1:02 a.m.
The door opens. Her silhouette appears in the threshold—small, hunched against the rain. She tugs her jacket tighter, phone already out, probably calling an Uber. Some primal part of me wants to march over there, offer her a ride again. The sane part knows that's exactly how restraining orders happen.
She already saidno, Dane. What the fuck are you doing?
I sink lower in my seat, disgusted with myself. What is this, high school? Grown men don't stake out women who've made their disinterest clear.
And yet… she's alone, at the mercy or any asshole who decided she fits his type.
Her Uber arrives—Toyota Camry, white, New York plates. I memorize the numbers automatically. Professional habit. Not obsession.
I give the Uber a thirty-second head start before pulling out, keeping three car lengths behind. I already know where we're going. I've also memorized her address. Rain makes following easier—everyone's just headlights and brake lights through the wet glass.
Funny how life circles back on itself. Here I am, trailing someone through New York at night—exactly what I'm paid to do. Except nobody's paying me to follow Lila Marks. Nobody's asking for evidence of anything.
What am I even looking for? Proof she lives where I already know she lives? Confirmation she's exactly who she appears to be?
Or maybe the truth is simpler. Maybe I'm drawn to broken things. Maybe I recognized something in those green eyes.
The Uber stops outside her building. She steps out, hurries inside without looking back. I sit in my idling car, rain drumming overhead, wondering what kind of man I've become.
Not my father's son. But something not entirely better.
The rain stops abruptly, like someone flipped a cosmic switch. My windshield clears, giving me a perfect view of her window—dim light glowing from behind cheap curtains. I imagine her peeling off that work shirt, damp with beer and sweat from the bar. Stepping out of her jeans. Her pale skin freckled everywhere, not just her face. My mind paints her slipping into the shower, water tracing every curve, auburn hair darkening under the spray.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, adjusting myself. My cock strains against my jeans—apparently having no moral qualms about this situation.
I need to move. Need to do something besides sit here thinking about a woman who rejected me while my dick betrays every ethical boundary I pretend to have.
I exit the Charger, the night air cool against my face. Across the street, an abandoned commercial building slouches against the skyline—brick facade crumbling, windows either boarded or broken. Six stories, probably from the 1920s, when this neighborhood actually mattered to someone.
Perfect.
I circle the structure, keeping to shadows from habit. The city's architecture tells stories to those who know how to read it. This one's saying: forgotten, dangerous, useful. My kind of place.
A rusted fire escape clings to the south wall. I test the lowest rung—it holds. The climb is easy, methodical. One floor, two, then the roof. Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I survey my new vantage point.
From here, I can see half the block—including her apartment. Fifth floor, first window from the right. I can make out shapesthrough the glass: a small table, the edge of a bookshelf, movement that must be her.
This isn't surveillance. It's worse.
I pace the rooftop, cataloging exits, checking sight lines, mentally mapping the building below me. Part of me knows this is just busywork—something to justify why I'm really here. The other part... has plans.
Manhattan spreads before me like a circuit board, a million connections I'll never understand. Somewhere out there, Brian Langford might be preying on another student. Somewhere, his wife sleeps alone, unaware.
Everyone has secrets. Everyone has patterns.
I pull out my phone and snap several photos of the building's layout, the surrounding streets, the positions of a few security cameras on nearby storefronts.
Not for a case. Not for a client.
For her.
I'm up here playing the role I know too well—the watcher. The planner. The ghost who knows too much about strangers.
My mind kicks into operational mode—the same calculations I made in battlefield, in a dozen shitty spy nests across the globe. Only this time, it's not a high-value target or a cheating spouse.
It's Lila.
