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When it doesn’t seem like he’s going to explain any more, I sigh and prod a little. “Victor, why are you cleaning my room?”
“Because I’m tired of looking at it. It’s always been a mess, but this is too much.”
He steps over a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and for a second, I worry he’s going to grab those and throw them away too. Then the full meaning of his words hits me, and I sit up straighter.
“Wait,” I blurt. “What do you mean you’re tired of looking at it?”
Malice has barged his way into my apartment twice now, but Victor’s never been here before.
At least… I didn’t think he had.
Which can only mean that somehow, he’s been watching me while I’m here, not just when I’m out and about.
I already knew he and his brothers were stalking me, but something about the idea of Victor watching me in my home freaks me out. My heart is racing as I stare at him, waiting for him to say something. When he doesn’t, I snap a little.
“You’ve been spying on me, haven’t you?” I demand, my voice turning thready.
He just looks over at me, his blue eyes cool and impassive. But he doesn’t deny it, and that’s all the confirmation I need. My stomach twists, although somehow, this new revelation doesn’t surprise me as much as it probably should. If anything, it explains a lot about how these guys seem to know so much about me. Like how Malice knew where to find me on Thursday night, to say the least.
That gets me out of bed, and I sniffle, wiping my nose as I glare at Victor.
“What is it? Cameras? You’re the one who’s good with computers, right? Malice said you could hack into security footage to find that guy who came after me the other night. You clearly know a lot about surveillance. So show me where they are.”
We stare at each other for a long moment in a silent standoff. Then he lifts one shoulder in a half shrug.
“Fine.” He walks over to the window and points to a spot along the outer edge of the sill. “There’s one here.” Then he steps out into the hall, gesturing to a framed art print I’ve got hanging on the wall. “And here.”
From there, we go around the apartment, stopping in every room but the bathroom as he points out cameras and I take them down from the little spaces he tucked them into.
“I should break every single one of these,” I mutter, clenching the tiny cameras in my fists.
“No.” Victor shakes his head. “Don’t do that. They’re expensive.”
He holds out a hand. I hesitate, but then shove the cameras into his palm. He picks up a bag from the couch and starts tucking them away in there, slipping them each into their own little compartment in the bag. I watch him work, worrying my lower lip between my teeth as my mind churns. Part of me can’t believe I got away with getting rid of the cameras so easily, and for a second, I wonder why he agreed to show me where they are at all.
But it hits me in a rush why he’s so nonchalant about it.
Because they’re no longer hiding the fact that they’re stalking me.
Victor is inside my apartment right now, and he got in without a key. Malice was here just a few nights ago, and I saw Ransom on campus on Friday. What do they need cameras for, when they can barge into my life whenever they want?
I sneeze again, and a look of distaste crosses Victor’s face. He hands me a tissue from the box on the beat up coffee table, and I blow my nose into it.
“Throw that away,” he says firmly. “In the actual trash, not on the floor.”
I roll my eyes, but make a show of walking into the kitchen and throwing the tissue into the trash.
He rummages in his bag for a second and then pulls out a spray bottle and a neatly folded cloth. As I watch, he moves around the small space, spraying something from the bottle onto the surfaces in my living room before wiping them down.
The scent of sanitizer tickles my nose, and I tilt my head to one side from where I’m hovering in the bedroom doorway.
“What’s the deal?” I ask him after a moment. “It’s not like I’m a slob, and your blackmail agreement definitely didn’t include housecleaning services. So why do you need my apartment to be so clean?”
Victor stiffens, but he doesn’t answer the question. I notice the fingers of one hand tapping against his thigh, one finger after the other, in a neat row. What’s that about?
Instead of answering any of my questions, he puts the cleaner away and picks up an empty Styrofoam cup from the table, making a face when he reads the side of it. It’s the cup of noodles I ate last night, when I managed to drag myself out of bed to eat something.
“What is this?” he asks.
