Page 164 of To Desire A Devil

According to the clock on the dash, it’s exactly one a.m. She’ll be getting ready for bed.

I pull out my phone, open the surveillance app and log into the feed streaming directly from her bedroom. I have cameras in her small kitchen diner and one in her bedroom. Not her bathroom—the girl needs some semblance of privacy. But right now I’m kicking myself for that because that’s where she’s gone and I can see the tell-tale steam from the shower leaking into the master.

She moved into this building because my presence in her last building became too much. I felt guilty about that, so when I saw her meet with the realtor about this place, I bought it.

Then I had cameras installed so I could still watch without making her feel afraid.

That being said, I’ve been watching her—andonlyher—for three years now. Usually, I’ve gotten bored by now and moved onto the next. But this one’s different. While I know her routines and her habits, she still keeps me on my toes.

I get the soothing calmness of knowing where she is at any given time, but there’s something about the way she moves and the habits she follows that excites me. And knowing all of it with the intimacy one usually has with a lover keeps mehooked.

I know which side of the bed she sleeps on, and that she has two pillows which she re-arranges every night.

I know she has two vibrators but no batteries.

I know she skips breakfast then picks at fruit and crackers all day.

I know she watches the same movie,What Maisie Knew, over and over, even though she sobs every time.

I know she does laundry on a Monday and cleans her apartment on a Friday.

There’s a lot I know.

But what keeps me coming back is that there’s a lot Idon’tknow.

I know she doesn’t have friends outside of work, but I don’t knowwhy.

I know she uses an alias in her social media accounts, but I don’t knowwhy.

I know she’s a natural—stunning—blond who dyes her hair and eyebrows dark with an at-home kit every six weeks, but I don’t knowwhy.

But I’ve been in this game a long time and I can sense when someone’s running.

Parts of her are entirely, comfortingly predictable, while other parts of her are a mystery, and I won’t stop stalking her until I have the answers.

Even then… I probably won’t stop.

She emerges from the bathroom wearing only a towel. I enjoy the sight of her—her pale, freckled skin glistening with drops of water, cat-like indigo eyes and that rebellious silver nose ring. And the curves she’s unable to hide in the dresses she wears every evening.

But the fact she’s a hot little thing is irrelevant, really. I don’t do this because of some unhinged sexual desire. I do it because it makes me feel safe.

Watching means I’m not the one it’s happening to.

I don’t need a shrink to tell me why this is a compulsion. Infact, it’s more than a compulsion. It’s a need—a dependency. It’s oxygen.

Realizing this, as I often do at one o’clock in the morning from beneath the shadow of a London plane, a humourless laugh escapes me.

Because if Hallie Mitchell ever discovers that the capo of Philadelphia and Jersey has spent three years watching her sleep from the street below, she might run again.

And me?

I don't think I'd survive it.

to be continued…