Page 100 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I flip off the camera without pulling my eyes from his phone, where I see the action in real time on the live stream.

The live stream. Of my home.

The live stream of my home.

“Upstairs hallway, guest room. My bedroom.” My distance crumbles, and I look at Hugo in horror. “How many cameras do you have in there, you fucking pervert?”

He’s frozen, his face a mask of anguish. “Rue, no.”

“No?” I thrust the screen in his direction. “Are you telling me you don’t have multiple angles in the room where I sleep? Where I change clothes?”

“I always turn the cameras off.” He takes a step toward me, his eyes wide. “When you undress or come out of the shower or…”

He flushes as he tries not to say it, but I know. I fucking know.

“Masturbate?” I snap. “You’re saying you don’t watch me when I masturbate?”

“Never,” he says through tight lips.

“I don’t believe you,” I hiss. “And what about when I’m asleep, Hugo? What about when I’m singing at the top of my lungs while I cook, or when I’m eating dinner over the sink?” I’m hit with every ridiculous, mundane, embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my home, in this room. “What about when I come home from work and cry because I had a hard day?”

He doesn’t answer, but I see it on his face. He’s seen it. All of it.

“I’m going to…” I sink onto the couch, his phone thunking to the floor as I grip my knife and hang my head between my knees.

When the dizziness passes, I lift my head and ask, “How long?”

He hesitates, and I snap upright. He invaded my life, my secrets, my everything, and he wants to keep this information from me?

“How long?” I demand.

He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says, “Pell installed them when I bought the place. Long before you moved in.”

The confession draws a small, wounded sound from me. I faced down a man with a gun tonight, and I was less petrified than I am right now.

“You’ve been watching me in my home.” I look around the living room like I’m seeing it for the first time. This room was supposed to be my sanctuary, but it was actually his playground.

Like Greg.

Never ever would I have thought Hugo was like Greg.

I feel lightheaded again.

“Do you have any idea how this feels?” I blink, but it doesn’t stop the tear that escapes. “I can’t believe I’m dealing with this again. And from you this time, Hugo.”

My neighbor. My kind, goofy, harmless neighbor. Watching me. Recording me. Betraying m⁠—

“Who?” He becomes Gomez in front of my eyes, calm and focused and lethal.

“Other than you, you mean?” The words claw their way out. “What other man did I stupidly trust?”

“Who is it?” He stalks forward and grips my shoulders. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

His eyes burn into me, the vein in his temple throbbing, and how fucking dare he. As if I can’t take care of myself. As if I haven’t been taking care of myself my whole life.

I jerk away from him and stand.

“Don’t worry. I already did.”