Unseen Eyes (Part 3)
The last time he'd been caught in the women's bathroom, I was the one who'd dragged him out and pinned him to the floor. After all these years, he still flinched at the sight of me.
I pulled my phone back. "We go way back. I won't out you. But she's the woman I want, and you pulling this crap makes me look bad. So here's the deal—give me every file you've saved, on the cloud and locally. I'll find a way to remove the lens. After that, this never happened."
Simon hemmed and hawed, then tried a wheedling tone. "Thing is... that equipment wasn't cheap. Cost me a fair bit to—"
I slammed my hand on the table. "I'm already doing you a favor by not calling the cops! You want a prison cell? Why should I protect you?"
Simon fiddled with his glasses and mopped his forehead. After a long, agonized pause, he nodded reluctantly.
---
Of course, I had no intention of removing the camera.
I needed to know Melissa better.
Once I had access to the cloud storage, I discovered that she liked to scroll through her phone while brushing her teeth. She always used the toilet before showering. After applying conditioner, she'd twist her hair up, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She cleaned herself with meticulous care.
And I tailored my approach accordingly.
When she had her period, I made sure to bring her a hot drink. When her stomach acted up, I pretended I was placing an order anyway and tossed in a box of antacids. I bought the same brand of body wash she used.
Gradually, she began to feel that we shared an unspoken rhythm. She still wouldn't accept my romantic overtures, but our conversations grew longer and more personal.
Then a female colleague asked me if I knew where to buy pinhole cameras.
My heart nearly stopped. I had to use every ounce of self-control to keep my face neutral.
Melissa had found the camera. She was testing me.
Oddly, though, she never went to the police.
I couldn't predict her next move, but watching her grow thinner and more strained by the day, I hatched a brilliant plan—one that would redirect her suspicion away from me and pull us closer together.
I extracted a few nude screenshots from her bathroom footage and gave them to Simon, instructing him to contact her as the "peeper" and harass her.
It cost me money, but if it helped me win her over, it was an investment.
Simon delivered. The very day I'd arranged our "coincidental" chat, he messaged her.
With Simon running interference, Melissa leaned on me more and more.
It was exactly as I'd predicted: a woman who's been protected and cared for will grow to depend on the man who provides that protection. Especially a girl as naive as Melissa.
She'd fall for me eventually.
When she didn't want to go home, I took her out to eat. When she needed space, I followed at a safe distance and made sure she got back safely. Whenever she was sad or happy, I appeared at her side.
At first she'd say, "Thanks, Warren."
Within two weeks, it became: "Warren, you're so good to me."
I was ecstatic.
But it wasn't quite enough.
Until she caught the peeper, she'd keep men at arm's length. And I needed her to open up to me completely.
I told Simon to escalate the harassment. When Melissa was on the verge of a breakdown, I invited her to dinner.
In the private dining room, I let my expression turn serious. "Melissa, I can tell something's wrong. You've been making mistakes at work, you've lost weight... Just tell me. Did your boyfriend do something to you?"
Her eyes went red. She shook her head.
I slapped the table. "If he didn't hurt you, then why are you like this? Am I not your friend? I told you—I'm here whenever you need me. Even if you owe loan sharks, I'll spend every cent I have helping you."
She pressed her lips together, tears threatening to spill.
I pulled out my bank card and held it out. She pushed it back. "Warren, it's not about money. I just... I don't know how to say it."
"What could be so terrible that you can't tell me? Who hurt you? I'll kill them."
She wrestled with herself for a long time. Then: "Someone's been filming me. I don't know what to do. I can't find him. I—"
She couldn't finish. She buried her face in her hands and wept.
I moved to her side and gathered her gently into my arms. "Don't cry. This isn't your fault. You shouldn't have to carry it alone. Don't worry—as long as I'm here, no one will hurt you. Have you told your boyfriend?"
She shook her head against my shoulder. She was worried Felix would be furious.
I told her she was right. Her boyfriend was the possessive type. He'd never tolerate another man seeing her naked. Not telling him was the smart move. But I could protect her. I'd help her catch the peeper.
I suggested she contact the stranger, play nice, and invite him to a hotel—trade one night for the footage.
At first, she refused.
I assured her I wasn't asking her to actually go through with it. We'd use the meeting to lure him out. Once he showed his face, I'd beat him so badly he'd never bother her again.
Melissa was afraid I couldn't handle him. I thumped my chest and promised that creeps who spy on women are all talk—keyboard warriors, every one.
It took the entire afternoon to convince her.
After I walked her home, I called Simon, briefed him, and transferred another payment. He was to play his part convincingly when the time came.
At the same time, a second plan was taking shape in my mind.
If both schemes worked, Melissa would be my girlfriend by the end of it.
I was sure of it.
---
Ryan
At 23:15 on June 12th, our precinct received an emergency call. A violent crime had been reported at Blue Hills Apartments, Building 3, Unit 2.
Twenty minutes later, Old He's phone call dragged me out of bed. I swallowed two vitamin pills to quell my hangover, rallied the team, and headed to the scene.
The seventy-square-meter apartment had no entryway—the front door opened directly into the living room. To the right, a kitchen island and dining area; to the left, a hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom.
On the living room's right wall sat a fabric sectional sofa; on the left, a flat-screen TV. Near the window, a display niche held decorative objects and trophies. In the center, a rectangular glass coffee table on an orange-pink shag rug. Cozy and feminine.
Now the room was in chaos.
Near the lower left corner of the coffee table, a smeared pool of blood with scattered droplet marks around it. On the side facing the pool, several blood spatters dotted the surface, and the glass corner was chipped, its tip bloodstained.
A young woman lay on the sofa, her upper body soaked in blood, bruises on her face and neck, skin fragments caught under her fingernails. No vital signs.
Beside the chipped corner of the coffee table lay a young man, mouth agape, pants haphazardly fastened, a fruit knife clutched in his right hand, the blade drenched in blood.
The responding officers briefed me: the caller was Felix, who had a deep cut on his left arm and had been transported to the hospital. The female victim was Melissa, his girlfriend. The male victim was Warren, a colleague of Melissa's.
I asked for their account of the scene.
The officer pointed to the blood pool, then to the chipped corner. "According to the caller, he came home and found the male victim attempting to assault his girlfriend. They fought. The male victim slashed his arm with a fruit knife—that's where the blood pool came from. Then the male victim tried to continue the assault, slipped on the blood, struck his head on the coffee table, and died on impact. The caller checked on his girlfriend and attempted first aid—that explains the blood transfer to her upper body. After confirming she was beyond help, he called 911."
In the old days, Chief Sharp would have examined every detail himself, no matter how thorough the initial report. I usually didn't understand the significance of those details until late in the case.
Now he wasn't here. Old He was at the hospital taking Felix's statement, I was in charge, and someone had called me "sir." I couldn't afford to wait for others to chew the evidence and spoon-feed it to me.
I thanked the officer, stepped around the blood, and moved to the sofa.
Faint purple discoloration marked the victim's toes. I pressed one—the spot blanched under pressure.
On the rug near the sofa leg, inches from the male victim, I found a small smear of blood, barely visible, alongside a few droplets that had landed during the "rescue" attempt.
I left the sofa and checked the balcony. A washing machine sat in the cramped space, loaded with dark and light garments mingled together, plus a brown towel. None of them had gone through the dry cycle.
From the balcony, I moved to the kitchen. Plates and utensils were neatly arranged on the drying rack beside the sink. The sink still held water.
Back in the living room, I stood still for a few minutes, studying the bloodstains. Then I walked quickly to the bathroom.
In the gap between the sink and the wall sat a collection of skincare bottles, a yellow toothbrush cup and a blue one side by side, and two electric toothbrushes in matching colors.
On the opposite wall, a metal rack held two rows of towels.
The top row: a dark blue towel on the right hook. The left hook was empty.
The bottom row: a light gray towel on the left hook. The right hook was empty.
I called the officer over and asked whether Felix had used a towel.
He nodded. "When we arrived, he'd wrapped a towel around his arm to stop the bleeding."
I asked what color the towel was.
He said, "Yellow."
He asked if something was wrong. I didn't answer, instructing him instead to prioritize collecting specific pieces of evidence and rush the comparisons.
Then I drove to the hospital.