A few days earlier, a young couple moved in next door. The first time I saw her, I couldn't help staring. She was striking-tall, graceful, and beautiful. Her name was Marlee Casson, and she was a nurse. "Hello." When she greeted me, her voice was soft and musical. When she smiled, her fine brows arched into little crescents, and her clear, fair face took on a teasing charm. She had a knockout figure, about five feet seven, with curves in all the right places. A fitted short-sleeve blouse traced a perfect line, the front straining as if the fabric might give way any second. A black pencil skirt hugged her from her narrow waist down, accentuating the dramatic curve of her hips. Her long legs, sheathed in nude stockings, caught the light with a soft sheen. A reckless thought surged up before I could stop it. I wanted her. So I started making plans. The first step, of course, was to learn everything about her. As a seasoned hacker, that part was barely a challenge. I needed to slip into Marlee's phone and computer and get a handle on her life. I scanned the nearby Wi‑Fi networks and pulled her IP address. In minutes, I slipped into her phone. There were plenty of call logs and texts, and her WhatsApp messages, but nothing remarkable at first glance. Then I opened her camera roll. Most of it was everyday selfies and group shots with her husband and friends. I also found two provocative photos: Marlee fresh from a shower, lounging on her bed in nightwear. Her husband wasn't in the frame, so he was probably the one holding the camera.  The neckline hinted at generous cleavage, and the sash at her waist was untied; because of the way she reclined, the robe had fallen slightly open, exposing a hint of smooth skin. Her stomach looked flat and toned, the lines of her abs clean, and a glimpse of red lace showed below. Her long, sleek legs were crossed, and the sight set my blood racing. I copied the two shots to my own computer, then kept digging through her phone. Just then, a text popped up:  "Hi, Ms. Casson." I frowned. These days, everyone messaged and video-called on WhatsApp. It surprised me that someone still used SMS. The number was unfamiliar. "Who are you?" Marlee replied. "Forgot your old flame so fast? That night in the duty room, you were very happy. You enjoyed every minute." I was startled. Earlier, I'd seen her hand in hand with her husband, sweet like newlyweds. I never would've guessed she was seeing someone on the side. She shot back: "So it's you! I don't even know you. I've been nice enough not to call the police. Harass me again and I will." "Ha. I took plenty of photos of you. If you call the police, I'll post them online and send them to your husband. Let's see how famous you get." "Creep. What do you want?" "Ten o'clock tonight at Plumo Park. I'll delete the photos right in front of you." "My husband will be home. I can't go!" He stopped replying. Marlee immediately called the number. No one picked up. They didn't speak again. She saved the number and deleted the thread. I, on the other hand, felt a thrill run through me. I hadn't expected such a stroke of luck the moment I slipped into her phone. Clearly, Marlee had made a grave mistake. If I played this right, maybe I'd have a shot with this stunning woman. At six that evening, just as I was about to head downstairs for dinner, I ran into Marlee at my door. She wore a pink loungewear set. Even the loose fabric couldn't hide her slim, graceful figure. Bare legs showed under her athletic shorts, smooth and pale, and she had on black slide sandals. Her feet were delicate, toenails painted a rosy pink, a playful touch to her otherwise sober look. I smiled and greeted her. "Good evening, Ms. Casson." She held a black garbage bag; she was clearly on her way to the trash bins. She gave a polite, distant smile and stepped into the elevator with the bag. I followed, and as she stood there, the shorts skimming over that high, rounded curve of her hips, I found it hard to reconcile such a slim build with such a disarming figure. Her face looked drained. She kept her head down and said nothing. I knew why. Those texts had shaken her. The doors slid shut. We were alone in that tiny elevator. It sent a little jolt through me. Without thinking, I drifted a step closer. I was half a head taller. Up close, her fair skin, the pale slope of her shoulder, the clean line of her collarbone, and the faint scent of her dark hair made my head swim. She sensed it and, instinctively, edged into a corner, a reflex to keep her distance from a stranger. I gave a rueful smile and asked, "Taking out the trash, Ms. Casson?" She nodded. I meant to say more, but the elevator arrived. We parted in the lobby, and I walked away already brimming with anticipation, wondering whether she'd show up. That night, I left my door ajar on purpose. She'd have to pass my place if she went out, and I wanted to know the moment she did. Sure enough, a little after nine, a pretty figure hurried past my door. My heart leaped. She was headed to the meet‑up. I stepped to the threshold and peered out. In a white trench coat, Marlee walked toward the elevator. As the doors slid shut on her, I hurried back to change, locked my door, and ran for the stairwell. Tonight, I intended to find out what was happening.