My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
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Vincent Lowell kept his entire art collection stashed in a dusty antique shop just a few blocks away.
He'd mentioned it once—how their arrangement worked. He supplied the pieces; they handled the sales.
When I first moved in, fear had kept me far from that place.
But not anymore.
Tristan Langley had warned me not to leave the apartment for more than an hour.
I knew it wasn't out of concern—just a way to keep me from starving. A small allowance for survival.
What he didn't know? The antique shop was only fifteen minutes away.
So I used mealtime as my excuse and walked right in. A shop assistant eyed me as I approached.
"Have you seen Vincent Lowell recently?"
"Not in person. Who's asking?"
"I'm his sister. His phone's been dead for days. I got worried."
The assistant studied me, then gave a slow nod.
"Well, he did call. But his voice was... off. Said he'd been sick—really sick. Sounded different. Told us he wouldn't be stopping by for a while." A pause. "Oh, and he mentioned some washed-up painter—Tristan Langley. Said he was about to get his hands on new pieces. Promised he'd reach out when he did."
"Doesn't it strike you as weird? Not seeing him for so long?"
The assistant shrugged. "Not really. He's a middleman. Goes quiet for months, then shows up with a goldmine. Guys like him? They're ghosts until they've got something worth selling."
Back in my room, I put the pieces together.
One thing was obvious: Tristan Langley was hiding Vincent Lowell's death.
My bruises had faded. He had the full recording—edited, twisted, ready to pin a murder on me.
Not only had he ruined my plan—now he was playing with me.
My fists clenched.
Escaping my family had nearly killed me.
My parents refused to pay for college. Their ultimatum? Marry or work.
But I knew better. They'd never let me leave. They'd already chosen a husband for me.
So I hurt myself—badly—forcing them to rush me to the hospital.
When they finally fell asleep, I jumped out the window, limped to the train station, and ran.
That day, I swore no one would ever control me again.
I'd risked death for freedom.
Tristan Langley, I won't surrender.
That night, I found a sheer black nightgown in Vincent Lowell's room.
Probably left behind by some poor soul. But it didn't matter now.
I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, then slid it on.
The fruit knife was hidden against my skin.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked on Tristan Langley's door.
I needed to confirm one thing—was the body still there?
This was step one.
The door creaked open.
It was only the second time I'd seen him.
His hair was a mess, his face rough with patchy stubble. He looked worse than before—but his eyes? Wild. Electric.
How could someone look so exhausted and so alive at the same time?
He spoke first.
"What do you want?"
I bit my lip, holding up a bottle of wine. My voice trembled just enough.
"I've been... lonely. Trapped in here too long."
His brow furrowed.
"And?"
"You're a painter, right? I've always admired artists. Maybe we could... talk?"
He tilted his head, silent for a beat, then stepped aside.
"Fine. But—" His eyes dropped to the bottle. "Drink mine. That's fake."
I didn't care—it was from Vincent Lowell's stash anyway.
I flashed a smile and slipped past him.
"Sure, you're the boss!"
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil paint.
The living room was huge but almost empty—just a few wobbly wooden stools, scattered brushes and pigments, and a single metal easel in the center.
On it sat a massive canvas.
His latest work: A woman smothering a man.
Vibrant. Bold.
Grotesque.
Beautiful.
He'd mentioned it once—how their arrangement worked. He supplied the pieces; they handled the sales.
When I first moved in, fear had kept me far from that place.
But not anymore.
Tristan Langley had warned me not to leave the apartment for more than an hour.
I knew it wasn't out of concern—just a way to keep me from starving. A small allowance for survival.
What he didn't know? The antique shop was only fifteen minutes away.
So I used mealtime as my excuse and walked right in. A shop assistant eyed me as I approached.
"Have you seen Vincent Lowell recently?"
"Not in person. Who's asking?"
"I'm his sister. His phone's been dead for days. I got worried."
The assistant studied me, then gave a slow nod.
"Well, he did call. But his voice was... off. Said he'd been sick—really sick. Sounded different. Told us he wouldn't be stopping by for a while." A pause. "Oh, and he mentioned some washed-up painter—Tristan Langley. Said he was about to get his hands on new pieces. Promised he'd reach out when he did."
"Doesn't it strike you as weird? Not seeing him for so long?"
The assistant shrugged. "Not really. He's a middleman. Goes quiet for months, then shows up with a goldmine. Guys like him? They're ghosts until they've got something worth selling."
Back in my room, I put the pieces together.
One thing was obvious: Tristan Langley was hiding Vincent Lowell's death.
My bruises had faded. He had the full recording—edited, twisted, ready to pin a murder on me.
Not only had he ruined my plan—now he was playing with me.
My fists clenched.
Escaping my family had nearly killed me.
My parents refused to pay for college. Their ultimatum? Marry or work.
But I knew better. They'd never let me leave. They'd already chosen a husband for me.
So I hurt myself—badly—forcing them to rush me to the hospital.
When they finally fell asleep, I jumped out the window, limped to the train station, and ran.
That day, I swore no one would ever control me again.
I'd risked death for freedom.
Tristan Langley, I won't surrender.
That night, I found a sheer black nightgown in Vincent Lowell's room.
Probably left behind by some poor soul. But it didn't matter now.
I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, then slid it on.
The fruit knife was hidden against my skin.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked on Tristan Langley's door.
I needed to confirm one thing—was the body still there?
This was step one.
The door creaked open.
It was only the second time I'd seen him.
His hair was a mess, his face rough with patchy stubble. He looked worse than before—but his eyes? Wild. Electric.
How could someone look so exhausted and so alive at the same time?
He spoke first.
"What do you want?"
I bit my lip, holding up a bottle of wine. My voice trembled just enough.
"I've been... lonely. Trapped in here too long."
His brow furrowed.
"And?"
"You're a painter, right? I've always admired artists. Maybe we could... talk?"
He tilted his head, silent for a beat, then stepped aside.
"Fine. But—" His eyes dropped to the bottle. "Drink mine. That's fake."
I didn't care—it was from Vincent Lowell's stash anyway.
I flashed a smile and slipped past him.
"Sure, you're the boss!"
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil paint.
The living room was huge but almost empty—just a few wobbly wooden stools, scattered brushes and pigments, and a single metal easel in the center.
On it sat a massive canvas.
His latest work: A woman smothering a man.
Vibrant. Bold.
Grotesque.
Beautiful.
End of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom Chapter 11. Continue reading Chapter 12 or return to My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom book page.