Chapter 5: Friends Raise Concerns
"Okay,” Lena said, stabbing her fork into her salad like it had personally offended her, “I can’t keep pretending this is cute.”
Camille looked up from her iced tea, confused. “What’s not cute?”
“You. This. The whole... love spell you’re under.”
Camille frowned. “I’m not under a spell.”
“You’re under something. And I’m pretty sure it’s not just Daniel’s cologne.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being observant.”
They were at a sidewalk café, mid-Saturday. Sunlight filtered through the awning, turning Lena’s eyes sharper than usual.
Camille stirred her drink, avoiding her best friend’s stare.
“You’ve barely talked about anything else in weeks,” Lena continued. “Which I could totally get behind if the guy didn’t sound like a walking mystery novel.”
“He’s not a mystery. He’s just private.”
“Cam, private is, ‘I don’t post my dinner on Instagram.’ What you’re describing is, ‘I’ve never existed and I might not even be real.’”
Camille sighed. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
Lena leaned in, her tone softening. “Look. I’m not saying he’s a serial killer.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
“But don’t you think it’s weird? You’ve been seeing him for weeks and still don’t know what hospital he was born in, what school he went to, what kind of cereal he ate as a kid—”
“Maybe he doesn’t like cereal.”
“Okay, that was a joke, but thank you for making my point.”
Camille picked at her napkin. “I know it’s fast. I know it sounds crazy. But... I feel safe with him.”
Lena arched an eyebrow. “Do you feel safe—or do you feel seen?”
Camille looked up, caught off guard. “What does that mean?”
“It means, sometimes when we’re lonely, we mistake attention for safety. Especially when it feels like someone’s finally looking at you the way you always wanted.”
Camille stayed quiet. That hit too close.
“I’m not judging you,” Lena added. “I’m just worried.”
“Don’t be. He’s not dangerous.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you Google him last week?”
Camille’s chest tightened. “How do you—”
“You told me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did. You were half-asleep on the phone and mumbled something like ‘is it weird he’s not online?’”
Camille flushed. “Okay. So I checked. That’s not a crime.”
Lena folded her arms. “And? What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
A silence fell between them. Only the clatter of silverware and passing cars filled the gap.
Then Lena said, “You know I love you, right?”
Camille nodded. “I know.”
“I’m not saying end it. Just… don’t stop asking questions because you like the answers you’re getting.”
That night, Camille replayed that sentence over and over while brushing her teeth.
Don’t stop asking questions.
She didn’t see Daniel until Tuesday. Work had been busy. He’d been “traveling,” or so he said, though he hadn’t shared where.
He texted late:
"Can I see you?"
She typed:
"Where’ve you been?"
Then deleted it.
She sent:
"Yes."
They met at his apartment. A sleek loft in SoHo, full of hard lines and soft light. It smelled like sandalwood and lemon, like him.
He greeted her with a kiss that lingered too long to question anything.
“Missed you,” he whispered against her lips.
“Me too.”
After dinner — which he cooked, of course, perfectly — they curled up on the couch.
Camille rested her head on his shoulder. “You travel a lot?”
“Sometimes. For work.”
“Where’d you go this time?”
Daniel was silent for a moment. “Boston. Meeting with a client.”
She lifted her head slightly. “You didn’t mention that.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.”
He kissed her cheek. “Guess I forgot. Wasn’t important.”
Camille smiled, but something inside her shifted.
Not important.
So why did it feel like he’d deliberately left it out?
Later, while he was in the shower, she walked around the apartment, pretending to admire the art on the walls.
There were no photos.
Not a single one. No childhood pictures. No framed friends. Not even a dusty Polaroid.
She opened a drawer in the hallway. Just pens. A notepad.
She closed it quickly, guilt pulsing through her.
In the morning, as she buttoned her blouse, she said, “I was thinking... maybe we could do something this weekend. Like a road trip.”
Daniel, pulling on a fresh white shirt, smiled. “Where to?”
“Anywhere. Just... somewhere new. With you.”
He paused, mid-button. “That’s sweet.”
“But?”
“I’ve got a packed weekend. Client calls. Back-to-back.”
“Oh.”
Daniel walked over, cupped her face. “Soon, okay? I want that. Just... not yet.”
He kissed her goodbye like nothing was wrong.
But Camille felt it.
The shift. The hesitation.
She met Lena for drinks after work.
“I asked him about a trip,” Camille said. “He dodged.”
“Of course he did.”
“He always dodges.”
Lena sipped her cocktail. “You still think I’m being paranoid?”
Camille sighed. “No.”
“Do you think he’s hiding something?”
Camille stirred her straw. “Yes.”
Lena leaned in. “Then don’t ignore it.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“What if you’re not?”
Camille pressed her fingers to her temple. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I want to believe him.”
“You want to love him.”
Camille looked up. “Same thing.”
“No, Cam. It’s not. Loving someone doesn’t mean pretending they’re someone they’re not.”
That night, Camille sat at home and opened her laptop.
She typed:
"Daniel Cross, SoHo, New York, design consultant."
Still nothing useful.
She clicked images. All unrelated.
Then, one photo caught her eye — a blurry image on a news article about an unsolved homicide case in Boston from two years ago.
A woman. Brunette. Pale. Eyes closed.
Underneath:
"Police search for links between deaths of three women who met online."
Camille clicked. Skimmed.
One sentence froze her blood:
“All three women were last known to be dating a man named Daniel.”
She slammed the laptop shut.
Her heart raced.
She told herself it couldn’t be the same Daniel.
Coincidence.
A common name.
Right?
But for the first time, she didn’t feel safe.
Not even close.
And somewhere inside her, a voice whispered, It’s already too late.