Who the fuck did he think he is?

She is my wife.

I’d had the doorbell camera installed for Leah a few months ago. Had told her I just wanted to make sure she was safe, and she should always make sure she knew who was at the door before she opened it. Of course, I made sure I could access the feed, so that I knew who was coming and going from the house. She didn’t know about the other spycams I’d secreted around the house: a tiny camera hidden within the spine of a book I knew she’d never even glance at, another embedded in what looked like a little diamond decorating a candle on a shelf. I also popped a little bit of spyware on to her laptop while I was at it. My home office has two computer screens and so I can get up her screen on one to see what she’s looking at and pop the webcam feed on the other so I can watch her.

It turned out to be even more useful, the spyware, after the “incident.” I learned a lot that first night Megan rummaged through Leah’s files. Things flying up on the screen that I hadn’t seen Leah really care about, like the value of her stock portfolio or the itemized receipt for the work she did for Angels Inc. There is also a camera in her bedroom and one in the spare room. Just in case. I’m not a peeping tom.

Although I hope the police will think that ginger twat is. Especially when I send him a random email later to trigger a little piece of code I have written. Code that will leave a lovely trail, exposing his obsessive watching and recording of Leah months before he actually met her.

Did I mention I was a bit good with computers?

I have a friend who has always been a whizz with these kinds of things. We’d had a good thing going when I was in my twenties and used to escort. Horny old rich women are stupid. They would pay me an absolute fortune to cum on their tits, while my mate slipped into their hotel suite—it was always a suite, normally paid for by some dolt of a husband—and hacked their phones. We would then siphon money from their accounts, use their credit cards and the like. After a while, he taught me how to do it myself, to cut down the risk of him being caught in the suite. It snowballed from there. We made a killing, until he met some girl and decided he should get a proper job. He still helps me out occasionally, though, if things get a bit too tricky. For old time’s sake. Before we both had wives.

It’s been four days since the first call for information on the disappearance of Leah Patterson was televised. I have been looking forward to this evening all day, willing the hours I had to spend on my day job to pass quickly. Although, I did notice that the sanitizer company I had bought shares in—only a small number, what I could afford with the remnants of our joint savings account—had jumped up in value by over one hundred and fifty percent. After that I got a bit sidetracked looking at the bitcoin Megan was able to transfer. It has increased by a few percent in just a week, the hundred thousand pounds making me four grand in just days. I’ll have to diversify it soon, too risky to leave it all in bitcoin. But just think what I can do when I get the rest of the money from Leah. Holy fucking shit!