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I can keep an eye on my surroundings while I pull out my phone and log into my surveillance account. The damn device has been silenced since the funeral, which means I didn’t get a notification when Hunter approached my room around four in the morning. He tested the door handle, then walked out of view.
I fast forward the video until the image tilts, turns, then I’m in the picture, half-naked on the bed. He walks away from the camera, toward me. I don’t flinch in my sleep. I don’t even stir as he looks down at me, without malice or anger. He stares, watching, waiting, while I lie vulnerable and exposed.
My heart crumples at the longing I see in his expression, even though I know it’s not really there. It’s a hallucination. A mirage. I glide my finger over the screen, touching what can no longer be truly touched and hate myself for the pathetic gesture.
Why didn’t he hurt me? Why didn’t he tie me up and demand the information he wants so badly?
He leans in, and I hold my breath as I watch him press his lips to mine.
“Holy shit.” It wasn’t a dream. He kissed me in my sleep, and I kissed him back.
Why? I don’t understand his intent. Am I supposed to believe his actions are some sort of truce? Did he change the camera angle to showcase his incredible acting skills?
He places his notes around the room, not tiptoeing, with casual self-assurance, then he glances at the camera and those eyes meet mine.
Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him?
He keeps reeling me in, sinking his hooks into the vulnerable parts I thought I’d strengthened.
“Pull over at the next stop, please,” I instruct the driver.
I log out of the feed, delete the app, and place my cell on the seat as the bus veers to the curb of an unfamiliar street.
“Thank you.” I haul my pack onto my back and stand, leaving my phone behind. If Hunter placed a tracker in my cell, he could enjoy the excursion the day would bring, because I have no plans to participate in his game anymore.
I need to feel whole again. Free.
And so I run.