Page 66 of Fractured Devotion
Her resolve cuts through the fog in my head. I find myself nodding again, this time not out of fear, but decision.
“Alright,” I say. “We go quiet.”
Outside, the building hums like a machine dreaming in its sleep. But inside, something is finally beginning to wake.
Chapter 22 – Kade - Between the Feeds
I watch Celeste closely, measuring the stiffness in her spine and the way her fingers twitch slightly as I mention the van. I took a calculated risk approaching her this way—one step out of place, and she might’ve shut me down. But she doesn’t. Her nod is subtle, and then she walks off, her posture tight, like she’s bracing for a storm just beyond the horizon.
I watch until she disappears into the narrowing distance of the street—silent, contained, always on the edge of unraveling. And maybe that’s why I linger longer than I should. Because I know what it looks like when a person is close to splitting down the middle.
She didn’t ask how I knew and didn’t question why I was outside the clinic at that hour or how I recognized the van. She should’ve, but she didn’t. And that silence? It says more than her words ever could.
I head home, a few blocks away. My apartment is sterile, neat, and holds a hush that feels unnatural. I shut the door and flick on the monitors, one by one, as I settle in front of the wall of feeds. A grid of her.
Living room. Bedroom. Hallway. There’s nothing yet.
I rewind the traffic cam feed from her street. The timestamp is fifteen minutes back. The streetlight throws an orange glow across the pavement. I expect to see her turn in toward the apartment.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she keeps walking down Trent.
I follow her route from one public camera to the next, tracing her steps like threading a needle. She walks past the storefronts, her shoulders tight, her head slightly dipped. Then she disappears into a dimly lit bar with a flickering neon sign.
I sit back, watching the door for nearly an hour. The feed loops and jumps, and I switch cams. But she doesn’t come out.
By 11 p.m., I’m getting restless.
I switch between traffic feeds and her building’s exterior, but there’s nothing yet. Then it happens.
Movement on the home feed.
It’s a figure. Not Celeste.
The door opens slowly. No damage. Either the lock was picked, or a key was used.
The person—a lean frame with a black hoodie and gloved hands—steps inside. There’s no hesitation. Just measured movements. Their body language reads too clean for a burglar. No rifling, no fumbling. This is reconnaissance.
They drift past the kitchen. One hand stays inside their jacket. Then they move to the bedroom and pause at the closet. Something small gets planted high up inside the molding, just tiny enough to avoid casual detection.
Then they’re gone. In and out within four minutes. No trace.
I freeze, my eyes locked on the replay. My gut twists.
This isn’t surveillance. This is exposure.
I exhale, my fingers twitching toward my tablet.
I press replay and zoom, frame-by-frame. I still can’t catch their face.
I could go there and intercept.
But I don’t.
Instead, I open a secure line, encrypt everything, and store the footage under an unlisted directory.
Who the fuck was that?
