Yes, Mick might fire me. But can he really argue if I blame it on a period so horrific I need bed rest, chocolate, and solitude? Doubtful. It’s worth it. This is the most alive I’ve felt in months.
I’m practically roaring ‘This Is Me’ in the shower, steam curling around me like victory smoke, when my phone starts buzzing.
Now, if my phone buzzes this early it’s usually one of two things—a notification from my grocery order, lovingly telling me all the decent brands have been substituted for knock-offs… or Adam.
I haven’t ordered anything.
Dread pools in my stomach.
Still dripping, I snatch the phone from the counter—instantly regretting it.
Messages flood in like a tidal wave.
Threats. Apologies. Insults. More threats. A few pathetic ‘I miss you’ lines buried between them like candy in poison.
A storm of desperation. Probably sent during a signal blackout and now crashing through all at once.
And just like that, the fire in me flickers.
Not out. But wary.
Because Adam may be a ghost of my past—but today, I’m the one doing the haunting.
But either way the words hurt.
Bitch… Worthless cunt… Pathetic excuse of a human.
Each worse than the last.
Just knowing that this isn’t going to end anytime soon is gut wrenching. But not responding is my safest bet—don’t engage and hope he goes away. Like a wasp.
But then I remember I have a purpose today.
Today I’m hunting the hunter.
My pathetic attempt at sounding ill on the phone to Mick doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Little convenient that you’re ill the morning after you went out last night, isn’t it?”
I offer him no response, just silence.
“I’m not going to keep standing for this Nell. This is your last chance. You should really take your job more seriously than this.”
I’m humming along, half-listening to Mick ramble through his usual nonsense, but my attention’s nailed to my laptop. Cameron Reed. Still elusive. Still frustratingly low on digital crumbs.
At some point Mick hangs up, but I barely notice—my brain’s two steps ahead.
Operation Stakeout is officially underway.
The plan’s simple; hover near Cameron’s house, scope the area, and if the universe is kind, gain entry. Legally-ish.
I’ve studied the local broadband providers, narrowed it down to two. It’s a coin flip, but if it lands my way, I’ve got just enough credibility to bluff a visit.
I’ve already whipped up a fake lanyard, complete with my very serious face and a glossy title; Nell, Technical Engineer for NimbusNet. Far cry from Nell in admin. Today, I’m someone else entirely.
I print the official-sounding letter I drafted—detailing vague broadband issues in the area and the urgent need to check household routers. Total fiction. But it looks convincing enough.
Smart blouse. Tailored trousers. Shoes I only wear when trying to intimidate printers into working. Hair pulled back into a tight bun.
