Page 104 of Property of Chaos

“Guess I should pack a bag before I talk myself out of it, hey?” I run my knuckle along Murphy’s skull, pressing harder when he leans into the touch. “What do you think? Do I pack black? Or black?”

He pulls back at my unhinged chuckle and saunters into my bedroom, alighting himself onto the end of the bed. Something rolls with the movement, tumbling across the comforter.The hell?I drag myself off the floor and investigate, hand to my throat as I stare at the small device.It can’t be.A note sits beneath, written in my favorite purple pen. I lift the torn page, thumb caressing the slope of his words.

I didn’t decide to watch you from a place of perversion. I wanted to know if you were okay.

I kept my eye on you to calm my anxiety. To feed my curiosity.

You said I need a new obsession. But I don’t think that would fix this sickness inside of me.

What else can this full-body ache be when you’re not around but an illness? A fever?

His words grow messier as the note goes on, as though he struggled to get them out fast enough. I glance at the device, dropping my hand and realizing more writing is on the back.

This is one of the two cameras in your house. I’ve written the details of the app and the login below in case you don’tbelieve me. You can watch the footage—new and old—for yourself.

The other camera is with me.

I figure if I ask you to keep this one recording to ease my mind, it’s only fair that you can see me, too.

I’m sorry I made things worse, Vanessa. I wanted to help you find your way through the dark, but I guess I was the one standing in front of the light.

My ass hits the bed, the note clutched in my shaking hand. I stare down at the tiny camera, at its glossy dark lens. Can he see me now? Abandoning it, I dash across to where I left my phone on the hall floor and hurriedly swipe it open.

It takes fuck all time to download the app and log in. Even less for my breathing to become shallow as I scroll and scroll through the hundreds of clips from my house. Did he watch them all? Every single time I tripped the motion sensor?Who says that’s how they’re set up?Are they recording constantly?

I lift my trembling thumb, hovering it over the Live Feed tab.

Murphy swats at the note, sending it tumbling to the floor.

“Don’t judge me, asshole.”

I tap on the words before I can chicken out and perch myself on the end of the bed again, chewing on my bottom lip as the feed loads.

Sure enough, my bedroom is displayed on a skewed angle, half obscured by the bedding.

The camera is namedEnigma.

My focus tracks down to the next title:Chaos.A little pencil icon sits to the right, indicating I can change his moniker. I tapon it, bringing up a small text box and the device keyboard. My thumb moves in quick strokes to rename his feed.

Paradox.

The top edge of his image shows before the picture cuts off below the screen.Just do it.All I have to do is scroll, but I’m fucking frozen as though expecting a goddamn jump scare if I do.

“Stop letting fear rule,” I murmur, eliciting a yip from Murphy.

I scroll up, breath frozen in my lungs.He’s not there.The camera is set up in what I assume must be his bedroom.Unless he plays a prank on you.Is he? Do I stare at another biker’s room, tangling myself up in the delusion that this is Chaos’s space?

I pinch and spread my fingers, tap on the image, and double-tap, attempting to zoom in, but nothing happens.

“You’re fucking messed up, woman.”

I throw the phone aside, intending to figure out what the fuck to make for dinner but freeze. The goddamn picture enlarged. All I had to do was rotate the screen.Fucking idiot.The feed’s back in my palm before I take my next breath.Of course.I take a screenshot and switch to the photo album.Now I can fucking zoom.

His walls are painted a dark gray, perhaps even black. Heavy drapes frame a window to the right. But it’s his bed that takes up two-thirds of the frame. Covered in blood-red sheets, they lay rumpled over the mattress, clothing piled at the foot. Two pillows are at odds, top and tailing the mess.

I move the slightly unfocused image around my screen, attempting to make out what the artworks on the lefthand wall are, but the picture quality at this level of zoom makes it hard to be sure.

He doesn’t have a nightstand. No other furniture than whatever the camera sits on. A leather jacket hangs on the wall to the right. No wardrobe in sight. Two well-worn boots are tucked beneath the foot of the bed.

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