Page 95 of Under the Lies

Sayer’s a bird that will never go back in a cage.

The number the texts were sent from was a burner phone, completely useless.

But the picture had to be taken from one of the neighboring buildings. I took inventory. Assessed what floor could have potential to see into my place with a camera zoom. I made a list.

A list that got me fucking nowhere today.

The only lead I got was from one room. It was abandoned. It was actually in the perfect position to spy into my downstairs. But there was no trace, no clues. Gabe and I went there finding nothing. We even dusted for prints and got nothing. Thea looked on the security and ATM cameras and struck out as well.

Sayer doesn’t know about the messages. I deleted it and blocked the number right after sending everything to Thea.

And Sayer isn’t going to know.

I made a promise to keep her safe. And I’ve taken it more seriously than I ever intended to.

I mean, she’s living with me for fuck’s sake. All of her stuff is scattered around like it’s her place. No wonder her family’s cleaning service was over every single day.

Sayer Brooks is kind of a slob.

And her hair.

Her goddamn hair.

It’s everywhere.

It’s like living with a mangy cat, shedding and shedding. How is she not bald yet? How much hair can one person have?

It grates against my skin, my OCD. She has no sense of order. Perfectly content to leave her shit laying around. She might not have wanted to live with me, but she has had no problem getting comfortable.

Maybe it’s because for the first few days she was here, I wasn’t around…

Speaking of leads that went nowhere. The lead Thea sent me about Harlow also went nowhere.

I used to be good at finding people, finding things, but now I’m starting to question myself.

I blame Sayer for it.

She’s soaked into my skin, embedded in my veins.

I find her sitting on one of the stools at my kitchen bar. A leg pulled tight to her chest, her chin rests on her knee as she fiddles away on her laptop, headphones in her ears. I see the white buds sticking out between pieces of her haphazardly thrown up hair.

She doesn’t hear my approach, but I can hear the angsty screams of her music as I close in behind her.

When I first heard her listening to this music at the library, I’m not shy to admit I was shocked. Sayer has always shocked me. Not in big, obvious gestures but in the little finite details that make Sayer, Sayer.

Like how she drinks iced coffee even when it’s freezing outside. Or how her lips almost always rest in a small smile.

Peeking over her shoulder, I see what has her rapt attention. Paintings.

A notebook sits next to her, scribbled with various colors of ink.

Homework.

That’s another thing that’s spewed all over my penthouse.

Her textbooks, notebooks. With her hair stuck between the pages of both.

And she still doesn’t realize I’m here.

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