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I folded the note, shoved it under the vase, and marched into the bathroom like distance counted as maturity.

Five minutes later I marched back out and added one more line.

IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS, READ REVIEWS LIKE A NORMAL CREEP.

I shoved it under the vase again and spent the next three hours pretending I wasn’t waiting for paper to move.

I cleaned my sink. Badly, as per usual. I washed three mugs and left two dirty because growth has limits, and apparently, that limit was dirty dishes.

I changed into sleep shorts that were swallowed by my massive sherpa hoodie and plopped down on my sofa. Every few minutes, my eyes dragged themselves to the counter.

The note stayed there. The roses stayed pretty in a wild, homegrown kind of way. The apartment stayed quiet, and I hated every second of it.

By ten, I was angry enough to stop being scared. By ten thirty, I was scared enough to stop being angry. By eleven, I’d made tea I wasn’t going to drink and opened the book to page 243, closed it, and cursed my existence.

At first, I thought the flicker above the bookshelf was dust. Then it moved when I moved. I squinted at the tiny black thing that had caught the lamplight, tucked into the molding where the wall met the ceiling.

I dragged a chair across the room and stood on it with a butter knife in one hand and my phone flashlight in the other. The dot blinked once.

For one second, I went cold all over. Then the cold became heat. Red-hot heat, rage. My hands were as steady as a surgeon’s. I dug the butter knife under the edge and popped the little camera loose.

It was tiny. Expensive looking. Way too advanced for some neighborhood creep.

I held it between two fingers. No wires, so it must be Bluetooth. Was he watching this now?

My heart beat hard and fast. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I climbed down from the chair and set the camera on the counter beside the roses. Then I searched.

Bookcase.

Doorframe.

Kitchen cabinet.

Hall.

Every new one I found made me angrier.

By the time I finished, four tiny cameras sat lined up in front of me like dead bugs. I stared at them, and then I smiled. It felt wrong on my face. “Okay,” I said to the room. “Now I’m mad.”

I grabbed a receipt and wrote in thick black marker.

YOU DO NOT GET TO WATCH ME AND CALL IT PROTECTION.

Then I held it up to the last camera that was still installed, before I grabbed that one too.

“Did you hear me, Murder Boy? You don’t get to turn my life into your personal little reality show because you’re too emotionally constipated to introduce yourself.”

I hated him. Most of all I hated the part of me that still wanted him to answer. The part of me that was thrilled by all this. I’m sick, obviously, but that’s something for a therapist I can’t afford to unpack.

“You wanted my attention?” I said, voice cracking now. “Great. You have it.” I smashed the cameras with a hardcover book. The snap was small but so fucking satisfying.

“Now earn it.”

Silence filled the apartment.

The cameras sat on my counter. Every corner of my home felt wrong. My couch, my books, my ugly mugs, even my “good girls read smut” blanket had become evidence. He had seen all of it.

Correction, he had taken it.