Confessions of a Voyeur [PT 2]: She Knows

A second confession—and a line that cannot be uncrossed.

A varsity cheerleader vanishes. An FBI agent investigates. A therapist becomes his obsession.

Now, a second confession—and a line that cannot be uncrossed.

If you haven’t read part 1, start HERE.

She Knows.

Confession #2: The hardest part about watching you the way that I do? Knowing that I’m the only one who sees you this way.

Monday 5:47AM

The surveillance monitors glow like ghosts in the darkness of my apartment. 5:47 AM. She's up early today—twenty-three minutes before her usual alarm. Fourth deviation this week.

Something's changed.

Three days now, she's taken the long route to work. Left on Maple instead of right on Pine. Stopping for exactly twelve minutes at the little café with the green awning. Meeting someone? Maybe. Sudden taste for their overpriced lattes? The pattern shift makes my skin crawl.

Behind me, Dad's record player sits silent, buried under case files and takeout containers. I can't remember the last time I played the White Album. Can't remember the last time I did anything but watch her.

"Today," I whisper to the empty room.

The decision forms like condensation on glass—slowly, then all at once. Seventy-four days of remote surveillance, and suddenly it's not enough. I need to see her up close. Need to know what's in that café. Need to understand why she's broken her pattern. I need to follow her.

I tell myself it's about Ali Johnson. Tell myself it's professional curiosity. Tell myself a lot of things as I strap on my shoulder holster and check my badge.

The directional microphone picks up Chloe's shower starting. Eight minutes, like clockwork. I have time.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror is a stranger's—hollow eyes, three-day stubble, skin the color of old paper. I splash water on my face, trying to remember the agent I used to be before Chloe Winters.

Before "You're too fucked in the head for even me to fix."

Before I traded Sunday dinners for surveillance shifts.

My phone lights up with a text from Torres: "Missed check-in. Again. Call me."

Delete.

The Bureau's surveillance protocols are clear: document, don't engage. Observe, don't follow. But the Bureau didn't authorize this operation anyway. What's one more broken rule?

No.

No. I said that I was just going to watch. That’s what I’m going to do.

Photo by dlxmedia.hu on Unsplash

Tuesday 6:17 AM.

Chloe's bedroom light flicks on exactly three minutes before her alarm. She does this every morning—waking just before the buzzer, like her body knows. I've timed it: one hundred and twelve mornings straight.

The only exception was yesterday—and March 3rd, when she slept through until 7:42. That was the morning after we found Maria Suarez's locket half-buried in the riverbed mud, its chain broken but the inscription still clear:

"To my darling daughter."

I had stood there in the pre-dawn chill, watching the crime scene techs bag it for evidence, knowing we were finally getting close. Torres had actually smiled, patting me on the shoulder. "Good work, Brad," He'd said. "Maybe you were right about the river search."

That feels like a lifetime ago now.

The sound of my apartment door opening breaks my concentration. Torres is early today—usually he waits until seven to start his "unofficial" surveillance of my surveillance. I don't turn around.

"Your coffee's cold," he says, setting a fresh cup beside my keyboard. Torres has been bringing me coffee every morning for the past two weeks, ever since Davidson assigned him to "assist" with the case. We both know he's really here to monitor me, to report back on the agent who's becoming 'too invested.' But he still tries to be a good friend.

"Thanks." I take a sip. He even remembers how I like it—black, two sugars. Like Dad used to make it during our early morning fishing trips.

On the monitors, Chloe's curtains shift. A sliver of her silhouette moves past the gap. My cameras catch everything: the stretch of her arms above her head, the way she rolls her neck twice to the left, once to the right. Her morning ritual, as precise as a dancer's choreography.

"You know, I used to teach martial arts," Torres says, pulling up his usual chair. "If you can believe it. Before the Academy." He pauses, watching Chloe's graceful movements. "My wife calls it my 'old life.'"

I glance at him, surprised. In months of working together, and years of friendship, this is the first real personal detail he's shared. "What made you quit?"

He shrugs, but there's something heavy in the gesture. "Sometimes life has different plans." He looks pointedly at my dusty football in the corner, and the records half-heartedly jammed back into their cases. "You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

Before I can respond, my phone vibrates: Davidson. I silence it, adding another tick to my growing list of minor insubordinations. Twelve years with the Bureau, spotless record, until Chloe Winters landed on my desk. Literally and metaphorically.

Now I'm the agent who "needs perspective," who's "becoming obsessed." Yesterday's briefing had made that clear enough.

"You can't keep ignoring her," Torres says quietly. "She's trying to help."

"Like she helped by pulling my river search teams last week?" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "Three months of data showing Chloe's connection to the victims, patterns in her behavior before each disappearance, and Davidson still won't—"

"Brad." Torres's voice is gentle but firm. "The evidence isn't there. You know that. Maria Suarez's locket could have washed downstream from anywhere. And Ali Johnson's case—"

"Ali Johnson had three therapy sessions with Chloe before she vanished," I cut in, pulling up the spreadsheet I've spent months building. "Just like Maria Suarez. Just like—"

"Just like dozens of other patients who are perfectly fine," Torres finishes. "Chloe Winters is a grief counselor. People in crisis seek her out. That's not evidence of—"

6:22 AM. The shower starts. I turn back to the monitors, watching the bathroom window fog up from the left corner first, spreading like watercolor across the frosted glass. Eight-minute showers. Never seven, never nine.

My stopwatch starts automatically—muscle memory. Tyler used to laugh at my obsession with timing things. Now it's coming in handy, looking for the minute cracks in Chloe's perfect routine.

Photo by Ryan Stone on Unsplash

"How's your mom doing?" Torres says suddenly. "Davidson mentioned you haven't taken a single evening off. I can't imagine you've made it to any family dinners."

The guilt hits hard, and unexpected. "She started therapy a couple of weeks ago," I say, eyes fixed on the fogging window. "Started going to some support group."

"That's not what I asked."

I think about Tyler's last text: "Telling mom you're sick so she doesn't cry herself to sleep again. She already lost dad, she doesn't need to know you're gone too."

Think about the dozen others I haven't answered.

"She has Tyler, she's fine," I say finally. I swallow hard. "She's probably fine."

Torres is quiet for a long moment. "It's not too late to call her, you know."

But it is. It's been too late since the day Ali's mother came to the Bureau, clutching her daughter's photo and describing the last time she saw her: after an appointment with Chloe, smiling, saying she finally felt ready to move on. Three days later, Ali vanished. Just like Maria Suarez before her. Just like—

The shower stops. Five seconds early.

"Watch," I tell Torres, leaning forward. "Three, two, one..."

Photo by Cláudia Back on Unsplash

Chloe's making up the missing seconds, standing perfectly still behind the glass. Torres whistles low. "Okay, that's a little creepy."

"Every morning," I say. "Perfect eight minutes. You see? These aren't random habits. Everything she does is calculated, precise. Like she's performing for an audience."

"Or like someone with OCD," he suggests. "Which, given her profession—"

"Listen, Davidson is worried about you," Torres says. "We all are. You haven't slept properly in weeks. You're missing family obligations. Your psych eval—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're obsessed. And after yesterday's briefing—"

"What about it?" I challenge, but I already know. Everyone knows. My outburst in front of the task force, the evidence boards I wouldn't take down, the theories no one else believes.

Torres sighs. "Administrative leave isn't the end of the world, Brad. Think of it as a chance to reset. Spend time with Tyler. Go to Sunday dinners again. Get real sleep instead of dozing off in front of these monitors."

"I can't," I say, watching Chloe pour her coffee into the blue ceramic mug. "Not now. Not when we're so close."

"Close to what?" Torres's voice rises slightly. "What exactly do you think is happening here? Because from where I'm standing, I see a dedicated agent throwing away his career over—"

He stops as Chloe moves to the window, her free hand touching the glass. The morning light catches her face, makes her look almost translucent. Almost innocent.

"Tell me what you see," I say quietly. "Really look."

Torres studies the monitor for a long moment. "I see a woman having her morning coffee."

"Look at her left hand."

He leans closer. "Is that... a tremor?"

"Started three days ago. Similar to the tremor she developed before Maria Suarez disappeared." I pull up more comparison footage. "Her patterns are shifting again, Torres. Like they did before. Something's coming."

My phone buzzes again. Davidson, for the third time this morning. Over Torres's shoulder, I see the message preview: "Final warning. Psych eval today or admin leave effective immediately."

Chloe picks up her keys—house keys first, then switches to car keys after two seconds.

Another deviation.

"Brad." Torres's voice is heavy with resignation. "You have to make a choice here. Your career, your family, your life—or this obsession with Chloe Winters."

The monitors glow accusingly in the dim light of my apartment. Somewhere in Chloe's perfectly ordered world, another woman's life hangs in the balance. I can feel it.

"You're right," I say finally, reaching for my coat. "I do have to make a choice."

Torres straightens hopefully. "The psych eval?"

"No." I check my weapon, adjust my badge. "I'm following her today. In person."

"Brad, don't—"

"Tell Davidson whatever you want." I'm already moving toward the door. "Tell her I'm unstable, obsessed, throwing away my career. Tell her I need help. But somewhere between Chloe's ordinary routines and perfect patterns, women keep disappearing. And I'm going to prove it."

"This isn't going to end well," Torres calls after me.

He's probably right. But I stopped caring about endings the day Abi vanished.

---

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this episode of "Confessions of a Voyeur," please consider subscribing to receive future installments and support my work.

Until the next confession,

—Your Narrator

To return to the crossroads, click HERE.