The morning passed slowly. I used the time to answer emails, make necessary calls, maintain the appearance of a man focused on business rather than obsession. But beneath the surface, my mind was fixed on a single point—the moment when she would walk through those doors and see me again.
At 3:30 PM, I positioned myself in the philosophy section, knowing she would eventually make her way there. I selected a volume of Nietzsche—her favorite, I'd noticed from observing her apartment through binoculars—and pretended to be absorbed in its contents.
The bell above the door chimed at 3:42 PM. I didn't look up, but I knew it was her. Could feel her presence like a change in atmospheric pressure. I remained where I was, patient, allowing her to make her way through the store at her own pace, to discover me rather than being approached.
Twenty minutes later, I heard her footsteps approaching my section. I kept my eyes on my book, my posture relaxed, the picture of a man with no agenda beyond literary interest.
She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. I could feel her gaze on me, the moment of recognition, the slight intake of breath that told me she remembered our encounter at Tenebris.
I looked up then, allowing surprise to register on my face—practiced, controlled, but convincing enough for someone who didn't know better.
"Ms. O'Sullivan," I said, my voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "What a pleasant surprise."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion warring with social conditioning. "Mr. Conti. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Nietzsche," I replied, holding up the book. "A particular interest of mine. And yours, I believe?"
The question was calculated to unsettle her—how would I know her philosophical preferences unless I'd been paying attention? Watching? Learning?
"How did you—" She stopped herself, reassessing. "Yes. Though I prefer his earlier works."
"Before the madness took hold," I agreed, setting the book back on the shelf. "When his ideas still maintained some connection to reality, rather than spiraling into delusion."
"Some would argue the delusion was always there," she countered, her academic instincts overriding her wariness for a moment. "Just better concealed in the earlier writing."
I smiled, genuinely pleased by her engagement. "A fair assessment. The seeds of madness often exist long before they bloom."
Something in my tone made her step back slightly, her guard rising again. "I should go. I have a paper due tomorrow."
"Of course." I made no move to stop her, to follow, to extend the conversation beyond its natural conclusion. "It was good seeing you again, Grace."
The use of her first name was deliberate—a small intimacy, a reminder that our encounters were becoming a pattern rather than coincidence.
"Are you following me?" she asked suddenly, the directness of the question betraying both fear and fascination. "First the club, now here. It seems... unlikely to be chance."
I held her gaze, neither confirming nor denying. "Would you be upset if I was?"
She laughed, the sound nervous and slightly breathless. "Most women would be, yes."
"But you're not most women," I observed, taking a small step closer, testing her boundaries. "You're curious. Intrigued. Perhaps even a little flattered by the attention."
Her cheeks flushed, anger or embarrassment or something else entirely. "You don't know me."
"Don't I?" I kept my voice soft, intimate. "I know you prefer Blackbird Coffee on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I know you run the same route every morning. I know you play piano when you can't sleep."
The color drained from her face as quickly as it had appeared. "That's—that's not curiosity or attention. That's stalking."
I shrugged, unapologetic. "Labels are so limiting, don't you think? I prefer to see it as... getting to know someone thoroughly before making my intentions clear."
"And what are your intentions, Mr. Conti?" Her voice was steady despite the fear I could see in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands.
I smiled, allowing her to see something of the truth—not everything, not yet, but enough to unsettle, to intrigue, to ensure she wouldn't forget this conversation or the man who'd initiated it.
"That would be telling," I said softly. "And where's the fun in that? Some things are better revealed through experience than explanation."
She took another step back, her survival instincts finally overriding her curiosity. "I need to go."
"Of course." I nodded, making no move to follow. "Until next time, Grace."
