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.
