Page 25 of The Devil's Playground

The videos saved to my laptop prove it.

While I was being fingered by Royce, Kieran Alfieri—wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, and that old, familiar smirk—appeared on one of my cameras. He knew it, too. There’s no sound on these, so I don’t know if he called me ‘darlin’ out loud or not, but the exaggerated mouth motions he made in front of the camera are obvious.

Hi, darlin’.

Fuck.

I was already locked up tight in the house when I checked the camera footage. A quick tour through the downstairs, then the upstairs to make sure he didn’t find my hideaway key—thank fucking god he didn’t—before I sat down on the couch, turning the cameras from past footage to live.

After he placed the dragonfly into the mailbox, he disappeared. I know that. He crossed through three other cameras, brazen as hell, then walked away as though he didn’t just shake up my whole life by revealing he knows I’m here. I didn’t see him outside when I came in, blissfully unaware he’d been by, so that’s good.

Right?

Maybe.

And I’m fooling myself if I believe that he won’t come back now that he guesses I’m here.

The illusion of safety is such a fragile thing. Barely an hour ago, I knew that Kieran would come after me if given a reason to. I just… I thought, if I didn’t, he would go on, living his life on the other side of town. Now that I have irrefutable proof that he at least assumes I’m hiding out in Springfield again, that illusion has shattered in a thousand different shards.

It’s like, now that I’ve seen him on my camera footage, I have to keep staring at the live feed to prove to myself he hasn’t come back.

Two hours. It’s a good thing I changed out of my work uniform—throwing on an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants before I left the Playground at ten—because, otherwise, I’d be sitting on the edge of my couch in the same short shorts I’d had on when I willingly allowed Royce to touch me.

I don’t regret it. In a way, I feel empowered by what happened in that closet. He might have been the one to initiate it, but I didn’t want to stop. Hell, if Ava hadn’t called him, I don’t know if I would have.

I was so jealous. When he dropped a quick kiss on my mouth, frowning only a little when I jerked my head and his kiss landed on the corner, all I could think about was how much I was attracted to him—and how much I wished I was the woman he’d drop everything to run to.

He never came back. To be fair, I didn’t really think he would. I’d hoped he would, though, and tried not to take it personally when ten o’clock came and there was no sign of Royce in sight.

Now? Maybe it was a good thing that I didn’t invite him home with me. I don’t even want to think about how Kieran would react to that…

It’s after midnight. I keep telling myself that I should just shut the laptop, try to get some sleep, and figure out what I’m going to do tomorrow. Nothing’s really changed. I promised Mom that I’d house-sit until she came back from Florida, so it’s not like I can up and love. How would I explain myself to her?

Especially since she thinks I should get back together with Kieran. Of course, that’s because I’ve kept every bad thing he’s ever done to me from her, but still. I can’t tell her the truth.

It’s not like he’ll hurt me, either; at least, not purposely. He uses violence for control, but he knows better than to come out swinging with me. Oh, no. To get me to do what he wants, he needs to be that manipulative bastard I fell for once upon a time. The warning—the gift—will only be the beginning, but he won’t, like, kidnap me or anything.

I hope.

No. I place my hand on the edge of the laptop. I need to shut it. I need to go to bed. I need to?—

Wait.

What the hell is that?

I was watching. I swear I was watching. I never saw a car coming down our quiet street except for two that belonged to my neighbors, and that was closer to eleven. And, yet, someone is crossing my yard.

Black hoodie, hood pulled up over their head. Black pants. Unlike how Kieran flaunted his face in front of the camera before, this person—man, I think, taking in their size and their walk, it’s a man—he’s careful to keep his hidden. From the wind? It hasn’t started to snow just yet, but the temperature’s dropped.

Or maybe, I think, watching as they cross my yard and move to stand in front of my front window, they don’t want to be caught on my camera.

I stop breathing.

The man is on the other side of my front window—and he’s not moving, either.

“Go away,” I mutter under my breath, panic welling up inside of me. “There’s nothing to see here. Go away.”

It’s true. Besides, I remembered to draw the black-out curtains earlier. I don’t always—and I better start—but unless he’s trying to pick in through the tiny sliver, between the curtain and the window, he needs to leave again.

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