock reads 5.55.
“I can put a tracker on her phone, then you can see where she is at all times,” he says, finally contributing something of worth.
“Do it,” I say, hanging up before he can respond.
At exactly six, my phone rings. Or vibrates. I never understood people who chose those garish, loud ringtones. The type of people who need attention at every opportunity.
“Hello?” I answer as a question, but I already know.
I flip the visor down, staring at myself in the mirror, I run my tongue over my teeth, inspecting my face.
Who do you think you’re catching, Ella? With all your words and planning. Because it’s not me, and it’s certainly not him. We’re smarter than that.
“Hi, it’s me,” he says, his voice gruff as though he’s only just woken up.
We’ve never met, me and him, and yet as soon as he heard your name, he was all ears.
“Hello, Henry.”