My eyes bounce from screen to screen, but I can’t find Hans. And I can’t hear anything, so I don’t know if he’s still in the house.
I should’ve told him my front door is unlocked.
Not that he needs to go through my house; he can just go around it to get to the body.
I reach over with my right hand and pull on one of the little hairs on my left forearm. Then I make a face when it hurts.
Okay, so I can still feel things. Then why am I not stressing the fuck out about killing someone?
I’m almost certain the man I accidentally shot with an arrow is dead. And I’m almost certain I should be having a meltdown. Questioning my morality. Begging forgiveness from a god above. But I’m not.
And, well, he shouldn’t have been there.
I can’t think of a single innocent reason why a man could be sprinting for me, through my backyard, in the dark.
A shiver skitters up my arms.
I’ve never been one for scary movies. And that moment—the light flicking on and revealing him—is going to wake me up at night.
I wrap my arms around myself—this room is shockingly cold—and scan the screens again for Hans.
Nothing.
He should’ve crossed the street by now.
My attention snags on a mostly black screen.
There.
It’s hard to make out dark movement on a dark background, but it looks like—I lean closer to the screen, causing the edge of the counter to dig into my stomach. Hans is running. Through his backyard and into the woods. Literally in the opposite direction of my house.
“What the hell?”
He disappears.
I look around at the other screens, trying to find him again.
Hans isn’t leaving. He wouldn’t bring me down here, then load himself up with weapons just to run away into the forest.
Pretty sure.
Palms on the counter, I push myself up, then cross over to the main door.
One of the screens shows the empty basement beyond the door, so I know no one is lurking there, but I need to know…
I grab the lever handle and depress it.
It moves, and I can hear the heavy sound of the locks disengaging.
Not locked in.
I pull the door open just a few inches, then shut it, and the locks do their automatic thing again.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Trust the process.”
Keeping an eye on the monitors, I cross to the back of the room and open the first door on the back wall. The closet Hans got his clothes from.
The shelves are lined with stacks of clothing. All in shades of black and gray.
I grab a black hooded sweatshirt. Hans doesn’t have much body fat, but he’s tall and built, so when I pull the garment on, it’s spacious enough for my chubby frame. It’s also so long it’s the same length as my shorts.
I snag a pair of socks and stuff them in the hoodie pocket, then shut the closet.
I keep glancing at the monitors, but since I’m already up, I can’t stop myself from checking the other doors.
The second door reveals a closet full of duffel bags and boxes of electronics.
The third door reveals a closet full of nonperishable food. Mostly bland-looking things, packs of stuff I’ve seen in camping stores. But there’s also a half-full case of Skittles, the bright-colored packaging jarring next to everything else.
I take a pack.
Moving to the last door, I open it and feel that chill roll across my skin again.
Behind the fourth door is another door. A heavy metal one, just like the one we came through to get in here. But this one is leading the other way. Toward the backyard. Where nothing else should be.
I slam the closet door shut and hurry back to the chair.
The wheels slide around a little bit as I pull the oversized socks onto my feet.
A handful of the views on-screen are of the dilapidated house at the end of our little cul-de-sac, but I don’t spend time looking at those feeds. I don’t know why he has cameras on that place, but he’s not going there. He’s going to my house.
My house, which is featured in the majority of the camera angles.
I reach up and touch the screen that shows my large living room windows.
Since it’s dark outside and lights are on inside my house, it’s easy to see straight inside. I can see my couch, part of my work desk, and part of the opening that leads into my kitchen.
Hans has sat right here—I grip the chair armrests—and he’s looked right into my home.
Heat swirls in my belly.
My reaction to Hans has always been more.
I’ve been more interested in him than I should be.
I’ve focused on him. Wondered about him. Fantasized about him. Thought about stripping down in my bedroom window just for the hope that he might see me. And want me.
I never did it, but I wanted to.
And this… Him watching me. Or whatever this is. I know it’s not right.
And I know it’s not right for me to feel so fucking good about it.
But I don’t really feel like fighting it.
I know who I am. And I’m a lot.
My scattered attention span. My attempts at baking that I know are nowhere near as good as my mom’s. My ultra-curvy body that I have no intention of changing.
All my relationships have been surface only. Fun while they lasted but nothing special.
My parents raised me to have good self-esteem. And I mostly do. But a part of me has just assumed I’d be one of those single forever women. And I was okay with that. I accepted it.
I look around at the other screens, wondering if he can see into my bedroom.
My core muscles tighten just thinking about it.
Could he see me touching myself?
Would he have sat here, gripping that big dick of his, jerking off while he watched?
My eyes bounce around as I look for my bedroom window, but I don’t see a good view of it.
I move my attention back to my living room and yelp.
Because Hans is there.
Inside my house.
