Page 115 of Can't Stop Watching
"And why would she want that?"
Fair question. What could I possibly offer her now? An apology? As if words could wash away what I did. The surveillance, the lies, the fundamental violation of trust.
I could ask Milo to find her. One phone call, and I'd have her location within the hour. Old habits, familiar darkness. The easy path.
But darkness is what brought us here.
"Because I won't be coming uninvited this time," I say finally. "I could find her if I wanted to. We both know that. But I'm asking you instead."
Silence stretches between us. I've lived too long in shadows. If there's a path back to Lila, it can't begin with more of the same.
Tessa huffs into the phone. "That's not good enough, Wolfe. Not by a long shot."
I grip the wheel, knuckles whitening. What does she want? My blood? Because I've already spilled plenty, and I have scars to prove it. Not enough penance, apparently.
"We're good for each other," I say, voice like gravel.
Silence stretches between us.
"I've seen monsters, Tessa. Killed them. Been one." The words leave me raw, exposed. "But with her... I remembered what it felt like to be human."
What else can I say? That I dream of her every night? That I see her face when I close my eyes? That I've never felt this fucking helpless before? Some truths are too heavy for words. Some feelings too deep for language to capture. But if this is my one shot...
"I fucking love her, Tessa." The confession breaks something loose inside me, some final wall I didn't know was still standing. "She deserves better. But I'm selfish enough to try anyway."
I wait, breath suspended, for judgment from the only person standing between me and the woman who somehow became my salvation.
"Elmer Holmes Bobst Library," Tessa says after a long pause.
That's it. No lecture, no threats. Just four words and the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a beat. NYU's main library. Good place, neutral ground with plenty of people.
The engine growls as I pull into traffic, rain hammering the roof like distant gunfire. My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, a physical reminder of my failures. Poetic fucking justice.
New York slides past my windows—blurred neon and shadow, light and darkness in constant battle. Just like everything else in this godforsaken existence until I met her.
I wonder what waits for me at that library. Forgiveness? Not likely. Closure? Possibly. A chance to explain my twisted version of love? Hell, I'm not sure I understand it myself.
Maybe people like me don't get happy endings, and we're nothing but the cautionary tales, but the truth is that Lila gave me hope. Not just the cheap kind that fades with the sunrise, but something that dug into my bones and refuses to let go.She looked at me—really fucking looked at me—and didn't turn away from what she saw. No one knows me like she does. Before her, I was just going through the motions, solving other people's problems because I couldn't face my own. A ghost with a gun license and too many nightmares.
She changed everything. Made me question why I kept putting myself in the line of fire, why I spent my nights chasing shadows down dark alleys when I could be building something real. Something mine. For the first time since I got back from overseas, I started thinking about tomorrow instead of just surviving today. Started wondering what it might be like to hang up the PI badge, to trade stakeouts and crime scenes for morning coffee and arguments about whose turn it is to cook. Normal shit. Real life.
The kind I never thought I wanted, much less deserved. The kind that seemed like a fantasy reserved for people who hadn't seen what I've seen or done what I've done. But Lila made me hungry for it in a way that terrifies me. Because wanting something that badly means you've got something to lose.
God, I hope she's there.
38
LILA
Iflip up my collar as I hurry down the corridor of Elmer Holmes Bobst Library, clutching my laptop bag close. The place is empty, just how I like it these days. No people means no problems, my new life motto since the Langford shit show three weeks ago.
My footsteps echo against the marble floors, unnaturally loud in the silence. It's past six on a Friday, and even the most dedicated grad students have packed up for the day. The New Yorker deadline looms over me, but every time I try to write about what happened, my fingers freeze over the keyboard.
A door creaks open behind me.
My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I whip my head around to see a man step into the hallway.
