Chapter Twenty-Four #2
I lock the door and pull gloves from my pocket. Not because I’m sloppy. Just because I don’t trust myself not to touch something I shouldn’t.
Well. More than I already am.
A Post-it stuck to the fridge door: buy oat milk or DIE.
Little skull doodle underneath. Morbid. Cute. Probably directed at herself.
I adjust my glasses then unzip my backpack. Time to work.
It’s not stalking if you’re protecting her.
I mount the first of the cameras in a corner—angled toward the kitchen door. Clean line of sight. Motion-activated.
The cabinet cam’s got the money shot. Once it’s running, I know exactly what it’ll catch: her, counter-leaning in those sleep shorts, spoon-deep in peanut butter, scowling like the jar insulted her ancestors.
Day 122 of the living room experiment. Subject has created another biome of chaos: pepperoni grease seeping into the Dec issue of Layout Weekly, left slipper abandoned at the 32-degree angle I documented last Tuesday, and—new development—a lacy red thong dangling from the ceiling fan?
Real subtle.
I snap a photo. For evidence. For later. For ... reasons.
Second camera goes in the hallway. Covers the living room and the kitchen pass-through.
A couple more disguised in the vent slats, above the coat rack, and high angles in the corners.
Her bedroom door is half-open. The rest is hidden by a wall. Might as well be a mile of no-man’s land.
I slip inside.
The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled. A thick book titled ‘Advanced Photoshop.’ A neon pink vibrator—charging on the nightstand. Maybe I should confiscate it. Fire hazard. Emotional hazard. Take your pick.
“Priorities,” I mutter.
I install another camera on the bookshelf—behind a row of novels.
Bared to the Alpha Billionaire Vampire. Figures.
I take a deep breath—vanilla shampoo and that cheap peach body spray.
Fuck. I’m sniffing her air now?
The dresser’s a goldmine. On top: a cracked iPhone held together with a pink glitter case and denial.
No charger in sight. Probably full of selfies and unsent drafts she never had the balls to delete.
Next to it, a shoebox stuffed with those little Instax prints—tiny square memories curled at the edges.
Her with purple hair, arms slung around two girls.
All three grinning like they just stole a street sign and posed for proof.
Payton in bed, tongue out, one hand flipping off the camera.
I don’t linger.
The drawer sticks. My pulse surges.
Lace. Silk. Satin.
Walk away.
First pair’s cherry red—less fabric than a Band-Aid. Next, midnight blue, lace so delicate it’d shred in a stiff breeze. Then white, with those goddamn bows, like she’s packaging a grenade as a birthday gift.
Black—simple, brutal, the kind she wears under hoodies.
My jaw locks. I slip off my glove.
The lace snags on my calluses.
She won’t miss one.
It’s in my pocket before my brain catches up.
Not a word, I warn my dick.
The traitorous bastard stirs anyway.
The camera snags halfway into the drawer. I curse under my breath and wiggle it free. My knuckles graze satin again. Lace. The edge of something barely-there.
Imagine she’s on all fours. Back arched. Ass up. That goddamn freckle between her shoulder blades.
Perfect. Fucking. Target.
The sound she’d make if I—
I wrench my hand back. Install the next three cameras without damaging any of her things. Or my pride.
I’m wiring the final cam when the low purr of an engine creeps up the driveway.
Too early. She’s 79 minutes ahead of schedule. Either her meeting imploded, or she rage-quit halfway through. Both track.
I vault over the bed—knocking the Advanced Photoshop book into the vibrator’s charging dock—and dive into her closet just as the front door opens.
Payton’s keys clatter onto the counter.
The closet smells like her. Dangerous. I press deeper into the hanging clothes, my cheek brushing a slinky dress that’s definitely a size too small.
Footsteps cross the floor. Fast.
I hold my breath. The slats are wide enough to see her storm in.
She peels off her blouse and shimmies out of her skirt like she’s racing to shed the entire day.
She’s down to a black bralette before I remember I’m currently committing several felonies.
I don’t blink. Can’t.
The lace. Her flushed skin.
Those bows.
Her bralette strains as she stretches … then turns.
My glasses are fogged. Is she staring at the closet? No fucking way she sees me. Still, there are too many angles this could end badly—starting with the fact she’s nearly naked and I’m thinking about pinning her against the wall and—
A shadow cuts across her face. She tilts her head. That little crease forms between her brows.
Now she’s coming this way, and I’m half-blind, rock-hard, and one breath from disaster.
Fuck.
The closet knob turns.
Double fuck.
I duck behind a faux fur monstrosity that smells like a taxidermist’s fever dream—thrift store tag still attached—just as Payton yanks the door open.
Silence. Then—
“What the—hey, stay away from my vibe, you dirty, old perv.”
She’s not talking to me. She’s talking to the ‘ghost.’
She sets her vibrator back on the charging dock. “I swear to God, if you’re the reason my shit keeps moving—”
Her phone buzzes. She groans before stomping out, muttering about ‘demon clients.’
The second her footsteps fade, I slip into motion.
Out of the closet. Across the room. Toward the window.
It’s a tight squeeze—not exactly made for grown men who should know better than to stalk their neighbors. I muscle it open without making a sound. Mostly.
The screen pops loose. I catch it before it hits the ground.
My glasses don’t get the memo. They slide right off my nose, bounce off the windowsill, and land lens-down in a damp patch of mulch.
Payton’s voice drifts from the hallway. “No, Liz, neon pink is not a ‘neutral tone.’”
I drop onto the grass, scoop up my glasses, and wipe them on my shirt. One lens is now definitely smeared with something that smells like expired salad.
Contacts next time. Or just … restraint.
***
The window in my room upstairs has a nice view of her house—modest, one-story, painted that shade of yellow that somehow still glows at dusk. Her place looks cozier. Less haunted.
Her lights come on at 7:03 pm.
The feed glows on my screen—live, in high-definition, hers.
By 7:06, she’s in that ‘Property of Ghostface’ hoodie. Those goddamn sleep shorts. Hair damp, legs bare, peanut butter jar in one hand.
I watch from the desk. Monitor one: kitchen. Monitor two: living room. Three and four rotate, slow pan. Enough coverage to build a case. Or a religion.
She flops onto the couch and opens her laptop.
I lean in. Not like I don’t already know her passwords. Hell, I set up half her router security.
Browser tab: Instagram. She scrolls through her feed—thumb lazy, peanut butter slow. Max’s latest post flashes by:
Caption: Operation Snack Heist: Mission Success.
He’s mid-run, hoodie flying, chip bag in hand like he just looted a 7-Eleven. Classic Max.
She smiles, taps his profile.
The one I set up for him to keep him occupied and out of my hair. Firewalled, private, comment filters so tight it’d choke a troll. I scrub it daily. He thinks it’s magic.
Payton’s still scrolling, licking peanut butter off the spoon.
She pauses on a photo with the caption: Best day ever! We made it rain.
Nerf gun. Backyard hose. Max grinning like chaos incarnate. I’m in the background—soaked shirt, glasses sliding off my nose, caught mid-fix on the sprinkler.
She zooms in.
My pulse skips. A blip. Nothing fatal. Not yet.
Her phone pings. Same notification pops up on my screen.
brETT TANNER
Hey, the Alamo’s doing a midnight horror marathon Friday. You in?
She bites her lip. Pulls up a new message window.
To: IT Guy
The cursor blinks.
Then she types:
Hey, random q. You like horror movies?
My thumb skims the screen. Like I could trace her collarbone through pixels.
The one where the shark’s also a time-travelling dinosaur? Hard pass.
I watch her read it. Watch her scoff like she expected nothing else.
She switches back to Brett’s message.
PAYTON
Sure, why not.
My screen fades to black.