Chapter 3: Cam Creep
752 Words
Lena's taillights faded into the fog like dying fireflies, her parting shot echoing in my head: "Burn that diary if it's poison ivy for the soul. Text me the dirt by morning—no ghosts allowed." I didn't burn it. Not yet. Tucked it under the mattress springs instead, like smuggling contraband across borders, Caleb's snores muffling the guilt gnawing at my ribs.
Morning slammed in hard—his alarm, a digital klaxon shredding the quiet, coffee ritual rushed with bleary eyes and half-tied shoes. "Love you," he murmured at the door, tie crooked like a question mark, kiss fiercely and coffee-bitter on my lips. Cedar trailed him down the stairs, leaving the apartment hollow, echoing with the drip of the faucet and my own uneven breaths. Sweet from last night, but cracked now, like porcelain with hairline fractures.
Barista shift dragged like wet boots through mud: Steaming oat milks for the 9-to-5 zombies, small talk syrupy-thick ("Congrats on the ring!"), My wrist is itching with phantom hives under the long sleeve. Tommy Reed slid onto a stool at lunch rush—old park-swing Tommy, broader now with a cop badge glinting under his flannel, dimples deeper but eyes sharper, like he'd traded skate tricks for stakeouts. "Heard you tied the knot. Voss, right? Bold choice for a quiet girl like you."
He stirred his black coffee slowly, spoon clinking accusatory. Dimples flashed when I forced a smile, but his gaze scanned me—ring, posture, the way my fingers twisted the rag. "Congrats, Mia. Beers soon? Catch up on the old crew."
I nodded vaguely, heart tripping over itself. Prior, Lena had whispered once over wine, scrolling through some shady forum. Tommy knew things—swings and secrets from back when summers were all sweat and stolen kisses. "Yeah. Soon."
Home by dusk, the apartment tilted empty, boxes mocking me from corners. I fired up Caleb's laptop—left open on the kitchen counter, trusting fool that he was, screen saver swirling code snippets like abstract art. Browser history first: Code forums, my shared indie playlists, a tab on "best taquerias in the east side." Harmless as apple pie. Then: A hidden app tucked in the dock. CamHack Pro. Green icon winking like it knew.
Login auto-filled his creds—easy as breathing. Feed bloomed across the screen: Our street cam feed, angled weird from the alley dumpster, timestamped live. Rewind to last night—me huddled on the couch, diary splayed in my lap, face lit guilty-blue by the phone glow. Fingers tracing those old words, lips moving silently.
But zoom the alley edge, that smudge of shadow against brick.
Hoodie. Gray, same bunch at the collar. Slouched casually, face dipped low. Watching the window—our window—like it was a theater.
Not Caleb—he'd been snoring, arm dead weight. Timestamp: 1:14 a.m., synced to the bedroom clock.
My phone buzzed then—his charger, plugged forgotten on the counter like a trap. New text, same unknown number:
Check the oak. Left you a gift. For old times.
Park. Our park—the one with the bench that creaked just right under weight, the east path where the oaks twisted like old lovers. November dusk bit cold through my hoodie as I drove, diary burning a hole in the passenger seat, fog lamps cutting yellow swaths through the mist. Leaves crunched traitor-loud under my sneakers, the air thick with damp earth and distant bonfire smoke.
The bench sat slick with dew, empty as a forgotten promise. No one. Just the oaks whispering overhead, branches clawing at the gray sky.
Then: A vanilla cone, melting slowly on the slats, white rivers tracing wood grain. Wrapper crisp, folded neat: Mr. Frosty's faded logo, the truck that haunted every kid summer with jingles and sticky regrets.
Pinned underneath with a thumbtack: A Polaroid, edges yellowed, snapshot sharp. Me at sixteen—same bench, strawberry lick frozen mid-bliss, but this angle... closer than memory. Intimate, like the lens breathed my air. Eyes in the frame: Hoodies, blurred at the edges but hungry, fixed like a promise.
Back scrawl in faded blue ink: You called. I came. Always.
My diary words. Exact match, down to the loopy S.
The engine growled, distant tires chewing gravel at the lot's edge. Headlights swept the path, pinning me in white-hot beams.
Not Caleb's truck, rusted blue and familiar.
Black sedan. Tinted windows are swallowing light.
Slow roll to a stop.
Door creaks. Footsteps on leaves.
- Writer
