She turns around in a slow circle. Looking everywhere at once. Scanning, searching.
For me.
Then… she begins to scream.
Not panic scream, actual, articulate words.
"You motherfucker!" It comes out loud.
People stop, stare, laugh.
"You sick, sadistic, creepy, fucked-up motherfucker! I know you're watching me!"
Well, that was perfect.
Everyone in the vicinity has now labeled her.
Psycho.
She's still screaming.
"You think this isromantic? You think paying some fucking—some yoga bro to recite lines at me like I'm a character in one of my own goddamn stories is?—"
A couple walking past crosses to the other side of the street.
Smart.
"—is what? Proof youunderstandme? Proof youknowme?"
Her voice cracks on that last word, and something hot and visceral tightens in my chest.
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what it means.
"You're a fuckingstalker!" She spins again, arms spread wide, addressing the entire downtown corridor like she's performing for an audience she can't see. "A murderer! A psychopath who gets off on?—"
She stops herself.
She's not stupid enough to saywhatI get off on. Not out loud.
"—on controlling people!" She finishes instead, breathing hard. "On manipulating them into thinking they want things they don't actually want!"
A man in a business suit pauses near the corner, phone already out. Probably deciding whether this constitutes a 911-worthy public disturbance or just another downtown crazy.
I zoom the feed tighter on Scarletta's face.
Her cheeks are flushed. Eyes bright. Chest heaving with each ragged breath.
She'sfurious.
And she'salive.
For the first time in six months of surveillance footage, she looks genuinely, viscerallypresentin her own body instead of performing existence for invisible judges who've already convicted her.
"Idestroyedyour cameras!" Her voice goes shrill on that word. "I deleted everything! I left! Ileft, and you were supposed to—you were supposed to just?—"
Let you go?
