Page 5 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Despite all the words that might explain why I am the way I am, no single box fits. And in the end, the situation with my neighbor is simple: the serial killer next door has a secret surveillance system, a moral code, and a crush.

It’s not like I set out to put hidden cameras in Rue’s place. Pell installed them when that half of the duplex was still empty, on the off chance I’d need to stash a new intake there someday. But when Rue moved in, I realized I had a convenient way to ease some of my concerns and… well, I already covered the possible psychology. A few upgrades later, I now know everything there is to know about her.

Another text message appears in front of my Rue feed as I’m shrugging out of my cardigan.

“Not now, Quinn,” I say, dismissing the notification to watch as Rue unlocks and then relocks the dead bolt on her front door, humming to herself as the flip lock and chain get the same treatment. Then I toss my glasses onto the entry table so I can follow her upstairs as myself, or whatever “myself” amounts to these days.

Between interacting with Rue and juggling my online psychology practice, I’ve been performing mild-mannered Dr. Mohr so much that it’s gotten shockingly easy to slip into his skin, like he’s a side of me that’s always been there but never had free rein until I had to embody him so much. There was even a moment today when it seemed like Rue was actually enjoying talking to him—me—and I felt…

“Happy.”

I test the word on my tongue, prepared to find bitterness. Instead, it’s tart and sweet, and that’s because today was one of the rare days when, instead of rushing into her house, Rue stayed. She talked to me, noticed me. Touched me, not Dr. Mohr. I saw it in her eyes, and I had to turn away before I pushed to find out how much more of the real me she can take.

I scrub my hands down my face and remember that my role is standing on the other side of her wall, catching the muffled sounds of the security checks I’m also seeing on the live feed. Listening as she plays podcasts, watches TV, and talks on the phone. Watching as she cooks dinner, catches up on work, and does her isometric squat workouts, which are the highlight of my week.

A little light surveillance makes sure she’s got a good life, one that’s safe from people like me. It’s why I always close the app when she’s changing clothes, coming and going from the shower, things like that. I’ve got enough sense of right from wrong to avoid any truly heinous invasions of privacy.

Another of my boundaries: Rue out in the world. I know she goes to the grocery store and the gym. I know she covers a rotating weekend shift for the ME’s office every other month and takes a vacation every February to escape our wintry Midwest hellscape. Because of the rules I’ve set for myself, I almost never follow her. On the rare occasions I do, it’s only because she mentioned heading somewhere with limited emergency services coverage—like that isolated hiking trail she loves, the one that had a rumored cougar sighting eight years ago—and that’s just common sense.

The toughest limit is her regular Thursday ladies’ nights out. Those women must hit the town hard, given how often she simply doesn’t come home until after work the next day. I’ve been tempted to follow her some night to watch her dance or slam shots or inhale greasy post-club food before crashing with one of her friends. But the odds of her noticing someone with my build are nonzero, even if I ditched my glasses and khakis. There’s also the matter of the personal codes I’d violate if I watched someone put his hand on the small of her back or buy her a drink or, god forbid, take her home.

So I white-knuckle through ladies’ nights and keep myself busy planning and executing my intakes. It’s convenient not to be making up excuses for my own late-night comings and goings, and the proof-of-life texts Rue always sends if she’s not home by midnight keep me relatively reasonable about it all.

I also don’t let myself think about what might happen if she’s called to investigate one of my scenes someday. Instead, I worry about her getting food poisoning from that disgusting carryout chicken place she loves or whether her airbags will deploy if she gets in a car accident. Any brief fantasies I have of taking off the sweater to find out if Rue could embrace all of me are exactly that: brief and fantastical. And that’s good. I’m not equipped to be in charge of another person’s well-being.

Tonight’s bedroom routine starts the same as always, and I swipe away Quinn’s next text—this one just a question mark—as I watch Rue jiggle her window latches and plunk her laptop onto the desk tucked into the corner of her bedroom. But after she finishes the security footage portion of our evening, she doesn’t grab her lounge clothes to change, which is my signal to shut down the video feed and head downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. Instead, she settles on the edge of her bed.

“What are you doing, neighbor girl?” I lift the phone to my face and watch as she kicks off her shoes and rummages through her nightstand drawer, emerging with⁠—

I kill the app and slap the phone to my pounding heart.

She’s got the pink vibrator in her hand.

Shit shit shit.

I wasn’t prepared for this. Rue only gets herself off once she’s in bed for the night. Not every night, but a few times a week, often when I’ve watched her pour some wine or heard her listening to one of those audiobooks she loves.

Thanks to these thin walls, I’m painfully familiar with her masturbation routine. And this is not her routine.

On those nights, once I realize what she’s doing, I close the feed. Moral code and all that. Do I occasionally wrap my hand around my cock at the sounds of her twisting with pleasure mere feet from me? Yes. More than occasionally. And even though I’m tempted every fucking time, I’ve never once pulled up her bedroom cameras. I stick to my imagination like the gentleman serial killer I am, and I bite my lip bloody to keep from shouting her name when I come.

Today, though, I want to watch.

A little gasp comes from her side of the duplex, and I press my cheek against the cool wall separating us, my dick straining toward her through the drywall. It’s an invasion, but it’s not like she doesn’t know how well the sound carries between our places. I listen to music, lift weights in my spare bedroom-turned-home gym, run the blender, vacuum. She’s got to know about the acoustics of the duplex, right? And I’m not taking out my dick to join her. I’m just… existing in the next room and holding myself as still as possible along the wall that her bed rests against.

This is how she makes my life harder. I’m constantly fighting my cravings around her. Not the dark kinds, but the hot, pulsing need that I can only assume other men feel all the time around the people they want.

Even though I know it’ll never happen—not with her, never with her—my mind jumps into overdrive when she gives a sharp inhale. I picture her pressing that little pink toy against her clit. The hair at her temples is probably getting damp with sweat, her long lashes brushing her cheeks when her eyes flutter shut. And her scent, fuck. Honeysuckle and berries and every good thing I never let myself crave until her. I bet that scent gets earthier the more slippery she is between those strong runner’s thighs, just waiting for someone to fill her up.

That person can’t be me, but maybe, just this one time, I could watch.

I catch myself reaching for my phone and push away from the wall with a muttered curse. Falling on my bed, I ignore my painfully hard cock and run through the rules that have kept me hidden in plain sight for almost fifteen years. The newest one dates to the week she moved in: headboard only against our shared wall so every night my brain is ten inches from her, my heart is twenty, and the rest of me is too far away to count. Another is avoiding close, personal connections other than Qui⁠—

Oh fuck.

I leap up and thunder down the stairs, hitting the call button as I do.

“Quinn, oh my god—” I start, but she cuts me off.