“All right,” he says, nodding. He scribbles some notes on his clipboard before thrusting it in my direction. “If you could just sign here, I’ll get my tools.”
I take the clipboard and look down at the order form as he steps outside and walks toward his car. I can’t sign my name, obviously. My real name. Surely, he would recognize that. So instead, I sign Elizabeth Briggs—my middle name paired with Daniel’s last—and hand him the clipboard as he walks back inside. I watch as he scans my signature before making my way back to the couch.
“I appreciate you showing up on such short notice,” I say, shutting my laptop and stuffing my phone into my back pocket. “That was extremely quick.”
“On-demand, 24/7,” he says, reciting the slogan from the website. He’s walking around the house now, sticking sensors on each window. The thought of this man knowing exactly which areas to avoid to bypass the alarm is suddenly concerning; for all I know, he could be skipping a spot, keeping a mental note of which window to crawl through when he comes back later. I wonder if this is how he chooses his victims—maybe he first saw Aubrey and Lacey when installing systems in their homes. Maybe he stood inside their bedrooms, took a peek inside their panty drawers. Learned their routines.
I’m quiet as he stalks through my house, poking his head into various corners, his fingers into every crack. He grabs a footstool and grunts as he climbs, sticking a small, circular camera in the corner of the living room. I stare into it, a microscopic eye staring right back.
“Are you the owner?” I ask at last.
“No,” he says. I expect him to elaborate further, but he doesn’t. I decide to keep pressing.
“How long have you been doing this?”
He climbs off the ladder and looks at me, his mouth opening as if he wants to say something. Instead, he reconsiders and closes it again before walking toward the front door, pulling out a drill from his tool bag and fastening the security panel to the wall. I watch the back of his head as the sound of the drill fills my hallway, and try again.
“Are you local to Baton Rouge?”
The drilling stops, and I see his shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around, but now the sound of his voice is what fills the empty room.
“Do you really think I don’t know who you are, Chloe?”
I freeze, his response stunning me into silence. I keep watching the back of his head until, slowly, he turns around.
“I recognized you the second you answered the door.”
“I’m sorry.” I swallow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, taking a step closer. Still clutching the drill. “You’re Chloe Davis. Your fiancé gave me your name when he called. He’s on his way to Lafayette, and he said you’d let me in.”
My eyes grow wide as I register what he just admitted—he knows who I am. He has this whole time. And he knows I’m here alone.
He takes another step closer.
“And the fact that you lied about your name on the order form tells me that you know who I am, too, so I really don’t know what you’re playin’ at, askin’ me these questions.”
My phone is hot in my back pocket. I could pull it out, call 9-1-1. But he’s right in front of me now, and I’m terrified that any movement on my part will send him hurtling in my direction.
“You wanna know what brought me to Baton Rouge?” he asks. He’s getting angry now; I can see his skin reddening, his eyes getting darker. Little bubbles of spit multiplying on his tongue. “I’ve been here for a while, Chloe. After Annabelle and I got divorced, I needed a change of scenery. A fresh start. I was in a dark place for a while there, so I picked up and moved, got the fuck out of that town and all the memories that come with it. And I was doin’ okay, all things considered, until a few years ago, I opened the Sunday paper, and guess who I saw starin’ right back at me.”
He waits for a second, his lip curling into a smile.
“It was a picture of you,” he says, pointing the drill in my direction. “A picture of you beneath some cheeky little headline about you channeling your childhood trauma or some bullshit like that right here in Baton Rouge.”
I remember that article—that interview I had granted the paper when I started working at Baton Rouge General. I thought that article would be a redemption piece, of sorts. A chance to redefine myself, to write my own narrative. But of course, it wasn’t. It was just another exploration of my father, another gaudy glorification of violence masquerading under the fa?ade of journalism.