Page 78 of No Control

And then I almost lose my breakfast. What. The. Fuck.

I start scrolling through the contents, pouring over every ounce of information. The man has everything about me in the file. There’re pictures of my house, my birth certificate, medical records—how the hell did he get those? Every picture I’ve ever put on social media, and a lot that were just on my phone.

Maybe he did this after we met.

I click on the files origin, fear pulsing through my veins as I read the date.

December 11, 2023.

Nope. Nope. Nope. This cannot be real. That would make this file from before he ever even messaged me about writing a book. That would mean that he saw me before he really saw me. I snap the computer shut, unable to stomach looking through the contents anymore. My brain tries to come up with scenarios, justifying the action.

I mean, he could’ve just been curious about me after reading my books—and he’s a hitman, so he’s an in-depth researcher. I nod to myself, but I lunge for the closet. Along with a duffle bag—which contents I watched him empty—I know he also carried in a backpack. I rip the door open and kick on the light, my eyes scanning the walk-in area.

Where is it?

I finally spot it on the top shelf. There’s no way I can reach it without help. I grab a wire hanger, undo it, and hook the strap, pulling it down and catching it.

Maybe I shouldn’t do this.

So what if he has a file on me?

He probably has a file on everyone he knows.

But my shaking fingers still pull the zipper free of the front, largest pocket. And what I find leaves bile rising in my throat. My fingers connect with a mask and pull it out.

The same mask I saw weeks ago.

I drop it to the floor as a sob breaks loose in my chest. It was never Mason stalking me. It was Henry.

Did he come into my house? Take my guns? Did he…

I rush the bathroom, vomiting up the avocado toast I had for breakfast. Hands shaking as I wipe my mouth and flush the toilet, I step back into the bedroom, but this time, I’m not alone.

“Are you sick?” Henry asks, concern filling his face.

My body trembles under his gaze. I’m mortified I was too stupid to put it all together. I should’ve known. I should’ve put the pieces together—but I was too blinded by him.

“Lydia,” he says softly, taking a step toward me.

I take one back, ramming my back into the edge of the bathroom door. “Don’t,” I warn him. “Just fucking don’t.”

His eyes widen, and he glances at the open closet door, the mask lying on the floor. “It’s not—”

“Don’t tell me it’s not what I think it is,” I sneer through the tears rolling down my cheeks. “You were the one who stalked me. Put the rose on Duke’s collar. Stole the guns from my house. Scared me with that.” I point toward the closet. “It was you, not Mason.”

He lets out a sharp exhale. “I did what I had to.”

I blink a couple times. “You did what you had to? Are you fucking serious? You terrified me!”

“You rejected me. I had to change your mind.”

“You lied,” I whisper, choking back the cries that rattle my ribcage. “You lied to me about it all.”

“I did what I had to, to have you. I need you. You wrote me before you ever even knew me, Lydia.”

“Those are just stories!” I break into a sob.

“Let me hold you before I have to go,” he says, his voice full of anguish.

---