Page 74 of Fractured Devotion
He leans forward slightly, his voice calm but grave. “That van didn’t just disappear. Someone moved it. On purpose.”
Goosebumps rise along my arms. “You think it was watching me.”
“I think,” he says carefully, “you were the reason it was there in the first place.” Then, his voice lowers, softer than before. “I think someone wants you rattled.”
My stomach twists. “That doesn’t help.”
He leans in slightly, his arms resting on the table, the sincerity in his eyes sharp enough to make me shiver. “Then let me help. Not as a colleague. Just as someone who gives a damn.”
My eyes search his, my heart thudding. “Why do I want to believe you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out, brushing a knuckle down the back of my hand. The touch is light, barely there, but it lights a fuse under my skin.
“I think we both know the answer to that,” he says.
Before I can reply, the waitress returns. The food I don’t remember ordering is placed before us—grilled cheese and soup for me, black coffee and something smothered in gravy for him. I pick at mine, my appetite absent.
Chapter 25 – Kade - Surveillance Threaded
We leave the diner a little past midnight, the streets slick with recent rain. Her arm brushes mine once as we walk—unintentional, but not unwelcome. She’s more withdrawn than usual, her eyes shadowed and distant, like she’s still somewhere back in that booth, chewing on what I said about the van. Or maybe what I didn’t say.
When we reach her building, I stop a step short of the door. I don’t push, don’t ask to come up. Instead, I tuck my hands into my coat and wait.
“Thanks for the walk,” she says, her voice soft but sincere.
“Anytime.”
She hesitates for a moment, then disappears inside. I don’t move until the door clicks shut.
I don’t follow her home, not physically. I already know the layout of her place better than my own. I know where the shadows fall across her floor at night, where she tosses her keys when she walks in, and how long she spends in the bathroom before convincing herself to sleep.
Still, I make it back to my apartment around 12:47 a.m., my mind still whirling. I sit before the wall of monitors and bring the screens to life. The bakery’s exterior flickers up first, vacant and dull under dim streetlights. Another screen shows the building across from hers, angled just right to capture the front entrance and the narrow corridor leading to her apartment.
Three more screens light up.
One shows her living room, dark and untouched since she left for work this morning. Another, the kitchen, is faintly illuminated by the glow of the refrigerator light, where she paused earlier for a bottle of water. The third is the bedroomfeed, dim but clear, the room bathed in soft amber hues from her bedside lamp.
She’s up, pacing. Her silhouette glides past the closet, then the dresser. She runs her fingers through her hair, her shoulders tight with something too close to fear. Finally, she sits on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands, motionless.
I don’t blink. Not once.
She has given me her number, let me walk her home, and listened when I said someone was watching her. She’s closer. It’s not enough, but she’s closer.
Still, something itches beneath my skin.
I switch screens, pulling up archived footage of the break-in. The figure moves with too much confidence. No wasted movement. Leaving no trace.
I pull lab access logs. There are unauthorized entries using her credentials again. This time, it’s deeper. Someone’s digging.
I should tell Rourke.
But I don’t.
Because if Rourke finds out, Celeste becomes an asset. A liability. And I don’t want to see what they’ll do to her.
So I encrypt everything and lock it down.
My phone buzzes.
