“Fuck Mick.” I say it without hesitation. “Cover for me?”
My job’s already half dead. Darcy’s life matters more. And honestly? If this works—maybe I’ve got a future in something darker. FBI. Private investigations. Something with purpose. And it will be better pay than Mick’s misery factory.
“Be careful, Nell.”
Me? Be careful?
Does she understand her stalker might try totake hertonight?
“Love you,” I say quickly.
“Love you,” she echoes, both of us breathing into the same fear—and then she’s gone.
But she’ll be safe for now. I’ll keep a close eye on stalker boy, and the minute he leaves the house with his kit, I’ll be hot on his heels.
No one tries to kidnap my girl and gets away with it. He’s fucked with the wrong bitches.
I don’t even bother calling in sick.
At this point, I’ll just cross my fingers my desk hasn’t been cleared by the time I eventually roll back in. Assuming, of course, I haven’t torpedoed my entire career by kidnapping stalker boy.
Which, let’s be honest, might make returning to the office a little awkward. Maybe I can convince him to cover my rent.
Kidding.
Sort of.
One thing at a time.
Boomerang looks thoroughly unimpressed that I’m still here. For all his affection, he adores having the place to himself during the day, basking in sunbeams like he pays the bills. Now I’ve wrecked his routine and he’s not subtle about it.
He throws me a sideways glare as I drag the bed into the corner and start shifting furniture to make space for our incoming guest.
It’s a look that says, you’ve completely lost it, and I will not be involved in your crimes.
Honestly, fair.
Thank God number ten’s vacant right now.
Otherwise, I’d have no way to explain the symphony of banging and dragging echoing through the floorboards.
Once I’ve carved out a semblance of space—barely enough for movement, let alone drama—I set the chair dead-centre. One of those cold metal kitchen ones, heavy and unwelcoming.
Perfect.
I step back to admire the scene; clutter pushed to the edges, shadows pooled in the corners, the kind of setup that screams purpose without ever saying a word.
An hour and a half in, and I’m already ahead of the game.
For someone improvising a miniature interrogation room in her own flat, I’m doing disturbingly well.
I slump into the sofa, tea in hand, just taking a breath—but instinct kicks in. I check the camera feed. His bag’s gone. Gun too. A motion alert popped up half an hour ago.
My pulse jumps. No—surely I haven’t missed my window. He wouldn’t grab her in broad daylight, would he?
Shit.
I rewind, volume cranked to full, hunting for the last glimpse of him. Anything that proves I haven’t royally screwed this up.
