Page 30 of Fractured Devotion
But I see her.
Every angle. Every pause. Every heartbeat I imagine echoing through her ribs.
And yet, it’s not enough.
Not anymore.
I close my eyes.
And in the dark, I don’t see anything but her.
Sleep never comes.
I give up around 5 a.m., the taste of old whiskey still coating the back of my throat. My body feels wired, my muscles coiled like they expect a command I won’t give. The stillness is deceptive, and it masks the hunt building beneath my skin.
I flick through the surveillance feeds again, not expecting change, not really, but my pulse ticks up when I catch the faint glow of light flickering to life in her apartment window. It’s nothing detailed, nothing invasive. Just enough to tell me that she’s awake. Or moving. Or maybe, like me, she never really stopped.
She’s awake.
Or maybe she never slept either.
The idea stirs something hot and heavy behind my ribs.
I leave the apartment again without overthinking it. This time, I don’t pretend it’s for anything else. I want proximity. I want to feel her nearness in the air, in the soft drift of wind that barely stirs the dark.
There’s a bakery two blocks away from her building, its lights flickering on just as I approach. One of the workers props the door open with a mop bucket, barely awake, but kind enough not to question me when I ask for a coffee. I pay in silence, take the paper cup, and move toward the side alley, sipping like I have a right to be there. Like I’m not loitering in obsession.
She steps outside fifteen minutes later with her coat drawn close, her eyes unreadable. Her steps are precise and purposeful.
She doesn’t look up.
I hold still behind the awning, my breath lodged somewhere between restraint and indulgence. Watching her walk away feels like a punishment I’ve chosen for myself. I don’t follow.
Not this time.
Instead, I stand there long after she vanishes down the street, my coffee cooling in my hand.
Because I’m still clinging to the hush between moments.Not yet.
I wander.
Not toward home. Not yet.
The city is still blue and shivering with early light when I leave the alley and start walking aimlessly down side streets that smell of morning frost and distant steam. My fingers are cold around the paper cup, now empty, and I crush it before tossing it into a bin on the corner.
A woman stumbles out of a nearby doorway, laughing too loudly into her phone. Her voice fades, leaving behind the scrapeof tires and the hush of morning air as I cross another street without looking. I don’t care. I don’t want to think.
Then, I see the van.
It’s black and nondescript. And it’s parked across from Celeste’s building.
It wasn’t there last night.
And it’s not one of ours.
I freeze in place, my heart climbing a little higher in my throat. There’s no movement inside. No identifiers. But the windows are tinted, the wheels new. They’re surveillance-grade, if you know what to look for. And I always do.
I approach slowly, angling down the opposite sidewalk and keeping my posture loose, disinterested. I draw my phone out and pretend to scroll. There are no signs of activity. But something feels wrong, off balance. I double back and casually take a photo over my shoulder before saving it with a coded tag.
