Page 107 of Can't Stop Watching
A door opens ahead, the sound slicing through the silence. A woman steps out, heels clicking against the polished floor. She hasn't seen me yet, focused on something in her hands—papers, maybe. When she glances up, catching my movement in her peripheral vision, her head snaps toward me.
My blood turns to ice. Claire Langford.
For a split second, we lock eyes. Her expression shifts from surprise to something darker—recognition, fear, calculation—all in an instant. The perfect society wife mask drops completely.
"What the fuck," I mutter, as pieces fall into place with sickening clarity.
Before I can move, she bolts back into the room she came from. The door slams shut with a metallic clang that echoesdown the hallway. I sprint forward, but hear the distinct click of a lock engaging.
My fucking client. The supposed jilted wife.
I'm a goddamn fool. I'd been playing detective while these sick fucks have been running a goddamn slaughterhouse.
I reach the door, testing the handle. Locked tight. I'm about to shoot the lock when I hear it.
Lila's scream.
Muffled but unmistakable. My entire body reorients toward the sound like a compass finding north.
I sprint down the corridor, following the scream, my boots pounding against the floor. Gianna's ghost runs beside me, urging me to be faster this time, to not fail again. Each step hammers home what an idiot I've been. Every instinct I had about Langford was right, but I missed something bigger. Something worse. The Langfords are two sides of the same rotten coin.
The hallway stretches before me, doors on either side. Which one? Where is she? I slow, listening for any sound that might guide me. The silence is oppressive now, crushing in on me with the weight of my failure.
Not Lila. Please, not Lila.
Another scream. Closer now. Third door on the right.
I don't waste time on the handle. Locked doors are just obstacles, and obstacles exist to be destroyed. My boot connects with the wood near the lock, the impact jarring up my leg. Not enough. The door holds. I don't want to shoot the lock for fear of hurting Lila.
"Fuck this." I rear back and put everything behind the second kick—all my rage, my fear for Lila, my disgust at being played. The door explodes inward, wood splintering around the lock as it tears free from the frame.
I rush inside and then I freeze.
LILA
I take one more breath, feeling time slow as Brian's weight shifts forward. The metal pen is solid in my grip, my fingers wrapped around it so tight they've gone numb.
When Brian put his mouth to my shoulder, I don't hesitate. I thrust upward with all my strength, driving the pen deep into the side of his neck.
The sound it makes is wet. Awful. Nothing like in movies.
Brian's eyes go wide, shocked, confused, like he can't comprehend that I've actually hurt him. His hand flies to his neck, fingers wrapping around the pen, holding it in place. Blood seeps between his knuckles, first a trickle, then a pulsing stream that soaks his shirt.
He staggers backward, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. No clever words now. No threats. Just gurgling sounds as his perfect, predatory face contorts with pain.
"You—" he tries to speak, but only manages to spray blood droplets across the conference table.
I'm frozen, watching him stumble against the wall, leaving a smeared red handprint as he slides down to one knee. I did that. I put a pen in a man's neck. The thought should horrify me, but all I feel is a cold, hard satisfaction.
A loud bang from the door snaps me out of my trance. My heart—which had been eerily calm during the attack—suddenly kicks into overdrive, hammering against my ribs like it wants to escape.
Another bang, louder this time. The door frame splinters and crashes inward, wood fragments flying. Dane rushes throughthe opening, gun raised in a shooter's stance, his massive frame filling the doorway. His eyes scan the room, taking in everything in an instant: me pressed against the wall, shirt torn. Brian on his knees, blood pumping between his fingers; the scattered contents of my purse across the floor.
"Lila." Just my name, but loaded with a thousand questions.
I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a rasp. "He... he tried to?—"
Dane strides toward me. When he's only a step away, movement at the door in the back of the conference room makes him stop.
