1
DANE
Iadjust the zoom on my camera, framing the subject through the tinted windows of my Charger. Brian Langford struts out of his office building after greeting the doorman, all polished shoes and pressed slacks. Guy looks like he stepped out of a catalog for "Rich Assholes Monthly."
Click. Click. Click.
The camera captures every detail—the way he checks his reflection in a store window, how he touches his wedding band before answering his phone. It's all so... perfect. Too perfect. Like someone programmed a robot to act human but forgot to include the flaws. Langford's got that Ken-doll shine, all chiseled jaw and coiffed hair, but there's something off about the eyes. Cold. Calculated. The kind of gaze that makes you wonder if there's anything behind it at all.
I think back to his wife, Claire Langford, sitting across from me in my office, her hazel eyes clouded with doubt.
"I can't figure out what's wrong, but something is different," she said. "I just need to know if he's… cheating. We only got married a year ago, but he's acting strangely. It's little things.Maybe it's nothing." She twisted a gold necklace between her fingers. "Am I going crazy?"
No, sweetheart. You're crazy for marrying this Ken doll in the first place.
Claire wore a cream-colored wrap dress when she came to my office. Simple, elegant. But no amount of propriety could hide her nerves or the way her wedding ring seemed to weigh down her entire hand. "I need to know," she'd said. "Even if... even if it hurts."
I'm afraid it will.
His suit is expensive, tailored within an inch of its life. Every movement is choreographed, like he's constantly performing for an invisible audience. The way he walks, talks, even breathes, it seems to scream "successful young professional." But to me? The jury is still out.
I zoom in on his face as he talks on the phone. That million-dollar smile never reaches his eyes. It's all teeth and no warmth, like a shark circling its prey. What does Claire see when she looks at him? Does she notice how his fingers twitch slightly when he's not in motion, like he's fighting the urge to... what? I've seen that tick before, in men who are barely keeping it together. Men with something to hide. Maybe she's onto something.
As I watch, I can't help but think: we're all wearing masks, aren't we? Some are just better at it than others. Langford's mask is pristine, polished to a high sheen. But the cracks are there if you know where to look.
I'm paid to look.
Langford slides into his sports car—because of course he drives a fucking sports car—and peels away from the curb. I follow at a discreet distance, the Charger's engine purring. This dance is familiar: predator and prey, though Langford doesn't know he's being hunted yet.
Is Claire right about him cheating? Maybe.
I tail him to a high-end restaurant. He meets another man—older, expensive suit, and with the kind of tan you only get from golfing in places that don't show up on maps. They shake hands, all teeth and false camaraderie.
Click. Click. Click.
Is this the smoking gun Claire's looking for? Probably not. But anything could be a thread, and when I find it, I'll pull until the whole thing unravels.
I tail Langford for the rest of the day, but the bastard's as clean as his pressed shirts. Boring, even. He wraps up his business lunch, makes a few more stops—dry cleaner, florist (points for remembering the wife, I guess), then straight home to his fancy brownstone.
But something's off. I feel it in my gut, that same twisting sensation I got on the battlefield every time all hell was about to break loose. It's not what Langford's doing. It's what he's not doing. No pauses, no hesitation, no furtive glances. He's too perfect, like a mannequin playing house.
I've seen his type before. The golden boys who think the world owes them everything. The ones who smile and shake your hand while planning where to bury your body.
As night falls, I park across from their place, settling in for a long watch. The lights flick on inside, silhouettes moving behind gauzy curtains. Picture-perfect couple in their picture-perfect home. But perfection's a lie, and lies are my bread and butter.
My mind drifts to Claire again, her quiet strength, the way her eyes gave her hurt away even when she tried to hide it. She doesn't belong with a guy like Langford. No one does.
I shake my head, banishing the thought. Getting attached to clients in any way is a rookie move, and I'm anything but a rookie.
The front door opens, and Langford steps out onto the stoop. Even in the dim streetlight, his smile is too wide, too bright. He's on the phone again, voice low and intense. I strain to hear, but the words are lost in the night air.
One thing slowly becomes clear to my PI instincts Brian Langford is hiding something. And whether it's infidelity or something darker, I'm going to find out what it is. Because that's what I do. I hunt down the truth, drag it into the light kicking and screaming if I have to.
And God help anyone who gets in my way.
DANE
The hours crawl by, and the Langford residence settles into the quiet hush of night. No more movement behind those perfectly arranged curtains, no more hushed phone calls on the stoop. Just another happy couple tucked away in their million-dollar dream.
