Chapter 4: The Truth in Plain Sight

The next morning, I got up early on purpose.

I barely slept—too anxious to miss my chance. The city was just waking up, pigeons cooing outside my window as I showered, dressed, and headed out.

After a quick shower, I headed downstairs to Derek’s building and waited quietly for him to come out.

I tucked myself into the shadow of a mailbox, pretending to scroll through my phone. The air was sharp with the smell of car exhaust and last night’s rain. I kept one eye on the lobby, nerves buzzing.

I wasn’t worried he’d recognize me. Strictly speaking, he probably hadn’t even seen me once.

After all, most neighbors in this city wouldn’t recognize you unless you knocked on their door for a package. I’d made sure to keep my profile low—never stepping into the hallway at the same time as them, always staying behind my blackout curtains at night.

Not only had we never met face-to-face, but even when I was spying, I always turned off my lights and pulled my blinds, peeking through a narrow gap.

My place was a fortress of paranoia—no chance of a stray reflection or careless light giving me away. If anything, I was just another face in the city crowd.

Even if we passed each other on the street, I doubted he’d recognize me—unless he happened to be a fan of mine. But with a million followers, that’s still a drop in the bucket.

Sometimes, I’d imagine him stumbling across one of my YouTube videos, laughing at some bad science pun without realizing the guy on the screen lived right across the street. The irony would be almost poetic.

Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly saw Derek come downstairs.

He looked exactly the same as always—DoorDash windbreaker zipped up, helmet in hand, earbuds already in. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the sidewalk with that half-awake, pre-coffee glaze.

He wore his usual DoorDash jacket, and as he passed me, he glanced at me twice.

Our eyes met for a split second, and my stomach twisted. He looked away quickly, probably just sizing up the stranger loitering by the wall. Still, I pulled my cap lower, heart thudding in my chest.

I didn’t think much of it—probably just because I was a stranger hanging out by the wall, lost in thought.

This is Chicago—nobody trusts anyone hanging around for no reason, especially this early. I did my best impression of someone waiting for an Uber.

I didn’t follow him right away. I watched as he rode off on his moped, then quickly got up and hopped on my own.

I waited until he was halfway down the block, then slipped around the corner to where my own battered scooter was chained up. I fired it up and trailed him from a safe distance, weaving through early-morning traffic.

For the next while, I followed him for two deliveries. But what he did next left me baffled.

At first, he moved like any other gig worker—phone buzzing, weaving through alleys to drop off breakfast orders. But after his second delivery, he pulled into a parking lot behind a CVS and just...sat there. I circled the block twice to make sure he wasn’t waiting for someone.

All morning, Derek only took two orders. The rest of the time, he just sat on his moped, glued to his phone.

I watched from across the street as he scrolled endlessly—TikTok, maybe, or some mobile game. He barely looked up. For a full hour, he didn’t move.

There are delivery drivers like that, but for someone working full-time, it didn’t make sense. Their pay is based on the number of deliveries they make—no base salary.

Even when I did gig work in college, I hustled for every order. The only people who took breaks that long were retirees or kids working for pocket money. But Derek didn’t seem like either.

Maybe he was tired and just needed a break, I thought, trying to rationalize his behavior.

I checked my own phone, half-convinced there was some delivery app outage I hadn’t heard about. But the orders kept coming for everyone else.

So I waited with him until lunchtime—the busiest time for orders, when most drivers work the hardest.

At noon, the city exploded with takeout orders—lines of drivers crowding the Chipotle pickup counter, horns blaring as everyone raced the clock. But Derek just sat in the shade, sipping from a Gatorade and texting.

But to my surprise, Derek still didn’t take any orders. Instead, he went to eat at a leisurely pace.

He wandered into a deli, took his time with a sandwich, then came back out, wiped his hands, and flopped back onto his scooter. No urgency, no rush. It made no sense.

After his meal, he went right back to sitting on his moped, playing on his phone, showing no intention of working.

I watched as other drivers zipped past, double-parked, and hustled bags to apartment lobbies. Derek didn’t budge, just grinned at his phone as if the world couldn’t touch him.

Suppressing my doubts, I kept following him until evening.

I tried to tell myself maybe he had a second job, or was waiting for a special order. But as the hours dragged by, nothing changed.

The entire day, he only went out to deliver food five times. The rest of the time, he just played on his phone.

I checked my own delivery apps, compared his route to the busiest neighborhoods. Nothing matched up. Five deliveries wouldn’t even pay for gas, let alone rent.

When I got home, I sat on the couch, dazed, replaying Derek’s strange behavior over and over in my mind.

The silence in my apartment felt heavier than ever. I poured myself a whiskey, stared out at the skyline, and tried to make sense of the day. None of it added up.

If he only delivered a few orders a day, his monthly pay wouldn’t even hit a thousand dollars.

That’s poverty wages in this city—a cruel joke. My brain spun through excuses: Maybe he had a side hustle, maybe Natalie made more than I realized.

A thousand bucks—that’s not even enough for rent, let alone food.

I did some back-of-the-napkin math, staring at the bills stacked on my own kitchen counter. No matter how I twisted the numbers, it was impossible.

Maybe he was just tired today and needed a break. One day isn’t enough to draw any conclusions.

I replayed the day in my head, trying to convince myself I’d missed something obvious. Maybe tomorrow would make more sense.

So I decided to watch him for a few more days.

I cleared my calendar, skipped a few blog deadlines, and set up my telescope for some daytime surveillance. Curiosity, I told myself, was the hallmark of any good scientist.

I kept observing for another two days. Nothing changed—his daily order count never broke double digits.

Each day was a carbon copy of the last—barely any deliveries, hours wasted on his phone, zero urgency. I started to wonder if he was running some kind of scam.

What was going on?

I scribbled theories in my notebook, growing more paranoid by the hour. There had to be a missing piece.

Doubt took root in my heart.

I knew obsession when I saw it—after all, I lived with my own every night. But Derek’s behavior made no sense, no matter how I spun it.

You have to understand, this isn’t some small town—it’s a prime spot in the city. Judging by their apartment, the monthly rent had to be at least three thousand dollars.

Rent in this neighborhood is brutal. Even the cheapest studio costs more than most people’s monthly take-home pay. Natalie and Derek’s place had big windows, a decent view—definitely not the bargain bin.

Natalie isn’t a high earner either—just a manicurist at a nail salon. Her salary might be six or seven grand, enough for one person to live on.

I looked up salaries for manicurists in the city—best case, she’d be scraping by if she worked overtime every week. She didn’t dress like she was struggling, though.

But the key is, she’s not living alone.

Two people in that apartment meant double the expenses—utilities, groceries, everything. Unless they were splitting costs with a third roommate I’d never seen, something wasn’t adding up.

And from what I’d seen, their life wasn’t tight at all. In fact, it looked pretty comfortable.

I watched Natalie bring home shopping bags from the fancy boutique down the block, saw Derek lighting up Marlboro Reds out on the balcony—premium smokes, not the cheap kind. Their fridge, whenever I glimpsed it, was always stocked with name-brand groceries.

Natalie often bought herself new clothes, and Derek never skimped on himself either—even smoking only Marlboros, which aren’t cheap.

It felt like they were living above their means—or maybe they had a source of income I hadn’t figured out yet. I wondered if they were trust fund kids, or if there was some other game afoot.

Such a lifestyle couldn’t possibly be supported by just a few thousand a month.

I double-checked the numbers, pulled up rental listings, and felt the unease grow. There had to be more to their story.

So where was their money coming from?

I stayed up late, searching for clues—anything that would explain their comfort in a city where everyone else was just scraping by. Every new idea seemed more far-fetched than the last.

My doubts deepened, and I thought of another possibility:

Maybe they were rich kids, just playing at ordinary life.

I said it out loud to my empty kitchen, half-joking, half-hoping it would explain everything. Maybe this was all just a game to them—a way to pretend they were like everyone else.

I muttered this to myself, then picked up the telescope and walked to the window.

The city was getting dark, neon signs flickering on as I lifted the lens back to their window. Whatever secrets they had, I was determined to find them.

It was time for their nightly passion once again.

I tried to focus on the comfort of routine, telling myself the mystery could wait another night. But I couldn’t shake the sense that something bigger was about to break open.