27. Anonymous

27

ANONYMOUS

H ow do you convince a person they’ve bitten off more than they can chew? That really, more than anything, they need a vacation? Turns out, you can’t. You’ve just got to hope fate takes its course and things work themselves out.

It this case, I suppose they have, because she’s on a red-eye to Heathrow and I’m here. In her apartment that feels like it should be my home too, but, well, maybe in time. She just has to see the light, and that’s fine, because I’m nothing if not an optimist.

The apartment’s quiet, almost too quiet. I let myself in, careful not to leave a trace. I know this place. I’ve been here before. Once. But that was days ago, and I need a refresher.

Her medicine cabinet? A bust. A few vitamins, a bottle of lotion. I’m sure that’s what everyone keeps in theirs—boring. No painkillers, no hidden bottles of Xanax. Not that I thought she was the type.

I move on.

The kitchen’s sparse—no surprise there. No secret junk food stash. No half-empty wine bottles in the fridge. It’s not like I’m trying to find some big secret, or that I’m wondering what she does to cope. I don’t have to. I know.

The bed’s unmade, but that’s just Charlotte. I’m not expecting a nightstand full of love letters or some kind of dramatic evidence of a broken heart.

Her closet’s bigger than I expected. Not that I’m judging. She works hard for this, no doubt. A flight attendant. Must be nice. All those fancy trips. All those nice clothes. Duty free. Too many shoes to count. Louboutins. Manolos. A couple of pieces that cost more than I’d spend on a week’s worth of groceries.

I touch a jacket. Soft, like the kind of thing you never really need but wear to show off. I make sure nothing’s out of place, then move on.

I can see everything from here, and there’s not a damn thing worth looking at. No secrets hidden away in drawers. No locked boxes. Just her life, sprawled out in front of me, like some half-finished puzzle I’ll never quite get.

But, hell, that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m not interested in her wardrobe or her spotless bathroom. No. I’m after something else.

I make my way to the desk, slow and deliberate. There’s nothing personal about it. It’s all business. A laptop, a couple of files. The usual.

I open the computer, looking for something. Maybe an email that says too much. Maybe a clue. Something to tell me who she really is. But it’s all clean. Too clean. No dirty little secrets tucked away.

Her life? Boring.

I move past it. Step into the living room.

I already know I don’t have to worry about a dog or cat. Not even a fish. Charlotte’s not very good at taking care of herself; the last thing she needs is to be responsible for anything. Plus, she’s always gone, which is lucky because the last thing I need is for her to walk in and surprise the both of us. She’ll be back soon, but not before I’m long gone.

I reach into my bag, pulling out the cameras. Four of them. I set them up with careful precision, every movement measured. No room for error. One in the corner by the window, one near the door, one facing the couch. And the last one? Hidden inside a decorative vase.

Once they’re in place, I set up the feeds. I can see everything.

Everything.

And then I sit down, the weight of what I’m about to do settling in. It’s not about her secrets. It’s not about finding some skeleton in her closet. It’s about the quiet thrill of watching.

I click through the feeds, one by one, watching her apartment come to life on my phone. The hum of the lights. The soft creak of the floorboards. It’s all there, just waiting for her.

I sit back in the chair, a little too comfortable now, as if I’m meant to be here. Not in some invasive, shadowy way, but as though I’m simply part of her world.

I’m not worried about getting caught or what she’ll do if she finds out.

It’s not about that.

It’s about being here. Right now.

Watching. Keeping track.

Because someone has to look out for Charlotte. Someone has to be there to make sure everything stays on the up and up. She can’t do it herself.

And, really, if I wasn’t here, who would?

It’s truly for her own good. Though I doubt she’d agree.