I step out of my shower feeling clean, warm, and relaxed. Mmmmm. I reach for my towel –

I freeze. A small camera. Far top corner of my bathroom. Pointed at me.

I'm hurt, frightened, angry, despairing.

My heart pounds, my pulse races, I quickly grab my towel and wrap it around me hiding my breasts and vagina. I give the camera a quick fuck-you finger, then yank open the bathroom door, blocking the camera's view.

Still wet and clutching my towel to cover me, I dash through my living room to my bedroom, praying no cameras see me. I search my bedroom for cameras, still not finding any, then quickly dry off and hurriedly dress, knowing that I might have missed a camera and I'm being watched.

I feel broken and helpless. That camera didn't just record me leaving the shower naked – it also saw me undressing and entering the shower.

I want to scream and cry, hit something and just give up.

Instead, I walk back into my bathroom and look for more cameras, not finding any. I kneel on my counter and then reach up and rip the camera off the wall, trying not to show any emotion for him to see.

I wrap my hands around the camera, covering its view, then carry it to the kitchen. I set it lens-down on a cutting board, then grab the hammer I bought for breaking cameras. SMASH.

That's the third camera of his I've found in my apartment. I hope they're expensive.

I sink into a chair at my kitchen table, and I'm shaking. This is too intrusive, too much.

Finding the first camera was horrible. I couldn't believe such a wrong, sick thing had happened to me.

Two cops came. First I showed them where I had found the camera in my bedroom. They seemed more interested in seeing what was in my bedroom than where the camera was. That was discouraging. Then I brought them back to my kitchen and showed them the camera on my table. They grunted, acknowledging that it was a camera. Then we all sat down at my table, and the white cop, about 50, started asking questions. His partner, a so-called brother about 25, leered at me half the time. First they asked me about past boyfriends. Then they asked me to list everyone I had sex with in the past year. Was that personal information any of their business? When I saw that first camera in my bedroom, I felt so violated. I had dressed in front of that camera, so it spied on my naked body. I don't know how many times I had undressed in front of it before noticing. Maybe the number doesn't matter. Plus that camera didn't magically appear in my bedroom. Someone had entered my apartment when I wasn't here, without permission, violating my private space. And now someone, somewhere, had pictures of my naked body. Some creepy jerk was looking at naked pictures of me while yanking on his cock and cumming. Ugh. I was scared and furious. And trying not to cry or break down. So I called the police, to put the asshole in prison where hopefully he would be gang-raped – so he can feel his privacy being violated. And I wanted to be protected. But those two cops were violating me too. Forcing me to tell them the names of each man I had sex with? At that moment, I wanted to tell every male on the planet to go fuck themselves. But to get help, I had to answer their questions. I felt so ashamed as I told them my sex life. Then they started asking if I might have encouraged any of the men, or if I encouraged any other men, like at work. And all the time they were both looking at my cleavage, and I realized I was wearing a low cut sweater, and I certainly looked like a black girl who encourages men. They were acting like this was my fault. I felt helpless. In a small defeated voice, I told them I hadn't encouraged anyone. And they said, "uh huh," like they were pretending to believe me but didn't. Of course I encourage men, that's kind of the point of being female. Continuing the species, remember? That doesn't mean a man can put a camera in my bedroom. And then they stood up and started to leave, saying they would do what they could. "Don't you want to take the camera?" The white cop scowled. "Miss Logan, we can't trace that camera. We have mandatory gun registration, and half the time we can't even trace the guns we find." I turned to the brother, hoping for a more helpful response, and asked him, "What about fingerprints?" He shrugged, he didn't know. The white cop answered. "There's a 3-week delay now on fingerprints. That's for serious crimes. We can't clog up the system with prints from petty misdemeanors. Anyway, he probably wiped the camera, and his prints probably wouldn't be on file." "Or her prints," the brother added, being politically correct. He smiled at me. I scowled – we all knew it was a guy – and I turned back to the white cop. "What about DNA?" "There's a month and a half delay on DNA results, if we're lucky. And we're going to find DNA from every man who's been in your apartment." Which I had already told him how many. He shook his head. "Miss Logan, we'll do the best we can." I never heard back.

Pre-camera, I felt invulnerable. I never really thought about it, I just assumed it. That day I learned I wasn't. Just because I'm a female, a man gathered pictures of my naked body. He could do that because he didn't care about me, and because he didn't feel guilty. He violated my life and body just because he was horny.

And no one was going to punish him. I was the one getting punished. Just for being female.

When I found a second spy camera in my kitchen, at first I just stared. It was like being struck by lightning twice – what were the chances?

Then I realized it was the same guy. El Creepo had seen me eat, and he had seen me reading at the table and working on my laptop. So no nudity, but I must have done something embarrassing, innocently but foolishly thinking that I was alone in my kitchen and safe from prying eyes.

I wasn't as horrified – the creep already had naked pictures of me. Sad to say, I had experience with finding cameras. But it was another violation, and happening twice was definitely bad. I felt obligated to call the police again, though this time not as naively.

I was downgraded to visiting the police station to file my complaint – they didn't care about the scene of the crime, probably because they weren't going to catch him. They weren't worried about me being traumatized, that was my problem. I walked in. "Can I help you?" The clerk looked me over, a normal guy look. Okay, I look good. I used to like being attractive. "Someone planted a camera in my apartment." I was forced to tell that to a total stranger. Other people in the room probably heard me. Yeah, that woman was now checking me out. He looked me over again more carefully, probably trying to decide how much work he would do for a naked picture of me. He gave me a form to fill out, then I waited forever. I finally got to see a cop, an older black man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He projected friendly grandfather. He read what I wrote, and then he asked me the same questions. In the dress I was wearing for that trip, I could have walked into church and helped give communion, but he too asked about the ways this might have been my fault. He looked at the list of names of guys I was forced to write. "Is there any of these men we should especially focus on?" I understood what he was asking – there were too many men to check out each one. Could I please target one man for them to investigate? Not really. "Lennix Dobson." Might as well make that two-timer's life a little miserable. He gave me a big reassuring smile and said they would catch whoever was doing this. I wasn't believing. "How are you going to catch him?" He again gave me that exact same encouraging smile. "Guys like this, they aren't smart. If he keeps doing this, sooner or later he'll make a mistake." I shook my head, still not believing. Plus he was telling me what I was trying not to tell myself – the creep would do it again. "Miss Logan?" "Yes?" "Change your locks." "Yes, Officer." That's was his effort to protect me.

I thought I lived in a friendly world. I never really thought about it, I just took that for granted. I knew there were a few bad people, but the police protected me from them.

Not true. There are more selfish people breaking laws than the police can handle, and no one cares about my problem. I became more cynical. I felt a little more helpless.

And my body didn't belong to just me any more -- my privacy could be taken from me and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

I bought an expensive new lock. But it didn't help – now I found a third camera in my apartment.

This third camera is crushing. After the first camera, I assumed there wouldn't be another. That was naive. After the second, I foolishly hoped there wouldn't be another. But I don't know how else I could have coped.

Now I know I'm the object of someone's sick fixation. The cameras aren't going to stop. Being spied on is now my miserable life.

I cannot deal with this life.

Halfway through calling the police, I hang up. I really do not want to deal with them again. And they don't want to deal with me.

I sweep the pieces of the camera into the garbage, then start searching my apartment to see if he's made some mistake. I have no idea what I'm looking for. Did that cop think, like, the creep might drop his driver's license?

There's no sign of him except probably fingerprints and DNA, but the cops don't want to deal with that. This is a nice neighborhood, but it's a big city and they have real crimes to worry about. I get that. I'm not dead, or stabbed. Or bruised. I don't even have a broken fingernail. No one stole my weekly paycheck, or my wallet, or even my salt shaker. I wasn't raped or groped.

Just violated. In a way a man would never understand.

After the third camera, I obsessively checked for cameras all the time. I dressed and undressed as quickly as possible. I never felt like I was alone in my apartment. I mean, I knew I probably wasn't being watched, but I couldn't feel comfortable and I never knew for sure. I tried to relax, but I couldn't. I led a life of constant anxiety.

My paranoia and helplessness carried over into work. I wasn't as assertive and I had less confidence; I deferred to other people when I would have kept arguing before. It carried over into dating: I wasn't as outgoing or flirty with guys on dates. Yet I let them do more to me before the night was over.

I found the fourth camera hidden between two teeth of a large comb in the back of my comb-and-brush jar in my bathroom. I didn't know how long it had been there. So that proved he could put cameras in my apartment where I couldn't quickly find them.

I found the fifth camera in my car. First he violated my home, now my car.

On my drive to work the next day, I started to happily sing along with my music, when I realized he could be listening. So I stopped singing. But I didn't want to let him control my life, so I made myself sing out loud. But I didn't enjoy that singing. Now I don't sing, whistle, or hum. Anywhere.

Would he put cameras on me at work? I treasure being in an elevator, where he can't be spying on me. When I go out to eat, I can finally relax. But I always go to a different restaurant.

I'm the layout manager for one the best-selling computer magazines. Maybe I first got the job for being demographic gold, but I'm damn good at what I do. I've pointed that out to the production manager enough times that I think he finally understands.

I watch some guys going out for a drink after work. When I came here, I decided I was NOT going to be the black female who got excluded. So I pushed my way into whatever the guys there were doing, from going out for drinks after work to ordering Thai as we worked into the night just before the issue deadline. After a while I became part of the gang, and then I didn't have to push, they assumed I was joining in.

I was strong and confident back then.

Now they're leaving without me. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe – no, Cynthia from the editing staff is going.

I'm usually not asked any more. Maybe because I now always say no. Maybe because I'm less open and more defensive. Maybe because I'm unhappy.

Now I spend my days being afraid; I don't have the energy I need to push in. And I'm afraid to. One of those guys might be my camera-stalker. Probably not, but the police thought someone from work was a possibility.

Or maybe when I'm out with them I'll accidentally do something that makes me a female deserving to be violated.

So now I'm isolated. Everyone is still friendly and nice, I just don't have as many interactions with the men at work.

Church should have been a relaxing respite from cameras, but instead I felt guilty, like I was somehow a part of that sin. I told myself it wasn't my fault a hundred times. But I could see through that camera's eye, before I smashed it to pieces, my naked body exciting some man somewhere. Tempting him to evil. I walked in public deliberately looking attractive, making him want to see more.

Randall's elbow accidentally brushes into my shoulder. He's looking at my layout of an ad he wrote, and he's standing too close to me.

Maybe he doesn't think it's too close. But I feel uncomfortable. I move my chair a little bit away from him. He points to something in the ad, again moving close to me.

Gary invades my body space now. The first time he did that when I got here, I just told him to move away, I didn't feel comfortable. I said it nicely. He moved away and didn't take any offense. He didn't repeat very often, and a cold glance was enough to move him away.

Now? I just let him. It's like a constant war to stop guys from taking too much, and now I've given up and they've won. I do not have the energy to fight a war I'm not going to win.

He doesn't invade the body space of guys. He invades Cynthia's space.

And now Randall. I am a plaything for guys at the office.

Ugh, he puts his hand on my shoulder.

I feel powerless. I'm not showing cleavage. I'm not dressing sexy. I now wear boring, conservative things to work. No high heels. Skirts to mid calf -- I can look down at just my bare leg and feel guilty.

And he still touches me. I hate this. I can't wait for this conversation to be over.

One day I opened my drawer, and all of the spoons were a different pattern.

I just stared, uncomprehendingly. It didn't seem real.

Then it did seem real – he had entered my apartment and switched spoons.

His escalation was an inch, but be had deliberately crossed a line. Maybe his invasion was always about power. His power to enter my apartment. He could see my naked body whenever he wanted. And now he was showing me he could take whatever he wanted, change my life any way he chose.

I couldn't call the police to report someone switching spoons. I searched my apartment for cameras, finding nothing, and for the third time I bought and installed a new, heavy-duty lock on my door.

My cheese grater is gone. I burst into hysterical laughter and screaming and I can't stop. I sob once and then remember and stop -- a camera might be watching me.

Three days later, when I was quickly getting dressed in the morning, I found a bra that I had never seen before. It was in with my other bras. I tried to see if any were missing, but that was too hard to remember. He had escalated his thievery from nonsexual to sexual. I checked my apartment for anything else missing, but all I found was a different cheese grater in my kitchen.

I felt even more vulnerable and helpless.

I throw the day's mail on top of my previous mail, making the pile topple onto my kitchen table.

I pull my picture out from the pile. It's from the third camera -- I'm coming out of the shower, stark naked. I look happy and relaxed; I remember when I used to feel that way.

I walk into my bedroom and smell semen. A quick game of colder-hotter, played to the tune of icky and ickier, leads me to my dresser. When I open the top drawer:

A stain, still a little wet, on one of my panties.

I'm so disgusted it's making me sick. There's a camera in the drawer, positioned to see my face as I open the drawer. So he saw my reaction. I have to try harder to hide my emotions. Always.

I'm so angry. I just want to pummel his face until it's a bloody mess. I just want to give up, this is too much. It's all too unfair. I'm a mess of emotions.

I angrily yank the whole drawer out of my dresser, carry it to my garbage can in my kitchen, and dump everything in the garbage. Then I take the garbage to the dumpster in back, throw it in, and start crying.

And I can't stop. The tears are streaming down my face. I thought I was strong; he just taught me I'm weak. I fumble to get my door unlocked – damn locks – and sit at my kitchen table and just cry and cry. I'm so angry, and I feel so helpless, and I don't know what to do, and I can't change anything.

And I can't live my life this way. I'll always be female. There will always be men. I cry so long I run out of tears, and I still can't stop crying, it's just a dry cry, sobbing heaves, pounding the table, holding my face in my hands.

And then I'm done crying. I learned my lesson: Women are weak and vulnerable. And men like us that way. I look at the clock. I think I cried for an hour. Tucked behind the clock is another spy camera.

So he saw my whole cry. I don't even own my life. Well, if this is about power, he was masturbating to that.

Or maybe he finally realizes how he's ruining my life. I say to the camera, as nicely as I can, "Can you please stop?" I am being a traditional, helpless female – be nice to men, give them what they want, ask nicely, and hope they are nice to me.

The part me that fights for what I deserve and need, that fights for my survival and my rights, is gone. Broken. He took it from me. When it comes down to reality, women are helpless. I take down the camera and throw it away. I feel guilty for being selfish and not thinking about his needs, but I can't stand living with a camera on me. I check my apartment for other cameras.

And when I'm done checking, I put my life in his hands. He can stop. I hope he does. If he doesn't, I give up. I'm just an actor in a play he's producing. I get to be the star, but I just want him to leave me alone. And the part of me that's supposed to fight him is gone.

I come home the next night. Normally the first thing I do is search for cameras. I don't look. They're there, or they're not. I usually try to feel like this is my home and I'm by myself. Now it just feels like a stage and I'm in a movie.

But I don't see any cameras. Everything is in place. Maybe he really has given up on me. Maybe he was truly upset by my crying. Maybe he's finally being a nice person.

The next day I still don't notice any cameras. But I didn't really look.

I open the top drawer of my dresser. All the new panties and bras I bought are gone. They've been replaced by something he bought me.

So he's not leaving me alone. He liked seeing me cry. He likes having power over me. I can feel the rage inside me, but it can't get out. I'm broken.

There's a camera in my drawer too, seeing my reaction. I don't care.

I pick out a bra and panties. They're cheap. He bought the cheapest thing he can find. Good, he doesn't have a lot of money.

I put them on. I open my bedroom closet, a little surprised to find all of my clothes there, wondering if that will last forever. I don't bother looking for more cameras.

I take the last pair of clean panties from my drawer. It was a set of four. "I need more panties," I say. I pick up the camera from my drawer, point it at the empty spot where there are no more panties. Then I put the camera back.

That night I check for panties. None. So I have to do laundry and sooner or later buy more.

I try to care, and I know I should care, but I can't. That night I do a strip tease as I take off my clothes. I shake my booty. I flash my cunt. I can feel the rage inside me, but it's just slowly leaking out and making me hate myself.

So I'm letting myself be violated, letting him take advantage of me. Letting him take as much of my life as he wants. Why not – I can't stop him.

A new pair of pajamas is sitting on my bed, still in their package. Bright purple. How lovely. But not really me. I assume my pajamas will be missing. I'll wear these anyway, they're my wardrobe for tonight's scene.

I open the box nearby. A vibrator. It's a prop. I never wanted to use a vibrator. But I guess I will now.

I've started dating abusive men.

When Karl is close to cumming, I open my eyes and look at him. He's mouthing, under his breath, "Take that, nigger." So he's a white racist. I can feel the rage igniting inside me, burning hot. But it doesn't come out. I just hate myself for letting him fuck me.

And I knew. The way Karl was happy to feel my breasts but didn't want to kiss me. And still I let him enter me.

When our sex is over, I get a quick exit out of his apartment. Now that he's orgasmed, he doesn't want me next to him, doesn't want me in his bed. He's probably changing the sheets right now.

Ah shit! I worked for hours last night on finalizing the layout for next issue, then I forgot to save it to the cloud. So it's on my computer at home.

Two months ago I would have shouted that out loud and bothered everyone in the surrounding cubicles. When I talk to myself now, it's silently.

I stand up and tell Bill nearby that I have to run home, then I walk down to the parking garage.

A car is illegally parked, blocking me in. Fuck, I say to myself, not showing any emotion.

The old me would have at least kicked his car and shouted curses at him. The new me assumes I'm always on camera. So I'm quiet, keeping my anger in. The new me is never spontaneous. I trudge back up two flights of stairs. At least I'm not wearing high heels.

"Bill, can I borrow your car for a few minutes? I have to go home and get the work I left there."

He looks up at me and smiles. "You should put it in the cloud," he offers helpfully. And condescendingly.

"I normally do," I say, trying not to sound angry.

"Do you want me to show you how to make that automatic?"

I want wring his geeky neck. I take a calm breath and explain calmly, "That would be great. Thanks. But for now, could I just borrow your car?"

"Sure." He stands, digs his keys out of his pocket, and hands them to me.

"Thanks."

I trudge back down the two flights of stairs. The car is still blocking mine, so I find Bill's car and drive it home.

I put my key in my door, turn it, and walk in, trying as always to keep my face bland for the cameras. Then I hear a clattering noise in my bathroom. I didn't request any repairs.

I walk to my bathroom, the door is open, and inside is an 18-year-old white guy, showing nervous. He looks like a computer geek except for the oily hair and cheap clothes. He doesn't look like a repairman, and I don't understand –

I do understand. It's my stalker. I finally caught him. "Asshole."

"Your car is supposed to be at work."

So he tracks the location of my car. "Didn't play out that way, loser. How did you get in with the door locked?"

He smirks at me. "You have to buy a better lock than that if you want to keep people out."

Oh. I'm just a female. I don't know anything about locks. I feel so inadequate.

Then he reaches into the pocket of his overhauls, and pulls out a gun. "Stand back," he says nervously.

Oh shit. I thought that, I don't know, that I caught him and I could turn him into the police and he could go to jail. Apparently he doesn't want that ending. Is he going to kill me?

I try to say calmly, but I only sound frightened, "C'mon, dude. Put the gun down. We can talk this out."

"I don't think so, porn star."

I have no weapon. All I have a female body he wants to see. I slowly put my hand on the top button of my blouse. He watches. Then I unbutton it.

He looks transfixed. I try to sound like a helpless, approval-seeking female: "Wouldn't you like to touch what you've been staring at all these months?"

He glances back at the camera he didn't finish installing. It's not recording. He probably wishes it was. Then he looks back to me, I've already undone two more buttons. He takes a sharp breath. "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna let you touch me."

He shakes his head no, like he can't talk. Then he blurts out, "I don't touch."

"Are you sure?" I've finished unbuttoning my blouse. I take it off. So I'm standing in front of him in my bra. I'm doing a strip tease for him. Not my first. I feel helpless and angry that he can see me like this. As always.

"Your skin is crawling with bacteria."

I unfasten my bra and take it off too, my breasts falling loose in front of him. "I showered this morning."

"And sweat."

My finger glides from the bottom of my breast to my nipple, then rubs my nipple. "Not that much sweat." I can feel power, a female power.

"I don't touch. You can't make me." He's angry and fearful, tempted and afraid.

How do men's minds get so twisted in knots? I recognize him now. He's the guy at the grocery store who rounds up the carts from the parking lot. I remember saying hi to him once, being nice to him once. I pitied him. Maybe his life is so lonely I'm the only female who talked to him in the past year.

"No one's making you, baby," I say in my sultriest voice. My finger circles my areola.

My hands cup my breasts. I'm looking him in the eye the whole time. I want to stall. If I can get closer, maybe I can do something.

My finger moves to the side of my breast, just barely grazing my skin, then it moves back to my nipple. My two fingers lightly squeeze my nipple.

Two fingers pretend to be feet, walking down the inside of one breast to my other breast. Climbing the heights there to my other nipple. Starting to –

Suddenly he looks down at his crotch. His pants are starting to darken – he came in his pants. The gun slips out of his hand, he forgot about holding it. It clanks against the rim of the toilet bowl, then splashes into the water. He stares, unbelievingly, at his gun lying in toilet water.

I take two strides to him and slug him in the face as hard as I can. He screams and puts his hands to his face, so I kick him in the crotch, toe-first. He moans, and I throw another hard punch to his hands and face. He takes a hand away to hit me, but his face is such a bloody mess he can hardly see, and I put another fist through his nose.

For months I've wanted to hit someone, especially him. I'm feeling violated completely violated to be standing naked in front of him, but I'm feel rage, and I'm feeling joy.

The pain is too much for him, and he's starting to lose consciousness. I try to break his cheek, but I'm not strong enough to do that and don't hear anything breaking, so I pound my fist into his lips, trying to crush them against his teeth. I see a lot of blood.

Then he falls to my bathroom floor. I just look at him disgustedly. "I've been wanting to do that for a looong time." I calmly take out my phone and call 911.

"I have an intruder in my house."

"Don't try to approach him, he could be armed and dangerous."

"No, he's unconscious. I'm fine." Finally. I look down at his unconscious body. I can relax in my own apartment, first time in months.

I give him another hard kick in the face. "I just want to press charges. He's been harassing me for months."

"We'll send a squad car out right away." I start putting my clothes back on.

There's a chime telling me someone's here, I buzz them in, and the same two cops as first time come in.

The white cop says, "You reported an unconscious man in your apartment?"

"Yep. Caught the creep putting up a camera in my bathroom. He's been doing that for months."

"You should have reported that to us. Do you know why he was targeting you?"

Blaming me. I'm too angry to answer that. I whirl on my heels and walk to my bathroom, them following.

"Holy shit!" the black cop says when he sees the guy. "What happened to him?"

"He fell from the counter and hit his face."

"It looks like someone –" The white cop puts his arm across his partner's chest and says, "Mm hmm. He hit it pretty badly." Black cop gives him a baffled stare, then gets it. He turns to me, "You were real lucky he fell, Miss Logan," he says with too much sincerity to be real.

I sigh. "I was."

I can't believe this is over.

The white cop explains, "You might have to testify in court. But we'll get a search warrant for wherever he lives. That should be more than enough evidence to convict him; it's unlikely this will ever make this to trial."

"Can you have a woman be the one to look at his stuff of me?"

"It'll probably be a few men, but we'll be professional."

"I'll sue."

He writes that down. "I'll see what I can do."

I look at the black cop. Officer Jansen. Not too experienced, but he's got a good build, a nice face, and a real job. And no ring.

This is the first time in months I've looked at a man and not wondered if he was my stalker. I look at the two of them, calling the ambulance to haul him away, looking at the creep's license, deciding how to find his car, and I realize they're helping me. I couldn't do those things by myself.

Men's minds can be even more twisted up than I thought. But Officer Jansen is protecting me right now. He would be nice to me on a date.

I have to stop hating myself.

I take a brave breath, then reach out and touch his forearm. "Thanks for coming, Officer." I give him my good smile.

He startles at my touch, smiles back at me, then we hear the ambulance coming and Officer Jansen runs to open the outside door to help them in.

I look at the white cop, he looks at me, and I point to the guy on the floor. "I spoke to him once. Once. I said hi in a nice way. I asked how his day was. He said it was hard, and I sympathized." He nods. "Just once."

He shakes his head. "Okay."

He should just keep his mouth shut, but he tries to explain. "You're an attractive woman, Miss Logan."

"And that's . . . my fault?"

"It's just . . ." We can both work this out. I dress attractively. It is my fault, if someone really wants to blame me. But that's how the world works. I should be allowed to dress attractively and not have that be an excuse to harass me.

He does his best to stay on safe ground: "If we could just get rid of sex and money, it would make my job a lot easier."

"Not mine. I help produce magazines. If an ad doesn't have sex or money, I fix it."

He smiles wryly. "Why didn't you tell 911 he needed medical attention?" He doesn't sound angry at me.

"I forgot."

Bloody Stalker chooses this moment to regain enough consciousness to moan and roll on the floor. I shift my weight off my right foot.

"Please don't kick him, Miss Logan. I'm already cutting you too much slack."

"Yes, officer." I shift my weight back to both feet.

I'll never be the same as I was. That girl is gone, and I'm damaged. But I can put something back together again.

I spin and leave, the white cop no doubt studying my ass – because I'm attractive and he's a male. But his stare is okay, because I decided he could and I'm in control. Totally different.