I’ve never understood the appeal of paying someone five quid to make something I can do at home for free. What’s the draw—a splash of ethically harvested mocha-vanilla-soul infusion and oat milk kissed by angels? No, thank you.
But routine is routine.
So, I grit my teeth, slide a crumpled note across the counter, and accept my overpriced, lukewarm cup of caffeine conformity like it’s a chore. Because it is.
Even though I’ve been deliberately avoiding any suspicious glances or death stares at the unaware bystanders surrounding me—just like Cam drilled into me—I haven’t seen a thing. Not a flicker of unease. Not a car idling too long at the curb. Not even a stranger holding eye contact a second too long.
Nothing.
Which, in a way, is worse.
Because I know how they operate now. I’ve seen the clips. I’ve read the files. The calm before the storm isn’t calming when you know the storm is trained to be silent. Unseen. Fast. That’show they slip through the cracks—how they vanish girls like Darcy without leaving a single thread behind.
But routine is routine.
Trip one—done.
I make it back to the house with my coffee—now lukewarm and slightly bitter—and a small grocery bag digging into my fingers. Not that I’ll be allowed near the stove. I have a sneaking suspicion that after the milk incident, my kitchen privileges are officially revoked. Cam probably has the spatulas locked up somewhere.
The second house still feels hollow. A skeleton of a home. Furniture exists in the most literal sense—chair, table, sofa—but none of it feels lived in. No photographs, no warmth, no history. Just space disguised as comfort.
I may not be a believer in ghosts, but there’s definitely something creepy about this house, and the quicker I hurry to the safety and warmth of the main house, the less frosty I feel.
Talia’s gone, but Cameron is still here. Through the panes of glass that segment his office from the rest of the space, I catch a glimpse of him mid-call. Laptop open, hand gesturing toward something on-screen. He’s calm, composed, entirely focused.
I envy that.
Because while he’s discussing strategy with military precision, I’m standing here holding a bag of groceries and a coffee I didn’t want, trying to pretend I don’t feel like an exposed nerve—just waiting to be touched in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Boomerang greets me with a banshee-level shriek, flinging himself at the empty food bowl like he’s been starved for days—not that the soft swell of his belly supports that narrative. At least someone’s adjusted to our new life of hiding and overpriced lattes.
He waddles over with the smug entitlement of a cat who knows he has prime real estate. Tail high, pupils wide, a look that says, Yeah, I could get used to this.
Shame, really. He pulled the short straw being stuck with me.
But he’s not going anywhere—not now, not after all of this. He’s coming with me, fur and attitude and all, because let’s be honest; the second this is over, Cameron’s going to boot me out the front door just to preserve what’s left of his sanity.
And Boomerang? He’s my emotional support gremlin.
21
Cam
I should be focusing on the task at hand.
Mission logs. Surveillance feeds. Anything but her.
But my eyes keep drifting, following her movements like I’m waiting for the next minor catastrophe—another shattered glass, another poorly timed decision. She’s a walking storm wrapped in curiosity, and I can’t look away.
Then there’s her phone.
That’s been… revealing.
Not just the texts or the erratic call history—but the browser history. The kind of search results that linger. Explicit, yes—but dark, too. Unexpected; chains, restraints, punishment—entertainment I wouldn’t expect to find on the phone of someone so innocent.
I expected a chaotic mess. Bad decisions wrapped in sarcasm. But I didn’t expect this.
Turns out she’s not just unpredictable—she’s layered. Twisted in ways that echo something I recognise. Maybe even crave.
