Page 43 of Shared Obsession

Dean’s jaw tightens. “I’ll keep scanning for digital chatter. If they’re dumb enough to use a phone or a computer, I’ll catch it. We’ll cover every angle. If they slip up, we move. Fast.”

I give them a grim smile. “We’ll get her back. No matter what it takes.”

Alex reaches out to squeeze Dean’s shoulder, that rare, encouraging warmth in his eyes. “We’ve come this far. We’re not stopping now.”

Dean manages a shaky smile, determination hardening his voice. “One mistake. That’s all we fucking need. We’ll be ready.”

Dean and I load into the Jeep, city lights flickering as the early morning settles in. Alex revs his bike and peels off at the first intersection, heading downtown to watch Nathan’s office. We’d agreed to split up—cover both targets, double our chances. More eyes, more ground, more hope we’ll catch even a whisper of a lead.

We circle Charles’s office and park down the block, far enough to blend in but close enough for a clear view of every entrance. I keep an eye on the building, jotting down license plates, scanning every face that goes in or out, alert for anything out of place. The city grinds on, oblivious. Dean sits beside me, silent, shoulders tense, lost in thoughts I can only guess at.

After hours of this—watching, waiting, barely breathing—I glance over at him, my hand searching for his shoulder, needing that anchor. “Hey, man, we’re gonna find her,” I murmur and squeeze gently.

He nods, voice rough. “I know. We have to.”

I really look at him. The bruises on his face have faded, but the memory of finding him bleeding out on the kitchen floor still twists in my gut. I realize just how close I came to losing him, and the thought leaves me hollow. If it ever comes down to one of us, let it be me. A world without Dean isn’t one I want to face.

He must feel the weight of my gaze, because he glances over, a tired, crooked smile flickering. “You wanna hear something?”

“Yeah,” I say, genuinely curious.

He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “When I was in the hospital, out cold… I had this dream, or whatever the hell it was. Felt real, man. Like, I was walking through this endless forest, sun everywhere, everything just… easy. And then I saw them—my mom and dad. They looked good. They were just waiting for me in the light, like they’d been there the whole time.”

Dean shakes his head, a disbelieving half-laugh escaping. “I told them about you, about Alex, about Ayla—all the good shit I never got to say when they were alive. I tried to tell them how much you mean to me, how lucky I am to have all of you. I just… I wanted to stay there. I was so fucking tired, Zayn. I wanted to stop hurting.”

His voice gets rougher. “But my dad grabbed my hand—classic Dad move, right?—and said, ‘You gotta go back, son. They need you. You’re not done yet. Fight for them.’ And man, it felt real. Like, I woke up, and I could still hear him, swear to God. I know it sounds nuts, but I think they sent me back. For you. For Alex, for Ayla. For us. You guys are my reason to be here. No question. It sounds crazy.”

I stare at him, letting the moment settle between us. “I don’t think that’s crazy, Dean. I think it’s incredible. And I think it was real in its own way—real enough to matter.” I offer a small, genuine smile, letting him see how much I mean it.

Dean’s always carried the weight of never getting to tell his parents the truth about us before they died. I remember holding him through the worst night of his life, piecing him back together when the grief shattered him. I never left his side—then or now. Being here with him, after almost losing him, I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

My voice cracks as I speak. “Dean, I thought I was going to lose you. I was fucking terrified. The thought of it nearly destroyed me.” A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, raw emotion tightening my throat as I search his eyes, willing him to understand just how much he means to me.

Dean cracks a smile at me, but there’s so much emotion swirling in his eyes—love, relief, fear, and something fiercely grateful. “You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he says, his voice rough with feeling as he nudges my shoulder, the gesture threaded with affection and the unspoken promise that he’s not going anywhere. I let out a shaky breath, the tension in my chest finally loosening as I realize just how much I need him here—how much I’d lose without him. We settle into a quiet hush, the world narrowing down to the simple warmth of his body next to mine. I reach for his hand, our fingers twining together—an unspoken vow, a lifeline anchoring us in this moment, holding onto hope even in the face of everything we’ve lost.

We sit like that for a long moment, letting the comfort and quiet wrap around us. Then, suddenly, my phone buzzes, jolting us both out of the peace. It’s a text from Alex:

I’ve got visual.

The message is short and urgent, and the next line shows a dropped pin indicating his location. My heart kicks into overdrive. I throw his GPS up on the screen, adrenaline flooding my veins as I grab my keys and take off in Alex’s direction—ready for whatever comes next, hope burning fierce and bright inside me.

Alexander

I spot Nathan stepping out of the building, glancing over his shoulder like he knows he’s being watched. I didn’t expect it to be this easy to catch him in the act, but I’m not complaining. He heads around the back, and I fire up my bike, circling the block to keep him in sight without drawing attention. My heart hammers as I pull out behind him in traffic, keeping my distance—close enough not to lose him, far enough not to get burned. Every red light, every turn, I’m on edge, afraid one slip will blow my cover. I follow for what feels like miles, weaving through the city, nerves strung tight. Finally, Nathan pulls up to a house—nothing remarkable, a nice place with a manicured lawn, blending perfectly into the neighborhood, and a long gravel driveway that sets it back from the road. I park down the street, out of sight, and settle in to watch, watching for any sign of movement, every sense on high alert as I wait for Dean and Zayn to catch up. I text them the address and a quick update, adrenaline burning in my veins. This could be the break we’ve been desperate for—and I’m not letting Nathan out of my sight.

Given the time, I’m almost certain this is the spot—just before 8 p.m., the usual hour for the livestreams. Every night, like clockwork, they broadcast a new stream with a different girl; it seems to change every couple of days. Zayn and Dean park the Jeep down the road and walk up to meet me, both keeping their heads down, moving with purpose. The house is almost too perfect—fresh paint, manicured lawn, nothing to mark it as the source of anything so vile.

“You think this is it? It’s really clean. I was expecting something a lot sketchier for something so fucking dirty,” Zayn mutters, scanning the block.

“We’ll know soon enough. If Nathan’s in tonight’s stream, then this is our place. He’s definitely here,” I reply, eyes never leaving the front door.

We wait, nerves coiling tighter with every passing minute. Dean’s cross-legged on the curb with his laptop, but this isn’t like the movies—there’s no instant magic. His fingers fly over the keys, but he keeps swearing under his breath. “Christ, they’re running double firewalls and rotating proxies. The Wi-Fi’s got MAC filtering, too. Give me a sec…” Sweat beads at his hairline as he cycles through VPNs, code streaming by, backtracking and rerouting when another dead end pops up.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. The tension is unbearable. Zayn and I keep our eyes glued to the house, every muscle tight, every shadow a possible threat. I keep checking over my shoulder, pulse pounding. Each time Dean mutters, “Almost there… fuck, come on…” I feel hope and dread twist tighter together in my gut.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Dean lets out a shaky breath. “I’m in. Jesus, that was a bitch.” He pops in a USB drive as the live feed opens at last, his grin wild with adrenaline and relief. “I’m downloading all their fucking files.” I stare at him, shocked and impressed, realizing just how damn lucky we are to have him on our side.

“Dean, is there security camera access?” I try to keep my voice steady, but my nerves are raw. Dean’s fingers blur over the keyboard and, one by one, feeds pop up—grainy footage from every room. Three bedrooms, girls in each, the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room… My breath catches as the last feed loads. My jaw goes slack. “What the fuck,” I whisper, dread and fury mixing in my gut. There’s Ayla, chained by her ankle in the basement, bruised and battered but unmistakably alive. The camera quality is shit, but it doesn’t matter—she’s there. She’s alive. Right fucking there. Relief and rage crash over me in equal measure as I watch her on the screen, and for the first time in weeks, hope flares—sharp and blinding.