Page 117 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“And what do you think she’d say if you told her everything you did for her ‘safety’? Would she be delighted to hear that while she was at work, you sorted her delicate white panties from her delicate red panties to be sure the colors wouldn’t run?”

“I never…” I fold my arms and look away. “I never did things like that, and I sure as hell never watched anything private.”

Felicity’s quiet for a moment.

“What’s her favorite bedtime snack? When she’s restless?”

“Animal cookies.” Now might not be the time to bring up how many boxes I’ve bought for her.

“And did she tell you this? At the mailboxes, maybe?”

“You know she didn’t.”

“Because…?”

“Because it never came up!”

“Or she didn’t want you to know that she hoovers a box a night when shit’s bad in her life. Do you know what else we call that?”

She stares at me until I answer.

“Private,” I say sullenly.

She smiles at me like the slow student in class is finally catching up.

“Just because you didn’t, like, install a camera in her shower head doesn’t mean you don’t see things she’d never share with a stranger or the weird guy next door.”

I open my mouth to tell her I was more than the weird guy next door, but I wasn’t, was I? At least, not in the beginning.

“Let me ask you this,” Fi says, folding her hands in her lap. “What if a new client came to you and told you that her boyfriend put thirteen cameras in her house, recorded her, regularly broke in while she was gone? She’s upset and asking for help dealing with her PTSD. Or say a woman arrives with that same story at your shelter: her ex-boyfriend has been watching her eat, knows when she cries, monitors her groceries.” She leans forward and rests her chin on her hand. “What happens to that guy, Gomez?”

“You fucking know,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And what if the boyfriend says he was only trying to help? He loves her. He loves her thirteen whole cameras worth. Is his life expectancy different?”

My throat’s too tight to answer.

“Now let me ask you again: how are you and Greg not the same?”

Not committing Whitfield’s greatest sin doesn’t excuse everything else I’ve done. I get it now, far too late, and the realization is quicksand in my chest, swallowing my heart, my lungs, the blood in my veins.

“Now,” Felicity says primly, “about you knowing where I went to school.”

“Public records,” I say hoarsely. “Newspaper archives. None of it’s⁠—”

I stop.

“Go on,” Felicity says. “None of it’s what?”

“Private,” I say with a sigh.

“He can be taught!”

She stands, her mouth twisting into a wry, sideways smile as Cosmo snuffles his way over to her.

She turns to leave, then hesitates and spins back around.

“Actually, there’s one big difference between you and Greg.”