Page 12 of Can't Stop Watching
I raise the camera again. Brian's checking his reflection in a window now, adjusting his tie with practiced precision. The gesture reminds me of a snake shedding its skin—too smooth, too rehearsed.
Through the viewfinder, I watch him check his watch, a Patek Philippe that probably costs more than most people's cars. He's not checking the time. He's admiring how it looks on his wrist.
The thing about cheaters is they come in two flavors: the guilty ones and the entitled ones. The guilty ones slip up, leave breadcrumbs, practically beg to get caught. The entitled ones? They're architects of their own reality. They don't think rules apply to them.
What kind are you, Brian?
I snap another photo as Brian finally exits the restaurant. His wedding band catches the afternoon sun, and I notice, once more, how he touches it, not like a reminder of love, but like a prop in his performance.
Something's definitely wrong here. The question is: what kind of wrong are we dealing with?
I slide out of the Charger, my boots hitting the pavement with practiced silence. Brian's fifty yards ahead, weaving through the lunch crowd like he owns the sidewalk.
This is the part of the job I love—the hunt, tracking someone who thinks they're untouchable. There's an art to becoming invisible in plain sight, to matching their pace without drawing attention. The military taught me how to track targets across desert terrain. The streets of New York? Just a different kind of battlefield.
Brian cuts through 7th Avenue. A group of tourists blocks my line of sight. I use their cover, keeping my distance. Eight years ago, I was pulling triggers from rooftops. Now I'm stalking trust fund babies through Manhattan. Life's got a sick sense of humor.
But this? This is why I became a PI. Not for the money. God knows Dad left enough of that, blood money I barely touch. It's about catching people who think rules don't apply to them. People like my father, who smiled at charity galas while getting his mob-boss clients off the hook in court.
Brian checks his phone, those manicured fingers dancing across the screen. His other hand touches his wedding ringagain… third time in ten minutes. It's not guilt. It's rehearsal. The actor checking his props before a performance once more.
The thing about predators? They're predictable. They follow patterns, leave traces. I've seen enough of them to know, from the sleaze balls my father defended to the targets I eliminated overseas. Evil wears different masks, but underneath? Same empty eyes, same cold calculation.
Brian turns the corner. His shoulders are relaxed, stride confident. He thinks he's invisible, untouchable.
Wrong, rich boy. Nobody's invisible to a ghost.
I follow him into Luigi's Pizza, keeping my distance.
You already had lunch, man. What are you doing?
The place is a throwback to old New York—red checkered tablecloths, walls plastered with faded photos of Italian landscapes, the kind of joint that's survived fifty years of gentrification through sheer stubbornness. Perfect hunting ground for predators, busy enough to blend in, casual enough that no one pays attention to who comes and goes.
The smell of garlic and grease hits me, along with memories of stakeouts in other places. Different cities, different targets, same game. Only this time, I'm not looking through a scope. No clean, surgical distance. This is up close and personal, the way justice should be.
I slide into a corner booth, positioning myself behind a plastic fern that's seen better decades. I can see clearly through the gaps. The lunch crowd's thinned out, leaving me a clear view of our golden boy and his... companion.
Jesus. She can't be old enough to drink. Long blond hair, fresh-faced, wearing a blouse and jeans. There’s what looks like an NYU sweatshirt folded on her lap. The kind of innocent prettiness that makes my stomach turn when I see it next to someone like Brian.
I activate a small recording device after a waitress drops a menu in front of me. I order a coffee without looking up from my phone.
"You look beautiful, Sarah." Brian's voice carries a practiced warmth that doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. "How are your classes?"
"Good." Her voice is soft, uncertain, like a bird testing its wings for the first time. "I looked into that internship you told me about." The way she says it makes my skin crawl, that hesitant tone that screams she's trying to please him. I've heard it before, seen it before. Young girls thinking they can dance with wolves without getting bitten. Christ, I hate being right about these things, but years of watching the worst of humanity has taught me to spot the predators. And Brian? He's textbook.
Claire wasn't wrong.
"Smith, Davidson & Ross would be perfect for you." Brian's manicured hand slides across the table, covering Sarah's smaller one. His ring finger is bare, the wedding band conspicuously absent. Fucking typical. "You've got that spark they look for in their interns."
My jaw clenches. Smith, Davidson & Ross, high-end corporate law firm, the kind that makes headlines defending crooks, the same way my father did. Also the kind that likes fresh meat straight out of college. I've seen enough of these places growing up, watched my father work there, watched how they groomed young talent. Sometimes "talent" being their euphemism for something else entirely.
Sarah shifts in her seat but doesn't pull away. Her shoulders tense, a micro-expression of discomfort crosses her face. Not enough. Not nearly enough. She should be running, but she won't. They never do, not until it's too late.
"I don't know..." Sarah tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear with her free hand. "Classes are pretty intense already."
"Trust me." Brian's thumb strokes her knuckles. The gesture makes my trigger finger itch. "I have connections there. One word from me, and you'll be fast-tracked."
The same old dance. Different club, different music, same predatory choreography. It plays in back alleys same as in gleaming office buildings. Power doesn't change its habits, just its costume.
