Chapter 3 SOMEONE’S WATCHING

~Lola~

Today wasn't the first time I’ve gotten this sickening feeling that a stranger had just been in my home. Some days, I could feel peering eyes all over me, even when I stepped outside my house. And some time last week, I could have sworn I saw someone in my mom's bedroom. But just like today, I never saw a face or an actual figure to serve as evidence that I wasn't losing my flippin’ mind.

My forehead wrinkled.

Something was definitely off. I could feel it. 

Could this be paranoia? 

A side effect of the sleeping pills I took occasionally? 

I was told that could trigger hallucinations.

Or was I really being stalked?

Could two times truly be considered a coincidence?

I stifled out an incredulous chuckle, brushing off the ridiculous thought.

I was an insanely attractive woman—5’6, olive skin, slanted eyes, long brown hair that cascaded down my back, and the right amount of curves. 

But a stalker? 

I blew raspberries.

Come on. 

Plus, this complex had maximum security. Non-residents couldn't just waltz in without an entry code. 

“It's high time I called the property manager to replace the jacked up CCTV cameras in this apartment,” I made a mental note, walking back to my bedroom. I've been so busy with work that I neglected it.

I changed into my PJ'S and plopped down on the couch in the living room, backing the city lights seeping through the floor-to-ceiling glass window. 

I folded my legs up and placed my laptop on the couch, chuckling as I went through the articles from the wedding I’d crashed. I had so much fun pretending to be a baby mama to help my client get revenge on her cheating ass boyfriend for dumping her and marrying someone else. Safe to say that Sky was damn good at her job. I looked almost unrecognisable with that fake baby bump and blonde wig. 

Just then, a loud pounding came from my front door, a shocked gasp tearing out from my mouth as my shoulders flinched in reflex.

My startled eyes snapped towards the door.

Deafening silence.

I flinched again as the bang came a second time—louder this time—violently rattling the door in a manner that made it seem like the entire building was under an earthquake, my heart doing a painful somersault.

I slowly lowered my legs onto the Albanian rug and rose from the couch, the distant, frustrated “tone it down” cries of my neighbours bouncing off the walls as I walked quietly towards the door.

I had barely taken three steps when the porcelain flower vase on the bookshelf shattered, the explosive sound of the breaking glass forcing a shrill scream out of my lips as I halted abruptly. Shards of glass came raining across the living room, the golf club clattering to the polished floor as I threw my hands over my head, plunging myself into a squatting position.

The banging on my front door seized as if on cue, my chest rising and falling in sync with my vibrating body.

“What the fuck was that?” I whispered with wide eyes, letting out a loud yelp as the incessant chime of the doorbell erupted like fireworks. 

I rose slowly to my feet and lowered my hands, spotting the slight cut on my arm. I avoided the broken glass spluttered all over the floor as my trembling feet propelled me towards the door, a deadly silence settling over the house as the chiming seized suddenly.

I stopped a few steps away from the door, instinctively holding my breath. “Who is it?” I listened for a response, my heart slamming heavily against my ribcage.

But no answer came.

I took another step forward, standing on my tiptoe as I peeped through the tiny hole. “Any…one there?” I called out in a shaky voice.

There was no response. Neither did I catch a glimpse of a single soul.

I stepped back, shoving the nauseating anxiety down my throat.

What the actual fuck.

Was someone playing a silly prank on me?

I shook my head and retraced my steps back to the living room area to grab a broom and dustpan from the utility closet to clean up the mess, stopping in my tracks as I caught the crack on my floor-to-ceiling window.

I felt an unexplainable shudder seep through my bones, anxiety crashing all over me again as I walked towards the window.

“When did this happen?” I ran my finger over the small hole, eyes narrowed in concentration. It seemed like something had pierced through, creating a crack that was similar to a spider’s web.

I looked back at the bookshelf, tracing it to the position of the now-broken flower vase. The angle seemed about right. Something had definitely gone through the glass, hence the vase breaking.

I inched closer to the window and looked down below, the faint laughter of the privileged teenagers running and laughing around the fountain filling my ears. One was looking up to my floor, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

“These rascals again,” I huffed, shaking my head. 

They were notorious for wrecking havoc in the complex. Why the fuck were they even out by this time?

I concluded they were definitely behind the puncture and the bang, but decided to let it go. It was pointless making an issue out of it, especially since their parents were troublemakers too.

I grabbed my tools and quickly cleaned up the mess. However, I never saw the supposed object they’d struck the glass with.

I dropped down on the couch, reading the time on my laptop: 12:02 am. Valentine’s day. 

“Happy 28th birthday, Lola,” I sighed sadly, looking towards the door of my mom's bedroom.

Birthdays and Valentine’s day were regular days to me. I wasn't one of Cupid's fanatics who believed in celebrating romance. Neither was I interested in blowing out candles on a birthday cake. If anything, these two significant events reminded me of the pain I felt when I saw my mom covered in thick blood, barely breathing as she was rushed into the ICU.

I shook off the simmering agony, forcing out a happy smile. 

Tonight has surely been a lot.

I returned my gaze to my laptop, and that's when I noticed the new email notification floating at the top left corner of my screen.

I clicked on it. 

The time the email had come in was exactly 12 am, and it was addressed to Liarforhire@gmail.com, the email linked to the company website, but the sender's email address was made up of meaningless numbers and letters. There was no name. No subject. Nothing that could be traced to an actual person. It was also a no-reply account, meaning I was restricted from sending or replying messages.

Two third of our clients never concealed their identities from us, but there were others who preferred to keep theirs hidden, so getting an email from an anonymous sender wasn't exactly a shocker.

But the obvious omission of some information was proof that whoever sent this had gone out of their way to cover their tracks.