5. Layla

5

LAYLA

I wake up to the soft but incessant beep of a security panel.

Groaning, I roll out of bed and rub my swollen, sleep-deprived eyes.

I spent hours last night deactivating every damn electronic device I could find and covering camera lenses with sticky notes, nearly breaking an ankle and stubbing two toes as I balanced on chairs and tables to do it.

The moment I was satisfied I got them all and changed the code to the front door and all other codes I located, I crawled into bed, resolved to report this to the police in the morning.

But the beep.

I slide my hands down my face.

There's a fucking survivor.

Grumbling, I throw an oversized cardigan over my white tank and sleep shorts, tying up my hair while I pad down the stairs and into the entryway, glaring at the blinking green lights next to the door.

"I thought I killed you," I mutter, tapping the screen to shut it down. "Die, Satan. "

The light goes out, and the screen goes black without argument.

"Good. Now stay that way."

I'm in desperate need of coffee on a good day, which makes this morning an absolute emergency. But as I'm filling my carafe in the kitchen, the system springs back to life, its lights winking at me like tiny, mocking, beeping eyes.

"Seriously?"

Setting the carafe on the counter, I move to stab at the panel again. After a few more curses, threats, and disengage codes, it shuts down again.

Satisfied, I dress in gray sweats and leave for my morning jog. Staying in routine is the key to not panicking. Praying I'll be able to leave my home, so electronically invaded, is instinct.

In the event I can leave, I planned on collecting as much of the gadgets as I could, in pieces or whole, and dumping them at the police station as evidence.

Evidence of … what? My mind continues to needle at me as I run down the shores of the peninsula and back. Does this qualify as stalking? Harassment? What even is this? Definitely an invasion of privacy.

When I get back, out of breath and my hands on my knees, I find the security system active yet again.

But I'm outside, not locked in. I can escape. If I contact the authorities, maybe I can make sense of the madness.

But this is my home . Everything I have, sequestered into a lonely lighthouse cottage my unknown father barely furnished.

And what's stopping my electronic intruder from taking down everything in the time it takes me to drive into town and file a report as quickly as they put it up?

I don't have friends. No one can protect the property or me .

"Shit," I mumble, then climb up my porch steps and crack open the front door, ensuring I'm alone.

Throughout the day, the pattern continues. I disable the system, and it reactivates itself. I do it three more times before I resort to a baseball bat, which after my first swing sets off such a raging set of alarm bells that I scream along with it until I disable it by reactivating the damned security system until it happily blinks green again.

I'm so busy fighting the type of technology I used to love that the day flies, and by evening, I'm half convinced my house is haunted.

I think about the mysterious benefactor behind all this. It's like having a secret admirer, but instead of flowers and chocolates, I get gadgets and surveillance.

"Romantic," I say to the empty room, my voice thick with sarcasm.

Well, joke's on them—I've named the control panel Bob. And Bob's about to have a very tough time with me because he's about to die.

Bob wins.

Tamper-proof hardware, encrypted locks on devices, reinforced mountings, backup power sources, and self-healing technology all prevented me from sending Bob to hell where he belongs.

I'm gasping for breath, my hair plastered to my face and body covered in sweat. A ratty gray sports bra and my jogging pants are still on, but I must have taken off my shirt at some point during the intense stand-off .

I've yanked off the neon pink sticky note from one of the cameras mounted to the left of the fireplace, clambering down the ladder and positioning myself in the middle of its lens.

And I'm currently giving it the finger while mightily waving around the bat with my other hand.

"I know you're in there!" I yell. "What's your game, huh? What the hell do you want?"

I get a steady green light in response.

"I used to like the color green," I seethe. "It's calming, means nature is bountiful, leprechauns love to wear it, and most people see it as a new beginning. But because of you, I hate it! Turn it off!"

I volley the bat at the camera, missing it by inches.

" Aagh! " I fist my hands in frustration, storming around in a useless circle.

Then my chin snaps up. I squint at the cold, black lens through long tendrils of tangled hair. "Dawson, is that you? Is this your idea of intimidation? Are you getting your kicks from watching me now?"

"Comparing me to that handsy bastard? Layla, I've killed men for less."

I suck in a breath so suddenly, I almost choke on it.

A voice. An actual response.

It's distorted, altered to be unrecognizable and coming across as cryptic, unnerving, and definitely not Dawson.

Mystery Man. The name comes unbidden into my mind, the sound of Dawson choking, the easy gait as he left our offices without a care in the world despite leveling a gun at my cubicle's lamp and death threats at my supervisor.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, backing up a step. "What do you want from me?"

"What do I want? To keep you breathing. As for your name, I know everything about you, Layla Verona. Everything. "

I scoff, annoyed when my voice shakes, and my heart reaches for my throat. "So you're a stalker with a tech fetish."

With a surge of annoyance, I snatch up the baseball bat and hurl it again, this time with a lot more accuracy. It clangs off the circular camera, cracking its lens, but not much else.

I huff in disappointment.

The voice chuckles, a sound that sends tremors through my chest.

"Calm down, Wraithling. Wouldn't want you hurting yourself."

"Wraithling?" I echo, my voice laced with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. "That's a new one. Who are you?"

The voice seems to sigh, a static-filled sound that fills the room. "You're in danger, Layla. There are worse things than cameras watching over you. Trust me."

A shudder ripples through me at the repeated mention of my name, stated so easily, it's almost personal.

"Isn't it obvious?" The voice feels closer now, almost intimate, even though it comes from an electronic eye in the corner of the room. "You're not just precious. You're vital. And what's vital to me, I protect ... or destroy. I haven't decided which yet. "

The words send a forbidden thrill through me, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. "You sound like a predator, not a protector."

The voice chuckles, a sound that's terrifying and strangely compelling. "Maybe I'm a bit of both."

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling exposed now that I'm not storming around my home with a vendetta. "If you're really here to defend me, then show yourself. Stop hiding behind your gadgets."

There's a pause, and I can almost picture him pondering the idea .

"Patience, Wraithling. When I finally reveal myself to you, it won't be through a camera. It'll be with my hands around your throat, deciding whether to end you or claim you. Until then, sweet dreams."

The speaker falls silent, and I'm left standing in the wreckage of my once peaceful home.