Page 170 of Menace in Vegas

Even then, I checked my rearview mirror for months.

So yeah,I know the look. I know when someone’s watching you with purpose. And I know what it feels like when danger crawls under your skin and won’t let go.

I loop the main street again, eyes cutting through the flow of tourists, shadows, and alleyways.

Nothing.

I push deeper into town, where shops thin out and tourists fade.

That’s when I see him.

Hood pulled low. Lurking near a shuttered corner shop. Leaning against the wall like he’s part of the scenery.

But he’s too still. Too focused.

I pull into a side lot, kill the engine, and get out.

No sudden moves. No puffed-up confrontation. I walk like I’ve got nowhere to be. Like I’m not calculating every angle, every line of sight, every escape route.

I just want a better look. Maybe a license plate if he’s got a car. Something I can track.

But before I get twenty feet away, he looks up.

And bolts.

“Son of a?—”

I take off after him, sneakers slapping the pavement, my heartbeat syncing with every step.

He’s fast. But I’m faster.

I cut through an alley, spot him veer around a corner near a row of beach rentals.

I sprint, gaining ground.

But when I round the corner, he’s gone.

No footsteps.

No heavy breathing from running.

Just salt air and silence and a string of empty porches.

My jaw clenches as I scan the area.

Then I see it. A strip of torn bright blue fabric fluttering on a fence.

I move in, crouch down and examine it. My stomach tightens.

It’s the same color Peyton was wearing the day I saw her.

I snap a photo, rip it free, and shove it in my back pocket before heading back to the car.

My head spins.

I still don’t know why that asshole was watching my wife.

But I know this. Nobody gets near Allie.

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