Page 31 of Fractured Devotion
Then I disappear into the next block, circling wide until I can cut through a narrow alley toward the back of her building.
This changes things.
If someone else is watching her…
I can’t allow it.
A surge of something close to possessive fury threads through my gut. It’s not just the job. Not just the research. It’s her. If someone who isn’t me is watching her—
I have to know who.
I pace until the van drives off an hour later, plain and idle, like it was meant to be ignored. I make a point to memorize the license plate. It’s fake. Of course it is. But it gives me a start.
A new player is on the board.
And they’ve made their first move.
But they’ll regret stepping into my game.
I watch until the van disappears around a curve and is swallowed by traffic and distance. The chill of dawn still clings to my coat, but I feel hotter now, more restless.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets and head toward home, my steps fast and hard against the wet sidewalk. My mind reels. I already saw her step out, her coat drawn close, purposeful strides cutting through the mist like a blade. Probably heading to the clinic, though it’s early, even for her. I wonder why. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
Once I reach my apartment, I throw my coat aside and grab the backup tablet, cursing myself for not keeping it on me. That won’t happen again. From now on, I’ll carry a bag. Something light, always within arm’s reach.
It’ll hold the tablet, portable feeds, and enough tools to get into any lock if the opportunity presents itself. Especially now, with the surveillance void inside her primary apartment still wide open.
I should’ve had the right tools this morning.
I could’ve gotten in.
I could’ve planted the mics and the infrared sensors and slipped back out like nothing happened.
Next time, I won’t hesitate.
Because whoever sent that van might beat me to it.
And that’s not an option.
I switch on the surveillance console the moment I finish the setup on the tablet. Within seconds, the clinic feed loads, just as it is on the screens on my wall.
Celeste is already there. I catch her on the feed as she leans over her desk and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, her focus sharp and unwavering.
She’s in her office earlier than usual.
Naturally. Her routine is predictable—clinic to home, then home to clinic. She rarely strays beyond those points, rarelyindulges in detours. It makes her easy to track, easier to anticipate, and for me, harder to ignore.
My jaw tightens as I absorb the sight of her completely immersed in whatever file she’s opened.
She’s in the clinic, which means I still have time.
I don’t waste a second. I throw on a fresh shirt, slip the tablet into a slim side pocket of my field pack, then add the micro-tools, infrared bugs, and audio nodes I should’ve had earlier. Each one is pocketed with clinical precision. It’s muscle memory now.
By the time I make it back to her building, it’s quiet. A window two floors up creaks slightly as the wind presses against it, but there’s no one loitering outside. I keep to the side entrance, the maintenance side, and disable the latch with a practiced flick of the lockpick.
Inside, the stairwell smells of stale air and metal polish. Her door awaits three floors up. I don’t hesitate. I move in and place the nodes behind the baseboards and inside the vent grates. One infrared sensor is tucked behind a shelf corner.
No traces.
