Page 79 of Can't Stop Watching
I check my holster to secure it and wedge myself into the opening, bracing against the walls. The shaft smells of old wood and decades of disuse. Darkness above and below.
I shimmy up the dumbwaiter shaft, muscles burning with each pull. The darkness is complete except for slivers of light bleeding through ancient seams in the wood. Third floor. I count the floors by the horizontal breaks in the shaft—remnants of where doors once opened into each level.
Sweat trickles down my spine as I reach the third floor. I press my ear against the sealed opening, listening. Silence. I trace the edges with my fingers, finding the outline of what was once a serving door. Decades of paint have sealed it shut, but nothing a tactical knife can't handle.
I work the blade around the perimeter, careful not to make noise. The wood groans as I apply pressure, fighting back against my intrusion. Like everything else in life—nothing worth discovering comes easily.
The panel gives way suddenly, nearly sending me tumbling backward down the shaft. Something rattles on the other side. I steady myself, peering through the opening into what must be distilled fortunes in glass form. In the dark space, a shelf of bottles stands like sentries between me and entry.
Shit. But obstacles are just problems waiting for solutions. I press my shoulder against the shelf, testing its weight. Not bolted down. I nudge it carefully, creating just enough space to squeeze my frame through. The bottles clink, whispering secrets I pretend not to hear. I replace the panel and rearrange the bottles to cover my point of entry, erasing my existence like I've done a thousand times before.
Some men leave traces of themselves. I leave nothing.
I'm in what appears to be a pantry. I pull out a small flashlight and find more shelves of expensive liquor. They gleam under my light—the kind of collection that says 'I have money' rather than 'I enjoy drinking.'
How fitting. A secret passage opening into hidden indulgence. The wealthy always create spaces for their vices, thinking walls and money keep their darkness contained.
If only they understood. Darkness recognizes darkness. And mine has been hunting for a long time.
The apartment smells wrong—antiseptic, sterile. No lingering cooking aromas, no stale cologne, nothing that suggests actual living happens here.
What would Langford do if he knew I was here? Probably call his lawyer before the cops. Rich boys always hide behind paid protection. It's the armor they wear instead of growing a spine.
The living room is dark too, its curtain drawn shut. The style is minimalist to the point of absurdity: leather furniture that's never been sat on, art that's been matched to the decor rather than chosen with passion. Everything is aligned with geometric precision. This isn't just tidy. It's pathological.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, running a finger along a pristine surface. Not a speck of dust.
I've seen this level of cleanliness before—in military barracks right before inspection, in operating rooms, and in places where evidence has been systematically removed.
My instincts flare like a trip wire being triggered. This isn't just Langford's fuck pad… it's something worse. Just another clue that makes me fear I'm right about him. Men who need things this clean are usually hiding blood, literally or figuratively.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the blue LED flashlight instead. I carry it for occasions like this. Call me paranoid, I prefer 'thoroughness born from experience.' Blood leaves traces invisible to the naked eye, but under this light, it screams confession.
I flick it on, the blue glow casting an otherworldly pall across Langford's pristine sanctuary. Starting with the walls, I sweepmethodically. The ancient Greeks believed spilled blood cried out from the ground. Poetic myth or uncomfortable truth?
"Let's see what secrets you're hiding behind all this antiseptic bullshit."
Nothing on the living room walls. Nothing on the hardwood floors. The kitchen—spotless. Too spotless. If there was foul play, it was cleaned professionally. No amateur bullshit here. My father and his friends knew how to that.
"Rich psychos always think they're smarter than everyone else," I mutter, moving into the hallway. "But blood has this funny way of refusing to disappear completely."
The bathroom looks like it was assembled from an anti-personality catalog: white subway tiles, chrome fixtures that have never known water spots, towels folded with perfect precision.
"Who the fuck lives like this?" I mutter, sweeping the blue light across the shower. Not a hair in the drain. Even the grout lines are immaculate. When I was a kid, I thought monsters had claws and fangs. Experience taught me they often come with perfect dental work and spotless bathrooms.
I check under the sink—cleaning supplies arranged by height, labels facing forward. The medicine cabinet reveals nothing but basic toiletries, organized like a pharmacy display. No prescription bottles, no personal products.
"It's a stage set," I realize. "Not a home."
My mind circles back to Sarah—bright, ambitious, naive Sarah—whose phone hasn't moved from her dorm and whose social media has gone silent. The too-clean bathroom makes my stomach clench. Places this sterile aren't for living. They're for erasing evidence.
I work fast, placing wireless cameras in strategic locations—one disguised in a smoke detector above the bed, another in anair freshener in the living room, a third as a power outlet in the bathroom.
"Consider yourself under surveillance, you sick fuck," I whisper to the empty apartment.
As I prepare to leave, I notice a single imperfection—the edge of the bathroom rug isn't perfectly straight. I resist the urge to fix it. Better to leave everything exactly as I found it, let Langford keep thinking his secrets are safe.
I exit through the front door, checking for neighbors before slipping into the stairwell. Each step down feels like moving away from a tomb. Three flights of concrete stairs, then the service corridor, and finally the alley.
