Page 62 of Fractured Devotion
“Hard not to when it’s parked in the same place more than once with the engine idling. It’s the same model with the same plates.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t deny it either.
“I don’t think it’s random,” I continue, my voice low. “Thought it might be clinic-related at first, but… now I’m not so sure.”
“So what do you think it is?”
I shrug. “It could be someone from one of the oversight bodies, or it could be something else. Either way, I’m not ignoring it.”
“Neither am I.”
She looks at me, and for a moment, something flickers between us. Shared paranoia. Shared silence.
“I just wanted to know if anyone else sees it too, if maybe I’m not completely losing it and spinning out in circles alone with all these half-formed theories.”
She blinks once, her brow furrowing. “I’ve been seeing it too,” she admits, speaking softly but steadily as well. “Thought I was imagining it, or maybe just reading too much into the silence. But it’s not just in my head anymore. It’s there, constant and watching.”
Her arms fold across her chest, her gaze flicking past me for a moment to scan the shadows of the hallway like she’s trying to remember something. Like she’s measuring how much of her own truth to share. Then, she looks back at me, her jaw set.
“It’s been happening for weeks,” she finally says. “I didn’t want to believe it at first. I thought… maybe I was just spiraling. But you see it too? That changes things.”
I nod slowly, letting her words settle between us. The weight of her admission isn’t lost on me. She’s giving me a piece of her fear, and in this place, fear is currency. And trust? Trust is a loaded gun.
“Then maybe it’s time we stopped pretending we’re not being watched,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper. “And start figuring out why. Together.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they should. Then, finally, she nods. It’s not a surrender but a pact. One that’s unspoken and dangerous.
Just the way I like it.
Chapter 21 – Celeste - A Symptom of Memory
I should’ve just kept walking. But the second Kade steps out of the shadows, his voice hushed as he mentions the van—the same one I’ve caught circling the edges of my world for weeks—my breath falters. I don’t flinch from surprise. I flinch because someone else finally sees it too. Because the fear I’ve been folding neatly under logic just ripped through its cover.
My chest tightens. “At first I thought I was imagining it,” I say, keeping my voice even, my arms folding across my middle. “I tried not to feed into it. But it keeps showing up. Waiting.”
He studies me without blinking. “Then maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe someone wants us to feel watched.”
The words settle into my skin like splinters. Someone does. They’ve wanted it for a while now. And now he sees it, too. It makes it real in a way I’d been trying to avoid admitting—solid and unshakable.
I nod once, almost to myself, and then turn toward the sidewalk, my breath sharp in my lungs as I start walking. I need space and distance, anything to keep my thoughts from sinking deeper into the subtle panic starting to bloom inside me.
Has he always known where I live? How long has he been this close without me seeing it? The idea settles like lead in my chest, a cold awareness that he might have been near longer than I realized, and I never once sensed it.
The thought crawls under my skin as the rest of our conversation slips into background noise—a low, steady thrum of realization too loud to ignore. It’s an agreement, not a conspiracy. Not paranoia. Just shared awareness. The most dangerous kind.
I walk away from him after the conversation, my thoughts spiraling. If he stays close by, maybe he’s the one being watched.Maybe they’re tracking his every step instead of mine. But then, why the strange discrepancies at the clinic?
The flagged reports, the misplaced files—signs I can’t ignore. It doesn’t add up. Unless we’re both caught in something bigger. Something that sees more than it should.
I suddenly need air and some space. Something that doesn’t wear a name tag or carry a clipboard.
My steps are automatic, leading me out of the district, past the cafes and alleyways that blur into a more reserved part of town. By the time I reach the old bar on Trent Street, the sun has sunk down enough to smear the horizon in blood-orange streaks.
I haven’t been here in months.
Inside, it’s dim and unremarkable. Perfect.
I order a whiskey. Neat.
