Page 80 of Can't Stop Watching

Outside, I gulp fresh air like I've been underwater. I check my watch—forty-seven minutes inside. Too long for comfort. Too long for Sarah, if my instincts are right.

And they usually are, especially about the monsters.

I head to her dorm. I have to make sure she's all right.

26

DANE

I'm halfway back to my car, checking my texts. There's one from Milo.

Milo: Still no movement from Sarah's phone. Same coordinates.

I stare at the text, something cold slithering down my spine. Phones don't stay put for that long, especially those who belong to college students.

The streets around me blur as my mind maps possibilities. Best case: she's sleeping late, despite the schedule Milo pulled up showing she should be in class. Worst case... well, there are too many worst cases I don't want to contemplate.

Dane: On my way to check Sarah's dorm.

My phone buzzes again.

Milo: So... break-in successful? Shouldn't be posting your bail money right about now?

I smirk despite myself. Typical Milo—half worried, half impressed.

Dane: Still a free man. For now.

Milo: How'd it go in Creepy McRichboy's apartment?

I slide into my car, the leather seat cool against my back. The memory of that sterile apartment makes my skin crawl.

Dane: Too clean. Fucking immaculate. Like a staged home nobody lives in.

I start the engine but sit there, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

Dane: Something's wrong with that place. No personal items. No sign of Sarah. It's like he sanitized it.

Milo: Cameras installed?

Dane: Yeah. Four of them. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, hallway. Should give us full coverage.

I don't say I'm afraid it's too late.

Milo: Already tapping in. Feed looks good. I'll monitor 24/7 and set alerts for motion.

I pull into traffic, the afternoon sun glinting off glass towers. Everyone going about their normal lives while somewhere out there, Sarah Keller might be in danger. Or worse.

Dane: After looking at that place, I have to check on Sarah.

Milo: You should. Good luck.

NYU's campus buzzes with life—students racing to class, sprawled on lawns, living their normal lives. The gray stone buildings tower around me as I navigate the main quad. Their innocence is jarring after seeing Langford's sterilized floor.

The dorm building's security is a joke. I slip in behind a laughing group of freshmen without a second glance. The elevator smells like weed and cheap perfume as I ride to the fourth floor where Sarah's room is located.

Room 417. I stand outside the plain wooden door for a moment, listening. Music plays softly inside—some indie pop shit I don't recognize. I knock three times, firm and authoritative.

The door swings open to reveal a young Black woman with box braids pulled into a high ponytail. She's wearing sweats and glasses perched on her nose. Her expression shifts from neutral to guarded the moment she sees me—a strange man at her door.