Or dangerous.
My heart pounds as I pull a bobby pin from my hair. Years of locking myself out of cheap apartments taught me this particular skill. I bend the pin, insert it into the lock, and start feeling for the pins. Gray's shower still runs in the background, the rush of water covering the soft clicks as I work.
One pin. Two. Three.
The padlock springs open.
I glance over my shoulder—still clear—and slip inside, easing the door closed behind me.
The office is sparse and military-neat. A desk with a closed laptop. File cabinets along one wall. A corkboard covered with papers. A gun safe in the corner that makes my stomach clench.
I move to the desk first, trying drawers. Locked. Of course.
The corkboard draws my attention next, and what I see there freezes the blood in my veins.
Photos. Dozens of them. All of me.
Me leaving the diner, exhaustion written in the slump of my shoulders. Me unlocking my cabin door, keys clutched between my fingers like a weapon. Me reading on my tiny porch. Me through my bedroom window, changing shirts, my back to the camera but clearly undressed.
Each photo is dated and annotated in precise handwriting.
Subject works 6hr shift. Defensive posture, checking surroundings frequently.
Subject returns to cabin at 23:17. Security remains inadequate.
Subject appears to have nightmares. Lights on at 03:22.
My hands shake as I examine a map pinned beside the photos, marked with red dots—everywhere I've lived in the past six months. Beside it, a file folder labeled "MONROE, B.M."
I open it with trembling fingers. Inside are printouts of the bounty notice, court documents showing the clerical error, and—most disturbing—detailed notes on my daily routines from towns I left months ago.
This isn't protection. This is obsession.
A stack of papers on the desk catches my eye. I rifle through them—court filings, emails to law enforcement officials, all dated within the past three days. He wasn't lying about trying to clear my name. But the extent of this surveillance...
The shower shuts off.
I should put everything back. Leave. Pretend I never saw this. But my feet won't move, shock rooting me to the spot.
The door swings open.
Gray stands there, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders. His expression darkens when he sees me, eyes flicking to the open file in my hands, the exposed photos on his board.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" His voice is dangerously soft.
I hold up one of the photos—me, asleep on my porch chair, completely vulnerable. "What the fuck is this?"
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. I back up until my ass hits the desk.
"I told you I was watching you."
"Watching? This is stalking!" I throw the photo at him. It flutters uselessly to the floor between us. "You've been documenting my every move like—like I'm an animal you're hunting!"
"I was protecting you."
"By photographing me through my bedroom window?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I never took photos of you undressed. Check the dates and times if you don't believe me."
