I stare down at the stain with the dead-eyed calm of a man clinging to the last thread of order in his life. This shirt is going straight in the wash the second I escape her orbit.
Does she not believe in napkins? Soap? Basic post-meal hygiene?
“Something that doesn’t require you in the kitchen,” I say tightly. “Do me a favour—go sit somewhere. Anywhere. Just try not to cause any more chaos. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“Roger that,” she replies with a salute, like we’re in some sitcom about espionage and not neck-deep in lethal territory.
She still thinks this is a game.
But she won’t for long. Once I show her what we’re actually dealing with—what Manticore’s capable of—maybe she’ll start treating this with the seriousness it deserves.
Maybe.
17
Nell
This house is something else entirely—like it was designed to keep secrets. I could wander these winding halls for hours and still miss half of it.
Boomerang’s curled up in front of the fireplace, purring like he’s paid rent. I leave him to his nap; he’s better at lounging than I am. Twiddling my thumbs has never been my strong suit, so I go looking for… something. I don’t even know what. Just a clue. A crack in the perfect surface of stalker boy’s life.
His room was a bust earlier—besides the hoodie, which fits like a mitten, it’s practically made for me. I might hang onto it. Generous of me, really, considering the absurd number he had crammed in his wardrobe. He’ll survive without this one.
I glance down the corridor, catching the faint whistle from the kitchen. He’s still distracted.
Perfect.
Slipping through the only door I haven’t explored yet—excluding the Fort Knox–level lockdown of his office—I cross the threshold and freeze.
I wasn’t expectingthis.
It’s not just a room—it’s a shrine.
Shelves sag under the weight of old photos and dust-heavy boxes. A faded cardigan hangs limply from the corner of a chair. Teddies, keepsakes, tiny tokens stamped with I love you. The air itself feels thick, like it hasn’t moved in years.
Someone lived in this space. Someone he cared about deeply.
I swipe dust from a frame, and the image startles me. It’s him—stalker boy—smiling, those full lips pulled up revealing perfectly straight teeth. And beside him, a girl. Beautiful in that effortless, sunny kind of way. Sandy hair, bronzed skin, teeth so white they seem to glow. Her smile bursts from the frame, too bright for the shadows clinging to the walls.
But this room… it doesn’t echo joy. It breathes grief.
There are dozens of photos. Too many to study, but enough to tell the story. They were close. Lovers, maybe. Something real. Something that still matters—enough to keep her sealed away like this, untouched and unmoved.
I wonder what happened to her.
This room doesn’t belong to the rest of the house.
He told me he’s a clean freak—not in those exact words, but the message was clear. Everything in his home is pristine, controlled, curated.
Except this.
The dust here is undisturbed, layered thick across shelves and frames. Even the air smells still, like it’s been unvisited for years. Untouched by anything living.
He doesn’t come in here. That much is obvious.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
His voice slices through the air—low, controlled, but sharp enough to stop me cold. Like a kid caught somewhere they weren’t supposed to be.
