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Then we keep looking.
Almost a year ago, “Mr. Cameron” made himself known to me in an obscure version of a pissing match. I couldn’t find anything to go off of—the paper trail I used to chase Melody didn’t even pan out that well, leaving me with another dead end.
It’s infuriating—but Bill and I ultimately concluded last week, when I hired him, that whoever Mr. Cameron is needs to be a priority. There was one lead almost immediate: court documents filed in a district court in Manhattan with Melody’s name on them. But it was another dead end. Ninety percent of the filings were redacted from the public.
The next step might be bribing a court official to release a name to us. But that could have the reverse effect and throw Mr. Cameron onto our trail. I don’t know how well connected he is, and tipping him off would be detrimental. Especially since he seems to be out of the picture.
Bill
Cameron could be a fake last name.
I huff.
Yeah, right. I knew her. She couldn’t have gotten a job at CPU with a fake name.
The issue we’ve been running into is that there are a million Melody Camerons. And even more married couples with the same last name. He’s been looking into getting records from Crown Point University, but they’ve been stonewalling him.
She doesn’t know she has work history there, as far as I can tell. But I remember Professor Cameron clear as day.
Bill
A lot of things can be hedged… I’ll check into the possibility.
Fuck. I don’t even know what that would look like. Fake social security card? Or fake birth certificate? Fingerprints logged under the false name, a realistic history to fool a background check.
Never in a million years would I think Melody capable of such a thing, and so I set that notion aside. Then again, I didn’t think I’d be adept at breaking and entering, but here we are.
I leave the main living space and head into Melody’s room. When I checked in earlier, she was snoring lightly. Now, she’s splayed out on her stomach with one knee hitched up, her lips parted and her breathing deep.
I lock us in and step toward her bed. From my pocket I produce a tube of red lipstick, which I nestle in her makeup bag with the rest. The little spy camera comes next. I kneel on the counter to reach the ceiling fan in the bathroom, carefully removing the cover to slip it in. I use my phone to check the angle, then replace the plastic.
Those steps are repeated in Melody’s bedroom, although I settle for the grate in the ceiling that connects to the central air. And I manage to reach it without making too much noise.
I get a perfect view of her bed, the lens fish-eyed enough to allow me to see who enters her room and the doors to her closet.
She makes a noise, and I slip my phone into my pocket.
This is what I really came for.
Her.
I wonder if she’s noticed her panties are missing? If she did her laundry and wondered where her favorite pair went? They might not have been her favorite. She might not give a shit at all about clothes.
She used to dress in a way to conceal all her curves. She used to stand at the front of a classroom and command respect with her voice, but she lost half her students on her style of dress. Although, to a degree, I got it. She couldn’t bare her chest to them, that would just cause her to lose the other half’s respect.
And she still managed to ensnare me.
It was the lipstick. And the way her tongue flicked out before she read a passage. The black slacks that clung to her hips and ass.
The first time I propositioned her, she slapped me. And then, later, I was captivated by the sweet noises she made when my head was buried between her legs.
I shove that memory away.
None of that made her stay.
“I will figure out the mystery of you,” I promise.
I stare at her until I can’t take it anymore. My dick is so hard it hurts, and I undo the button and zipper on my jeans with quick movements. It springs free. I let out a sigh and palm it, sliding my hand up and over the tip before squeezing on the way down. Her ass is perfect. In the low light, I imagine I can just see the glistening wetness of her pussy. It’s only shielded by a thin strip of fabric.
