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As the weeks ticked by, the agents gutted software and slogged through subpoenas.

Then they finally got a break: A few of the domain names were registered to one Luis Mijangos. Mijangos, assuming that wasn't an alias, lived on a quiet street in Santa Ana, a suburb in Orange County not far from Disneyland.

She said she felt "terrorized." After the incident, she didn't leave her room for a week.

And when she finally did go back to class, she couldn't concentrate.

"I know you're talking to each other right now! James's throat constricted; how did the stalker know what he was saying? Since its founding in 2002, the program's cyber squads have worked out of a cluttered, bustling office on Wilshire Boulevard, a maze of cubicles that looks more like the office of a video-game company than of a federal agency.

Amy knew it was irrational, but she couldn't help scanning the crowd, looking for her stalker. He, too, had holed up alone, away from family and friends.

He'd even stopped calling Amy, ending their relationship. He had gained remote access to his victims' computers, allowing him to monitor their activity online and to search their hard drives.

At first they figured it was some kind of malfunction, but when it happened repeatedly—the light flicking on, then off—the girls felt a chill. The more ubiquitous cameras become, the less we're aware they're even there. She ran into her bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

One by one, they gazed fearfully into the lenses, wondering if someone was watching and if, perhaps now, they were looking into the eye of something scary after all. They stare out at us blankly from our phones and laptops, our Xboxes and i Pads, a billion eyes and ears just waiting to be turned on. As she pleaded for the police to come quickly, she reached into the shower and cranked the water all the way up, hoping the hacker couldn't hear her.