Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I spot the smoke detector on the ceiling near the kitchen and head toward it. It’s not the one that she bashed, but I’m going to check it anyway since I’m here. I pull over a kitchen chair to stand on, wishing I had taken my boots off before entering her home. But I’m on a time limit since I don’t know exactly how long I have before Chloe returns.
The battery compartment opens easily, and I replace the old batteries with new ones from my backpack that I brought. The detector gives a reassuring chirp as it comes back to life.
I move to the one in her bedroom, the one that I watched her crush into pieces to silence it. I brought a spare detector, pretty sure her other one is beyond repair. The scent of cinnamon is stronger here, emanating from a small diffuser on her nightstand. Her bed is unmade, the comforter twisted as if she’d left in a hurry.
The smoke detector, or what’s left of it, hangs limply from the ceiling. I carefully remove the broken detector, my fingers brushing against the jagged edges where Chloe’s frustration had taken its toll. As I work to install the new one, my eyes wander around her bedroom, drinking in every detail. The framed photos on her dresser, the half-empty mug of coffee on her nightstand, the pile of clothes draped over a chair—each item feels like a precious clue, another piece of the puzzle that is Chloe.
I finish installing the new detector and reach for my backpack once again. My hands shake. My mind screams no. I shouldn’t do it. I should stop. But I don’t. Instead, I pull out a nanny camera. It would fit so perfectly next to this alarm and Chloe would never be the wiser.
My heart races as I position the tiny camera, angling it just so. It blends seamlessly with the new smoke detector, practically invisible unless you know exactly what to look for. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. This is wrong, I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself. I need to see her, to know her, to keep an eye on her at all times.
Last night when I came up with this plan, I justified it by telling myself it’s so I don’t have to stalk outside her window anymore. I’d be taking one step closer to not being the creeper. I’d ween myself off. I’d . . . I’d be able to protect her better. That’s what I tell myself as I secure the camera in place, my fingers clumsily moving.
As I step back to admire my handiwork, a wave of guilt makes me want vomit. What am I doing? This isn’t protection; it’s invasion. I’m violating Chloe’s trust, her privacy, her very sense of security in her own home. The weight of my actions suddenly feels crushing.
I reach up, ready to tear down the camera, to undo this terrible mistake. But as my fingers brush against it, the creeper stalker in me returns. And he’s so much stronger than the good angel on my shoulder telling me how fucked up this is.
I leave the camera in place, my upper lip sweating. The guilt is still there, but it’s overshadowed by a sick sense of anticipation. I’ll be able to see Chloe whenever I want now, in her most private moments. The thought both thrills and disgusts me.
Quickly, I gather my tools and make my way out of the bedroom. I need to leave before I do anything else I might regret—or worse, before Chloe returns home. I lock up and head back to Mr. Haven’s house, my mind racing with thoughts of Chloe and the camera I’ve just installed.
Mr. Haven greets me with a warm smile, oblivious to what I’ve done. “All fixed up?” he asks.
I nod, plastering on a fake smile. “Yes, sir. Batteries changed and everything’s in working order. She’ll be safe now.”
As I shovel Mr. Haven’s walkway and spread salt, my mind races. What have I done? What will I do next? The line between protector and predator has never felt so blurry.
Chapter Eight
Chloe
I don’t know why I was hoping to see Jack today at the cafe—maybe on his way to work, but I was. Disappointment sinks in as I scan the familiar faces, none of them his. I stir my latte absently, watching the foam swirl into intricate patterns. The chatter and clinking of cups fade into background noise as my mind wanders.
I find an empty table by the window, pulling out my own computer to edit some new videos. But I can’t focus. My gaze keeps darting to the door every time the bell chimes, hoping it will be him walking in.
Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. The latte grows cold beside me, barely touched. I scold myself for wasting so much time pining over someone who clearly isn’t interested. Jack and I had barely spoken, mostly small talk and mostly about work. Yet something about his easy smile and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed has wormed its way into my heart.