Page 49 of Can't Stop Watching
Milo, efficient little bastard. After a few minutes, my phone pings. Jackpot.
"Look at this fancy motherfucker," I mutter, reading Milo's update.
Milo: Langford's calendar just sprouted a new entry—lunch at Claremont's in the financial district.
An expensive place where the wolves of Wall Street swap secrets and lies over $200 steaks. Of course.
Milo: Really need to hack his phone, but the extra security he has on is no some serious shit. Still trying.
I stare at Milo's message, jaw tightening. If Milo's still hitting walls, this shit runs deep. The kid once hacked the Pentagon on a dare—said it was "like picking the lock on a Fisher-Price toy"—but Langford's phone got him stumped? He must have hiredsomeone better than Milo. The only reason for someone to do that is if they're hiding something.
"What are you hiding, you polished piece of shit?" I pocket my phone.
He has build himself a digital fortresses around his phone. Does it hold the secrets that hide whatever sickness he's cultivating? People don't invest in security like this unless the penalty for exposure is catastrophic.
Dane: Keep trying, Milo.
He send me a thumbs up as I think back to Claire Langford. I need to close this case. The quicker, the better.
I check the time again. If I hurry, I might still catch Langford before he slithers back to whatever rock he's hiding under. I start the car. Claremont's it is. Maybe I'll catch Langford with his mask off, fork halfway to those perfect teeth, unaware he's being hunted.
I make it to Claremont's in record time, sliding into a spot across the street with a clear view of the entrance. The maître d' stands at attention like he's guarding Fort Knox, only letting in the right kind of wealth through those doors.
Forty minutes later, Langford emerges by himself. His stride has that confident rhythm of a man who's never had to question if he belongs somewhere. He raises his hand casually—summoning a taxi like it's his birthright—and climbs in.
"Game on," I mutter, pulling into traffic behind them.
The taxi winds through Midtown, heading north. I stay close enough to track, far enough not to trigger awareness. Even sociopaths have survival instincts.
When the cab pulls over on 72nd—Brian's secret apartment—I slide past and circle back, parking with a sightline to the building entrance. It's a pre-war brownstone—understatedelegance, discreet doorman. Perfect little fuck pad for a man with secrets.
Langford pays the driver and adjusts his tie as he approaches the building. Then he stops, checking his watch with theatrical patience.
"What are you waiting for?" I whisper, zooming in with my camera.
The answer arrives five minutes later in a blue dress and nervous smile. Sarah. The NYU freshman he was circling at Luigi's. My chest constricts with a familiar fury.
"Motherfucker."
How is she back in the picture? I thought she was smart.
Langford greets her with a gentleman's smile and guiding hand at the small of her back—polite, not possessive. Not yet.
They disappear into the building together.
The sick symmetry isn't lost on me. This is exactly how it happens—the slow, careful grooming. The illusion of opportunity masking exploitation. I saw this play out through childhood bedroom doors I wasn't supposed to open, in my father's office when vulnerable clients thought nobody was listening.
I raise my camera, start snapping pictures. Confirmation. Evidence Claire will need.
But Sarah needs something else entirely. Something I couldn't give Gianna twenty years ago.
A warning. Protection. Justice.
I will give her that much.
I sit in my car for two hours, engine off, radio silent. Just me and the toxic cocktail of memories sloshing around in my brain. Girls like Sarah disappearing into men like my father's orbit. The statistical likelihood of them emerging intact: negligible.
Langford finally exits the building alone, straightening his cuffs with the practiced precision of a man who's never hadto rush to clean up his messes. No Sarah. My stomach drops through the floor of the car.
