My eyes bounce from screen to screen, but I canât find Hans. And I canât hear anything, so I donât know if heâs still in the house.
I shouldâve told him my front door is unlocked.
Not that he needs to go through my house; he can just go around it to get to the body.
I reach over with my right hand and pull on one of the little hairs on my left forearm. Then I make a face when it hurts.
Okay, so I can still feel things. Then why am I not stressing the fuck out about killing someone?
Iâm almost certain the man I accidentally shot with an arrow is dead. And Iâm almost certain I should be having a meltdown. Questioning my morality. Begging forgiveness from a god above. But Iâm not.
And, well, he shouldnât have been there.
I canât think of a single innocent reason why a man could be sprinting for me, through my backyard, in the dark.
A shiver skitters up my arms.
Iâve never been one for scary movies. And that momentâthe light flicking on and revealing himâis going to wake me up at night.
I wrap my arms around myselfâthis room is shockingly coldâand scan the screens again for Hans.
Nothing.
He shouldâve crossed the street by now.
My attention snags on a mostly black screen.
There.
Itâs hard to make out dark movement on a dark background, but it looks likeâI lean closer to the screen, causing the edge of the counter to dig into my stomach. Hans is running. Through his backyard and into the woods. Literally in the opposite direction of my house.
âWhat the hell?â
He disappears.
I look around at the other screens, trying to find him again.
Hans isnât leaving. He wouldnât bring me down here, then load himself up with weapons just to run away into the forest.
Pretty sure.
Palms on the counter, I push myself up, then cross over to the main door.
One of the screens shows the empty basement beyond the door, so I know no one is lurking there, but I need to knowâ¦
I grab the lever handle and depress it.
It moves, and I can hear the heavy sound of the locks disengaging.
Not locked in.
I pull the door open just a few inches, then shut it, and the locks do their automatic thing again.
âOkay.â I blow out a breath. âTrust the process.â
Keeping an eye on the monitors, I cross to the back of the room and open the first door on the back wall. The closet Hans got his clothes from.
The shelves are lined with stacks of clothing. All in shades of black and gray.
I grab a black hooded sweatshirt. Hans doesnât have much body fat, but heâs tall and built, so when I pull the garment on, itâs spacious enough for my chubby frame. Itâs also so long itâs the same length as my shorts.
I snag a pair of socks and stuff them in the hoodie pocket, then shut the closet.
I keep glancing at the monitors, but since Iâm already up, I canât stop myself from checking the other doors.
The second door reveals a closet full of duffel bags and boxes of electronics.
The third door reveals a closet full of nonperishable food. Mostly bland-looking things, packs of stuff Iâve seen in camping stores. But thereâs also a half-full case of Skittles, the bright-colored packaging jarring next to everything else.
I take a pack.
Moving to the last door, I open it and feel that chill roll across my skin again.
Behind the fourth door is another door. A heavy metal one, just like the one we came through to get in here. But this one is leading the other way. Toward the backyard. Where nothing else should be.
I slam the closet door shut and hurry back to the chair.
The wheels slide around a little bit as I pull the oversized socks onto my feet.
A handful of the views on-screen are of the dilapidated house at the end of our little cul-de-sac, but I donât spend time looking at those feeds. I donât know why he has cameras on that place, but heâs not going there. Heâs going to my house.
My house, which is featured in the majority of the camera angles.
I reach up and touch the screen that shows my large living room windows.
Since itâs dark outside and lights are on inside my house, itâs easy to see straight inside. I can see my couch, part of my work desk, and part of the opening that leads into my kitchen.
Hans has sat right hereâI grip the chair armrestsâand heâs looked right into my home.
Heat swirls in my belly.
My reaction to Hans has always been more.
Iâve been more interested in him than I should be.
Iâve focused on him. Wondered about him. Fantasized about him. Thought about stripping down in my bedroom window just for the hope that he might see me. And want me.
I never did it, but I wanted to.
And this⦠Him watching me. Or whatever this is. I know itâs not right.
And I know itâs not right for me to feel so fucking good about it.
But I donât really feel like fighting it.
I know who I am. And Iâm a lot.
My scattered attention span. My attempts at baking that I know are nowhere near as good as my momâs. My ultra-curvy body that I have no intention of changing.
All my relationships have been surface only. Fun while they lasted but nothing special.
My parents raised me to have good self-esteem. And I mostly do. But a part of me has just assumed Iâd be one of those single forever women. And I was okay with that. I accepted it.
I look around at the other screens, wondering if he can see into my bedroom.
My core muscles tighten just thinking about it.
Could he see me touching myself?
Would he have sat here, gripping that big dick of his, jerking off while he watched?
My eyes bounce around as I look for my bedroom window, but I donât see a good view of it.
I move my attention back to my living room and yelp.
Because Hans is there.
Inside my house.