Page 19 of Desperate People

Watching to see if he’s behind any of this shit.

If even one of these obsessive fan accounts is tied back to him, I’ll make sure he never performs again.

At least not with all his teeth.

Lucy’s at some launch party tonight.

High-end venue. Something trendy.

Her security detail is tight.

I already tapped into their comms.

I know when she arrives.

Just like I’ll know when she leaves.

And when she walks through her front door? I’ll be watching.

No, I don’t always check out the video feeds.

That’s too far. Even for me.

But the tracking software I designed lights up on my phone every time she moves.

Mapping her route. Making sure she’s safe.

And now she’s home.

Alone.

I wonder if she’s smiling.

If the fame still tastes sweet or if it’s starting to burn.

I want to believe she’s happy.

I really fucking do.

She smiles for the cameras. Laughs with her cousins. Posts the kind of perfect snapshots that would make anyone think her life’s all designer gowns and charity work despite the fact she does real work at Volkov Industries.

But something tells me she’s not happy.

Not really.

And I don’t know if it’s the slight delay in her texts lately, or the too-bright gleam in her eyes the last time I saw her.

But my gut? My gut hasn’t stopped twisting in days.

That pressure sitting right behind my ribs, the one making it feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin?

That’s not just nerves.

That’s instinct.

And if I’m right?

If something’s wrong?

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