21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Kayla

Despite the frightening revelations I made yesterday, I slept well. What does that say about my sanity?

Just like yesterday, my bed was nicely warm when I woke up and smelled like something I couldn't place. Not the fabric softener, though. I checked the bottle yesterday and the two scents have nothing in common. I don't like the implications of my sheets smelling of something I can't identify, so I just ignore it.

Ostriches do it all the time, right? Bury their heads in the sand when there is something they don't want to see? Well, I guess I'm an ostrich today because I'm not thinking about it.

I'm not.

I mean… I would have woken up if he came to my bedroom, wouldn't I? If he was in my bed?! I surely would. But the bed is warm. I am warm. And there's the scent, so manly and sexy and—

Nope. Not thinking about it. I'm an ostrich.

Restless, I eat my usual breakfast, then try to work on some cases. When I open the Grahams' file, I find post-it notes that aren't mine attached to the documents. This time, I don't freak out.

I should. I should be screaming and running away, but I don't. I just take it all in stride. So what if I have a stalker who cleans my house and helps me with my cases and maybe sleeps in my b—

Nope. Still not going there.

The stalker's notes are helpful, though. They hint that aside from the medication prescribed by her psychiatrist, Natalie Grahams is also buying stronger meds on the black market. Plus, she's still drinking, despite visiting AA meetings every week.

If I could prove she's addicted to illegal drugs, I could get her children removed from the household and have them safe in a foster family before their father returns from his oil rig gig and beats them all bloody once again.

My mysterious guardian stalker has proven himself useful again. He has a tidy, no-nonsense handwriting, too. I like men with legible handwriting. When I had to read anything Nick wrote, it felt like translating hieroglyphics.

If this man's goal truly is to win me over, he's…well, he's succeeding.

Not wanting to spend the entire day cooped up in my house—and wondering if the stalker will visit or not—I text Beth. She mentioned wanting to spend some girl time, and I turned her down because having my nails done just isn't my idea of a good time. However, it beats staying at home alone.

We meet up for lunch, and after a generous portion of heavenly delicious ravioli, we head "downtown." In Bluebell Springs, there's not much downtown to speak of, but I let Beth drag me around the few high-end boutiques they have here, even though I rarely shop at such expensive places myself.

I find a beautiful dress. It's ruby-red, ankle-length, with slits on the sides that go all the way up to my hips. That, combined with a neckline plunging almost to my navel, means there's no chance of wearing any kind of underwear under the dress. I love it, and I daresay it looks good on me, but one look at the price tag brings me back to reality.

"Maybe next year," I sigh to myself as I take the dress off in the changing booth. When I have some money saved, I'll be able to treat myself to something nice. As it stands, my current savings would barely cover the repairs of my car, should it break down. And a car is something I need. I don't need this dress, no matter how gorgeous it is.

With my priorities set straight, I return the dress to the rack, scowling at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I hate how responsible I am.

Beth doesn't even glance at the price tags as she carries several items to the checkout. When the cashier announces the eye-watering total, Beth merely grins and swipes her card through the reader. Having a rich fiancé does that to a person, I guess.

We drop her spoils off at her car and then head for a coffee. I order a cheesecake to go with it. I saved so much money by not buying the dress that I can afford to treat myself a little.

In between gossiping about our coworkers, Beth checks her phone. "Now, what did Jeremy send me this time?" she murmurs as she taps on the screen.

I suppress an eye roll. In the few hours we spent together, Jeremy has already sent Beth several memes, a video of a cute kitten, and a picture of roses arranged to spell "I LOVE U." I've never met the man, but I bet he's a hopeless romantic. And hopelessly in love with Beth.

"What the fuck?" she suddenly mutters, scowling at the screen. "Is that Doctor Adams?"

That catches my attention. Cheesecake forgotten, I scoot closer to Beth. "Benjamin Adams? Aaron's father?" I ask. One look at the video playing on her phone answers the question. It's indeed Dr. Arrogant, with Aaron, but what is he doing?

"She's about to get torn apart by a monster," the Adams in the video says. There are even captions running at the bottom of the video. "The basement monster. You know, the same one that lives in our basement."

An incredibly gory movie is playing on the TV, and for some messed-up reason, Adams is forcing his son to watch while telling him that if he isn't quiet, the monster in the basement will eat him. Enraged, I stare at the screen, tears welling in my eyes when Benjamin Adams drags Aaron to the basement and forces him inside.

"Did he just lock his son in the basement?" Beth asks, her face pale.

"After telling him there's a monster there that's going to eat him," I add through my gritted teeth. Fuck, I knew there was something wrong with that family, but I never imagined Adams would be this fucked up. "What the fuck is wrong with that bastard?"

Beth shakes her head. "I…I don't know. Doctor Adams is…well, everyone loves him here. He's—"

"An upstanding citizen, I know," I interrupt her, sneering. "Obviously."

The video changes to show Benjamin Adams having breakfast. Alone. "After spending a night in his comfortable bed," the caption reads, "Benjamin Adams sticks to his routine. He works out, showers, then eats his eggs and bacon. And where is his son?"

There's a pause to let the question sink in before the video shows the locked basement door. "Alone in the basement, without light, food, or water. After his father told him there's a monster that would eat him. Well, there is a monster in that house." The image switches back to Adams, who's now calmly drinking his coffee. "But it doesn't live in the basement."

The video turns black, a big red "SPEAK UP!" sign flashing over the screen before it ends.

"Fuck," Beth mutters.

That's one way to put it. "Where did Jeremy get the video?"

"It's all over social media," Beth answers even as she scrolls through the feed. "Look. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, YouTube. Whoever created the video made sure Adams wouldn't be able to take it down before everyone in town saw it. And everyone is seeing it. Everyone."

I look around, and indeed, several people around us are staring at their phones in disbelief. "They made sure it would spread like an avalanche," I note. "That's fucking brilliant."

"It doesn't help with the case, though," Beth objects. "This video is clearly illegally obtained. It will never stand in court."

She's right, of course, but still… "I don't think that was the main objective," I say after a second's hesitation. "The video tells people to speak up. Maybe now that it's obvious Adams is no ‘upstanding citizen,'" I spit out sarcastically, "there will be witnesses. Someone to testify in court, to confirm that Adams has been abusing Aaron. Plus, his friends in high positions won't help him anymore. No one wants to be associated with a child abuser."

"No kidding. And once media get ahold of this, they won't let it die down."

She's not wrong. By the end of the day, everyone in the country seems to have watched the video. Comfortably seated on my back porch, I sip my tea as I watch Benjamin Adams get shredded on national news.

"I find it abhorrent that no one cares that somebody broke into my house to plant cameras here!" Adams shouts, red in his face. He's in his home office, glaring daggers at the camera. "That's an abominable violation of privacy!"

The reporter interviewing him doesn't move a muscle over his outrage. "Yes, yes," she hums. "Terrible. However, the video shows you mentally abusing your own son. That—"

"The video is fake!" Adams bellows. "It's all fake! Made with AI or some shit like that."

"I would ask you to refrain from vulgarities, Doctor Adams," the reporter admonishes. "And you just said someone broke into your house to plant the recording devices. So is the video fake or has it been recorded in your house?"

Adams opens his mouth, then closes it without saying anything, looking like a comical fish. His face is an alarming shade of red. Perhaps he's going to have a heart attack.

The reporter flashes a victorious smile. "I see. Is it true that you've been under CPS investigation due to suspected abuse? And that you threatened the social worker who tried to interview your son?"

My eyebrows fly up. How do they know about that? Then again, Aaron's therapist was there when Adams threatened me. Did she finally decide to speak up?

"You can't share private information like that! I demand to know who told you this. Was it that Black bitch? It was her, wasn't it? Oh, I will—"

His image abruptly disappears as someone cuts him off. The reporter shakes her head in disbelief, taking a deep breath before turning back to the main camera. "Dear viewers, we apologize for the disturbance during our interview just now. The behavior displayed was unacceptable and does not reflect the standards of professionalism or decency we strive to uphold. We have terminated the interview because we will not tolerate such language on our program. Thank you for your understanding."

Her smile is a little forced as she looks into a different camera. "Next on, we have Cindy Monell's report on abusers hiding among us. They might be all smiles in their daily lives, but what do they turn into when they're home alone with their families? After that, we will dive deeper into the current topic by following the story of Doctor Adam's wife. What caused Cordelia's mental breakdown? Our guest in the studio will be a renowned psychiatrist, Doctor Hershell, who—"

Turning off the news, I put the phone away. I don't need to listen to a renowned psychiatrist dissecting Aaron's mother's mental health on TV, and I certainly don't need to see Cindy's report on abusers.

Aaron will have it tough growing up, having had his family's dirty laundry aired on TV like this, but at least he'll be free from his father's toxic influence. With love and gentle care, I'm sure he'll eventually get better. All thanks to whoever planted cameras inside Adams' house and leaked the footage.

I can't help but wonder, was it my stalker? Is this his way of "helping" me with a case?

And if so, do I mind?

I should. After all, he committed a crime for me. Again. It's not like a little breaking and entering and invasion of privacy compare to murder, but still. I shouldn't be condoning any crimes. And yet, here I am, feeling grateful. I guess I am a terrible human being, after all.

"I don't know if you can hear me," I whisper, feeling a little silly talking to my own empty backyard. "But if you can, and if you did this…thank you."

A chill runs through me as branches rustle in the distance. It's just wind, I tell myself. Nothing but wind. And even if it was something else, I'm suddenly too tired to care. I barely manage to drag myself to bed before sleep takes over.

I laze around the house all Sunday. I sleep in, do some reading, watch some more shit fall on Benjamin Adams' head, then take a nap.

My parents call to check on me. Thankfully, they don't follow the news too closely, so they either haven't heard about Adams or haven't connected the case to me, for which I'm grateful. They're already worried about me living alone, three hundred miles away. I don't need them to worry about the vengeful father of one of my clients coming after me.

It's funny how I don't even consider the stalker a threat anymore.

An hour-long conversation with Amy reveals she's doing better now, finally getting over her guilt about wishing Craig dead. She still struggles with seeing him as the abusive asshole he was, but she's making progress, at least. And she agreed to see the therapist I recommended, so I hope she will continue getting better.

After a whole day of relaxation, Monday storms in with a flurry of news. Aaron has been removed from Benjamin Adams' care. Doctor Singh, Aaron's therapist, testified in court and confirmed that Adams repeatedly abused his son. She claimed Adams threatened not just to have her fired from the hospital but to destroy her entire career if she mentioned her observations to anyone.

Two women, formerly employed as maids in Adams' residence, also spoke up. Both mentioned trying to help Aaron when his father locked him in the basement, and being subsequently fired and blackmailed to keep their mouths shut.

Laurel, to my surprise, handled the case professionally, her former admiration for Adams gone. She even brought a police cruiser along when it came time to extract Aaron, and it was a good thing she did because only their presence stopped Adams from physically assaulting her.

Later, she came over to apologize and also to warn me, because while Adams was mad at her for taking his son away, he still considers me to be the root of all evil. As if I was the one who forced him to abuse his own son. What a jerk.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay at my house for a few days?" Michelle asks for the umpteenth time as I pack my things and get ready to head home. "Look, Adams might not have the reach he had before, but he's desperate now. Desperate and aggressive. And for some reason, he's fixated on you. Well, you and Ethan Bennett."

"Ethan Bennett? Why?"

Michelle sighs. "Somehow, he knows Victoria hired Ethan to get evidence against him. So now he thinks Ethan planted those cameras inside his house and leaked the video. Ethan can take care of himself, but you're a woman who lives alone."

"Do you think Ethan did it?" I ask, ignoring her mention of me living alone.

I don't really live alone, do I? I have a guardian stalker. If he was willing to kill my best friend's abusive ex just to get on my good side, I'm sure he's going to protect me from Benjamin Adams. And if he kills him in the process…well, I won't weep over Benjamin Adams' death.

"Ethan?" Michelle asks incredulously. "Of course not! He's like the most law-abiding person in the entire town! I bet he's never even gotten a parking ticket. He'd never break into someone's house. But listen, Kayla, you shouldn't be alone right now."

Waving my hand dismissively, I grab my purse and a stack of printed case files. "I'll be fine. I don't think Adams would be that stupid to come bother me. If he does, I'll call the police immediately. Don't worry about me, Michelle. I'll be fine. See you tomorrow."

At home, a fresh bouquet of flowers greets me. My stalker is adamant about giving me flowers, and who am I to refuse?

I grin at the box of chocolate on my pillow in my once-again neatly made bedroom. Seriously, this guy would make a fortune running a cleaning service.

How am I supposed to hate him when he does all these things for me?

How am I supposed to be afraid of him when I feel safe knowing someone's watching over me?

How am I supposed to resist him?