Page 92 of Penalty Kiss
I pull up the exterior camera first. The timestamp shows 2:47 PM—about two hours after Tara left for her shopping trip with Vicky.
"There," I point to the screen. "That's me leaving for my run."
We watch my figure jog down the street, disappearing from frame. I fast-forward, looking for anything unusual.
"Stop," Tara says suddenly. "Go back. There—do you see that?"
I rewind, and there it is. At 3:02 PM, fifteen minutes after I left, a figure appears at the edge of the frame. Tall, dark hair, moving with purpose toward the house.
"Can you get a better angle?"
I switch to the front door camera. The image is crystal clear—a man in a blue hoodie, face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood, but not enough to hide his features completely.
"That's him," Tara breathes, her voice barely audible. "That's Lucien in the flesh!"
We watch in horrified fascination as he approached the front door, produced what looks like professional lock-picking tools, and gains entry in under one minute.
"Unbelievable!” I curse, switching to the interior kitchen camera.
The footage that follows is surreal. Lucien moved through the kitchen like he owned it, lifting pot lids, examining the gamjatang I'd been so proud of. Then—and this part makes my stomach turn—he served himself a bowl, sat at the kitchen island, and ate.
"He's actually tasting it," I say, incredulous.
"Look at his face," Tara whispers. "He just spotted the camera! He’s doing all this for a show! Cam, the reason why he sent the text was to make us watch this!"
On screen, Lucien nods appreciatively like he's a food critic sampling fine cuisine instead of a psychopath breaking into someone's home.
Then he smiled at the camera, walked back to the stove, and deliberately turned the burner to high.
"There," Tara says, her voice tight with vindication and rage. "There's our proof."
We watch him replaced the pot lid, checked his watch, and then—in a move that makes my blood boil—he helps himself to another spoonful before walking out.
The timestamp shows he left at 3:18 PM. At 3:21, smoke began to appear in the frame. By 3:25 PM, when I return from my run, the kitchen was filled with gray haze.
"I came back just in time," I realize, watching myself rush in with the fire extinguisher.
"You think he’d timed it?" Tara's voice is hollow. “So you come back to find the fire, and blame yourself."
I close the laptop, my hands shaking with rage. "That calculating piece of—"
"Cam." She turns to face me fully, and I can see the war playing out in her expression. Fear, guilt, determination. "This is my fault. He did this because of me."
"Like hell it is." I glare at her, forcing her to meet my eyes. "This is on him. Only him."
"But if it wasn’t for my—"
"Stop." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You didn't ask for this psychopath to fixate on you. You didn't ask for him to break into your house. None of this is your fault."
She melts into my touch for a moment, eyes closing.
"Tara, we need to take him down first."
When she opens her eyes again, there's steel in her gaze. “I know. But this isn't some hockey brawl. This is—"
"This is my fight now too." I push up and pace to the window. "He came to taunt. To prove I couldn’t protect you—or myself—from his reach. To wave the threat in our faces. We’ve gone to the police, but he never leaves enough for them to actually do anything.”
I turn back, heat in my chest, words low and hard. "I'm done giving this clown his spotlight. He thinks I'm stuck in the penalty box—sit, wait, let him dictate the game. Screw that. I'm done being the sitting duck while he writes the playbook."
