Page 24 of Love Me Stalk Me
I shouldn't continue this. I should turn it off. I should go to bed and face reality in the morning.
Instead, I pick up my phone.
And I answer.
PROTECTIVE. CONFIDENT. INTENSE. ME.
CAL
Izzy's silhouettemoves across the grainy black-and-white feed, small against the vast, empty parking garage. I lean back in my chair, tracking her through the security monitors as she crosses to her car, moving slow, unbothered.
She's not looking over her shoulder. Not gripping her keys like a weapon. Not hurrying like prey.
She feels safe.
Because she knows I'm watching.
I watch as she slides into the driver's seat, and a second later, her headlights flare across the concrete, bright white beams cutting through the darkness. I switch to another monitor, tracking her exit, then shift to my laptop, pulling up the GPS feed linked to her phone.
Her location pings instantly. The small dot moves methodically across my screen.
She's heading to her apartment on the other side of the tunnel, the address I memorized from her employee file.
This isn't about knowing where she is at all times. I just want to make sure she gets there safely. But the satisfaction I feel watching her movement tells me otherwise.
But I know that's a lie.
I watch as the small blinking dot follows the route through the tunnel, winding toward her apartment complex. She pulls into the parking lot, and I switch back to the security feed, watching the empty garage where she was just minutes ago. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking in front of me like a challenge.
I could do more.
I have full access now. Her phone is an extension of me if I want it to be. A direct line into her world, her thoughts, her private moments.
I could go through her messages. See who she talks to, what she says when she's not filteringherself for work.
I could go through her photos.
See how she captures the world around her. What moments she considers worth preserving.
I take a slow breath, fingers curling into a fist, the tension traveling up my arm.
I don't do it.
Not because I shouldn't—I already shouldn't be doing any of this.
But because if I start now, I don't know if I'll stop. And that edge I'm standing on feels dangerously unstable.
I rub a hand down my face, the stubble rough against my palm, shifting back to the GPS feed, watching as her location settles at home. She's inside now, probably kicking off her shoes, doing whatever it is she does when she's alone. The thought sends a jolt of inappropriate curiosity through me.
Her phone lights up with a new message. The notification appears on my screen instantly.
Evan
Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.
I scoff, shaking my head. Seven words. That's all she's worth to him.
He doesn't ask how her night was. Doesn't ask if she got home okay. Doesn't give a shit about anything beyond his own convenience.
