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ROMAN

I watch the taillights of Beck’s truck disappear, then lock the door and walk into the kitchen. I clean the counter, then head outside to gather more firewood.

I start a fire, rubbing my hands over the warmth of the crackling flames.

Then I stand and look around for something else to do.

Anything except what I actually want to do.

Finally, I grab my phone.

This is fucking stupid.

I create an account on Instagram. I enter a fake email, then stop at the username. I stare at the screen.

What the fuck?

I need to choose a username. One she won’t guess is me.

I stare at my phone, my fingers not moving.

Why the fuck is this so damn difficult?

I type JohnSmith.

Taken.

JohnSmith1.

Taken.

JohnSmith2.

I shake my head. How many fucking John Smiths are there?

Instagram can make suggestions. It recommends james_miller4729.

Fine.

I take it.

I search Callie Quinn.

Her profile appears immediately.

I stare at her picture. Golden-blonde curls. Green eyes. Huge fucking smile.

There you are, Chaos.

Something in my chest loosens.

I immediately scowl.

What the fuck was that?

I tap her profile.

This isn’t stalking. It’s simply information gathering.