Sam.

~~~

Raymond parked the car along the sidewalk on Ardmore Avenue, right between my apartment complex and apparently Scott's. I never paid much attention to the building across the street from mine. The construction was shorter, six levels high, with a weathered exterior that blended dull shades of brown and yellow. The whole street seemed to sag under the weight of its age.

Ray and I climbed out of the car, supporting Scott between us as we shuffled toward his building. He was out cold, his body heavy and limp. Of course, there was no elevator, because why would there be? The fourth floor felt like a mountain as we hauled him upward, step by agonizing step. I found his keys in his jacket pocket, my fingers fumbling in the dim hallway while Raymond braced Scott against the wall.

"Got it," I muttered after what felt like forever, finally sliding the key into the lock. The door creaked open, and a sharp, chemical smell hit me like a slap. I wrinkled my nose, coughing slightly as we lugged Scott inside.

Ray flipped on the light, the overhead bulb casting an unforgiving glare across the small, sterile space. "His bedroom's over there," he said, tilting his head toward an open door at the end of the hall.

Dragging Scott between us, we stumbled into the room and unceremoniously dumped him onto the bed. He landed in a graceless sprawl, a soft groan escaping his lips.

"We should probably take off his shoes," I suggested, my voice hesitant.

Ray nodded. "Yeah, good idea."

We wrestled off his sneakers, and Ray gestured toward Scott's jacket. "That too?"

"Sure." I helped slide the jacket off his arms, folding it awkwardly before setting it on a chair.

"I'll find a bucket or something in case he pukes," Ray said, already heading toward the kitchen as Scott let out another hiccup.

I stared at my friend, his facial expression was in stark contrast with the storm brewing inside me. He looked almost peaceful, the polar opposite of the face he wore the whole night. I was able to handle the uncalled-for glaring but his confrontation near the bathrooms left me puzzled.

According to him, I shouldn't start anything with Ray because I will eventually go back to Tom anyway. Maybe that was a fair point, but the puzzling part was that Scott knew things I never told him. Has Molly spilled my secrets?

Shaking away the thoughts I followed Raymond out of the room, leaving Scott in his unconscious state. The apartment was smaller than mine—a single bedroom, a bathroom, and an open living area for the kitchen and living room. The colors were muted, mostly grays and browns, and though the place was clean, it felt stuffy, like the air hadn't moved in days.

While Ray rummaged through cabinets, I let my eyes wander, curiosity tugging at me. I knew it wasn't exactly polite, but who wouldn't take a peek? Scott had lived here for months, practically next door, and he'd never once mentioned it.

Why didn't he tell me? I thought, scanning the room. Everything looked perfectly settled—furniture, decorations, even a stocked bookshelf.

I stepped closer to the shelf, running my fingers along the spines of books I recognized: Jo Nesbø, George R. R. Martin, Lars Kepler, and—wait. My grandfather's books. The entire Michael Morris collection.

The sight stopped me cold. Scott never told me he read my grandfather's work. He never even mentioned liking detective novels. I was an avid reader, often talking about upcoming books and my favorite reads, and while Scott unlike Molly managed to listen to book talks he never joined in.

What else don't I know about him?

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, my mind racing. I thought I knew Scott. His favorite color was light blue. He loved the gym; we went together all the time. Two sugars in his coffee and he hated tea, and couldn't go a week without some wild story about girls.

A voice behind me jolted me out of my thoughts. "Are you snooping?"

I spun around to find Ray grinning, a bucket in hand. "Yeah, sue me," I said, laughing nervously.

"Find anything good?" he teased, stepping closer.

"Books," I replied, pointing at the shelf.

His smile faded slightly. "You've been quiet since we got here. What's up?"

I hesitated, pacing the room. "I didn't even know Scott lived here. That's weird, right?"

Ray nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah, it's a little weird."

I walked over to the window, peering through the half-open blinds. "I can see my balcony from here. He's been this close the whole time." My eyes fell on a telescope tucked behind an armchair. "I didn't know he was into astronomy, either."

Ray followed my gaze. "He is?"

"Why else would he have a telescope?" I muttered, moving toward a sleek black camera on the desk. I picked it up, inspecting the long lens. "And photography."

Ray nodded. "He mentioned something about a camera to my brother once."

The weight of realization pressed down on me. "I've known him for four years, Ray, and I feel like I don't know him at all."

I turned the camera on, curiosity prickling my skin. The screen lit up, and the first image froze me in place. Me. At the yoga studio, in the downward dog position, I knew it was me just because of the leggings with skulls at the bottom of them.

"Ray," I said, my voice trembling. "Come look at this."

He leaned over my shoulder as I clicked through photo after photo. Each one was of me. At the university. At the karaoke bar with Molly. Outside my apartment.

"He was there," I whispered, chills racing down my spine. "Everywhere I was."

Ray's hand tightened on my arm. "We need to leave. Now."

I nodded numbly, my thoughts a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. I turned off the camera and put it back on the desk, my hands trembling. Raymond dumped the bucket and grabbed my hand, leading me out of the apartment.

The moment we reached my place, I collapsed onto the couch, pulling my legs under me. Ray sat beside me, his presence grounding me in the storm of my emotions.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, taking my hand.

I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. "No."

Ray sighed, his expression dark. "You know what this means, right? He's been watching you, Sam. He's a stalker."

The word hit me like a slap. "A stalker?"

"Yes." His tone was firm but gentle. "And we need to figure out what to do next."

It felt like the room grew colder the moment Ray said it. Scott has been watching me. The words settled heavily between us, a lead weight I couldn't shake off. I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked slightly, a small habit I'd had since childhood to calm myself. But it didn't help. My mind spun out of control, racing with questions I didn't want to ask.

Why would Scott watch me? Is that why he never told me where he lived?

The silence stretched on as I fought to make sense of everything. Ray sat beside me, patient but watchful, as if ready to catch me if I fell apart. Finally, I stood abruptly, needing to do something.

I crossed the room and turned on the speaker, scrolling through until I found something familiar. The opening chords of "I'm Not Okay" by My Chemical Romance filled the room.

"Okay, motive," I muttered aloud, turning back to face Ray.

He raised an eyebrow, watching me with quiet curiosity. "Motive?" he echoed, his voice low and even.

"There's always a motive, right?" I said, pacing the length of the room. My heart raced, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Maybe it's money?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice cracking slightly.

"Money?" Ray leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "What kind of money?"

I hesitated, twisting my hands nervously. I hated talking about money, but what other explanation could there be? "Some people might call me...rich," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ray tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Define 'rich.'"

"Like...a million-rich," I said, cringing at how ridiculous it still sounded.

He blinked, clearly trying to process that information. "And how long have you been...a millionaire?" His tone stayed calm, but I noticed the faint edge of curiosity creeping in.

"Since October," I said, my voice steadier now. "Eight months ago."

Ray's expression didn't change, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. "Did you recognize any of the photos from before that?"

I froze, thinking back to the images we'd seen. My stomach churned at the memory of seeing myself in those pictures—walking to class, laughing with Molly, just existing. "Yes," I said finally, sinking back onto the couch beside him. "There was one of me and Molly in the park. My hair was longer, and I know it was from September, before...everything."

Ray nodded slowly, his gaze sharpening. "You're not giving me the whole picture, Sam," he said, leaning forward.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "When we met, I didn't tell you my last name because I didn't think it mattered," I started, glancing down at my hands. "It's Morris. My grandfather was Michael Morris."

Ray's eyes widened slightly, recognition flickering across his face. "Wait. The Michael Morris? The author?"

I nodded, feeling my cheeks flush. "Yeah. He passed away in October, and he...left me everything." The words felt heavy on my tongue.

Ray leaned back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's cool—not that he died, obviously, but that you're his granddaughter." His tone was genuine, almost impressed.

I shrugged, trying to brush it off. "I'll talk to Scott tomorrow. Maybe sober, he won't be as mad as he was earlier."

Ray's brows knit together. "Was he mad about something else?"

"Mostly about you," I admitted, my voice soft.

Ray shook his head, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "I told you, Sam. He's jealous. And it's not about the money—he's in love with you."

The room felt like it tilted. I stared at him, shaking my head. "No. That's not possible. I'd know if he felt that way."

Ray smirked, a teasing glint in his eye. "Would you, though? You don't exactly have the best radar for that kind of thing from what can I see."

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped short. Memories of Molly's warnings flickered in my mind. Scott had always been a little...overprotective. But in love with me? That couldn't be right.

"He would have told me," I insisted. "He brags about all the girls he hooks up with. Why would he do that if he liked me?"

Ray chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Maybe he wanted to make you jealous. See if you'd get possessive and throw yourself at him."

I groaned, pressing my palms to my face. "It's not funny, Ray."

His laughter softened, and when I peeked through my fingers, I saw the concern in his eyes. "No, it's not," he said gently. "You need to take this seriously, Sam. You're dealing with something dangerous here."

I sighed, letting my hands fall into my lap. The weight of his words settled over me, but I still couldn't fully wrap my head around it. Scott's in love with me? And he's been watching me? None of it made sense, but the sinking feeling in my gut told me that Raymond was probably right.

Ray sat beside me, his thumb circling the back of my hand as he spoke softly, though his words were anything but comforting.

"I'm sorry. I know this is serious, but you have to believe me when I say Scott is in love with you. That obsession has turned into something dangerous. I've been there, so I know the signs." His tone grew heavier as he leaned in. "You can't talk to him about what we found. And I don't think he likes astronomy. He probably used the telescope to watch you."

The lump in my throat swelled, almost choking me. I tried to swallow, but the thought of Scott watching me, invading my life so intimately, made my stomach churn. How much could he see through that thing? The bile threatened to rise.

"I can't just not talk to him." My voice cracked as frustration bubbled to the surface.

Ray stayed calm, which only irritated me more. "I understand how you feel, but confronting him would be the worst option here." I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting me off. "Listen," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I was in your situation once. Let me help you avoid making the same mistakes I did."

I narrowed my eyes, curiosity momentarily replacing my anger. "You mean, your best friend stalked you?"

"Not exactly," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was a fan. Three years ago." His face darkened, a shadow of old pain crossing his features. He exhaled deeply before continuing. "I didn't handle it well back then. By the time I got help, it was already too late."

I softened, sensing the weight of whatever memory he was revisiting. "You're giving me too little information, Ray," I teased, a small, forced smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

He met my gaze and smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That's fair. I'll tell you the short version. You already seem miserable, and I don't want to pile on."

Ray shifted, turning to face me fully, his hands still holding mine. His steady presence had a calming effect on me, dulling the nausea.

"When we released our first album and went on tour, we started getting fans. A lot of fans. One girl, in particular, stood out because she showed up at every concert. Logan used to joke that she was our biggest fan." He paused, a bittersweet smile crossing his lips. "At first, it felt good, you know? Like we were doing something right with our music."

I nodded. "Showing up at concerts is one thing. But in different cities?"

"Exactly," he said, nodding back. "After the tour ended, things got weird. She started working at a coffee shop near my house. Then I'd see her in random places—when I walked my dog, went to the gym, even grocery shopping." I frowned, my fingers tracing the cool metal of his rings as he continued. "When things escalated, my mom found someone to help—a private investigator. Eventually, the girl got the help she needed."

"What kind of help?" I asked, unable to mask my surprise.

"She got treatment," he explained, his tone soft but firm. "There was a quick trial, and after that, she disappeared from my life."

I mulled it over, realizing the gravity of what he'd endured. "So, as the expert, what's your advice?"

Ray straightened. "I have a guy I can call. He's a private detective. He helped me, and he can help you too. But you can't talk to Scott—not until we have more information."

"Not at all?" I asked, my voice rising in disbelief.

He shook his head. "It's better to keep your distance. Text him, make excuses, whatever it takes. I'll reach out to the detective first thing tomorrow. I promise it won't take long."

I exhaled, still skeptical but too exhausted to argue. "Okay," I said, my voice flat.

Ray's eyes softened as he gazed at me. He bit his bottom lip, an unspoken tension filling the space between us. The next moment, I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his.

"Sam," he whispered in a low voice.

"Distract me, Ray," I pleaded, my voice a bit too desperate.

He hesitated for a split second, surprised, before his lips parted, his tongue brushing against mine. The kiss deepened, his hands slipping under the hem of my skirt setting fire to my core. His cold fingers traced the curve of my thighs, sending shivers up my spine.

The world faded away—the fear, the anger, even the thoughts of Scott. At that moment, it was just us, his touch grounding me in a way nothing else could.

But reality crept back in, pulling me from the haze. We parted reluctantly after a while his forehead resting against mine.

"I should go," he said softly. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

As the door closed behind him, the empty void in my chest returned. I turned up the volume on the stereo, letting My Chemical Romance drown out my thoughts as I curled up on the couch.