Page 87 of Snowbound
I don’t mean to go to it, but I do.
With my bare feet on cold wood, the air prickles over my skin. My wrists are still faintly raw from the ribbon, the memory of him holding me there like a prayer.
I sit down and open the screen. Then I type it in: One, two, three, four. I’m greeted with boring wallpaper.
But on the top left of the screen is a folder, untitled.Last accessed two days ago.
Hands trembling, I click it, and the blood drains from my face.
Emma_Marlowe
That’s the name of the folder.
And inside? Dozens of screenshots. My socials, even the one I made private when I moved.
Emails I forgot I sent. Ones I never sent at all, still in draft. Shopping carts, coupons I saved, and bookmarked webpages. Books I wrote and never published. He has them.
A map with pins dropped. My college campus, my first apartment,the flower shop I worked at for six months after the accident, until I left because Jake made me.
My landlord’s phone number.
My grocery store receipts.
Pictures of me: some from high school, some from last year. Some I don’t remember being taken.
My hands start to shake.
He’s been watching me.
Not just this week. Not just since I got here.
For years.
I scroll faster, breathing shallow now. One tab is still open in his browser to an encrypted site with no logo, just numbers and names.
McCarthy Crew
I know that name, the infamous McCarthys of Ballyhock, Ireland.
And my name again,Emma Marlowe, next to Owen’s. There’s a red flag next to it: “CONFLICT OF INTEREST.”
I stare, blinking.
Another note below: “ASSIGNMENT: DELAYED. OBSERVATION CONTINUES. TARGET’S LOCATION SECURE.”
Target.
I’m a… target? Conflict of interest?
Why? Why would some barely known author be a conflict of interest with someone who works for the Irish mob?
My vision tilts. I slam the laptop shut.
But it’s too late because he’s there, in the doorway, his eyes locked on me—unmoving, unblinking, just watching.
“See anything, love?” he asks. His voice is flat, quiet. Too quiet, like he already knows the answer.
I stand slowly. “You told me I could.” My voice is barely there. “And if you want top security, Owen, you probably need a better password than one, two, three, four.”
