Page 106 of Red Flag, Green Light

Brows knitting, I sit up and stare at the moving pictures stretched before me on the other side of the room.

Plastered across the three screens is footage. Live video footage. Of my house.

“Mars…are you…” I begin.

“I can explain,” he says.

I turn toward him, find him stiff, holding the thermos of chicken soup so tight his knuckles have gone white. I ask, “You took my flippant comment from a while ago about getting security cameras in order to observe me seriously?”

“I… Ye…” He winces. “N…no.”

No?

I rise to get a better look. Kitchen window. Back door. Porch. Yard. There are eight feeds grabbing different angles. “What do you meanno? This is exactly what I suggested.” Exactly how it’s described in Rouge’s book…right down to the locations mentioned. Which…I never said anything about.

“I…mean I didn’t have to take your comment seriously. I was…” He swallows, fights the roughness in his throat. “I alreadywas.”

He already was watching me?

BeforeI said anything to reference Rouge’s current book project, which starts exactly like this?

The male lead watches his next-door neighbor on eight security cameras.

Because he’s too nervous to approach her without information. Because he’s accustomed to rejection. Because he’s an awful lot like Mars.

I’d be inclined to believe that Mars hacked into my favorite author’s accounts and started writing a book to me, except there’s too much of a trail for her not to notice. Not to mention that while the overall style of the book I’ve been working on has been different than usual Rouge stories, it still carries the flavor from some of my favorite parts in her past books. The emotional parts. The agony parts. The deep, bone-chillingin loveparts.

Coincidence?

Maybe.

Or maybe some of the nonsense I’ve read—like how the male lead is doing pushups to get better shoulders for his shoulder-obsessed lady love, who he made my height—is absolutely, completely, and utterlyMars.

Even now, thinking back on conversations I’ve had with Rouge, there’s a distinct tone to them that screamsfamiliar. Mars has been familiar from the first moments, because Mars and I have known each otherfor five years.

In the stilted silence growing thick in the air, I pull my phone from my pocket and go to my chat with Rouge. Just to check. Just to make sure.

The humor. The patterns. The…everything.

It’s Mars.

“Huh,” I say.

Choked, Mars echoes, “Huh?”

“I’m glad I don’t like to walk around my house naked.”

Red explodes in his cheeks. “I wouldn’t— I would never— If you did, then I wouldn’t— I swear. It’s not about that. It’snot.” Broken, he whispers, “Please believe me.”

Catching sight of Mars’s phone on his nightstand beside his tea, I send a message to Rouge…and watch it light.

His attention flies to the device, and he turns into a noir painting. Sheer black hair. Pure white flesh.

Mars is Rouge.

The book he’s been working on…has been about me. About us.

I have been sticking needles into his insecurities through criticism of his male lead for…months. I thought we were having fun. He thought there was no way I’d ever like someone exactly like him. He poured his thoughts and feelings into a book, tested the waters, tried to see if there was even a chance, and I literally—on numerous occasions—saidew, change this.

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