Watching.
Or worse, posing.
“That’s him,” I say. My voice is rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.
Grayson exhales, slow and hard. “Yeah. Thought so.”
He doesn’t say I was right. He doesn’t have to.
“Next angle,” he mutters. “Come on.”
We move to the passenger side, where a portable monitor’s clipped to a console wired into his car’s battery. A mess of cables coils in the footwell. This setup isn’t standard. It’s the kind you use when you don’t want command to know what you’re watching.
“Used ATM security across the street for this one,” he says. “Crappier resolution, better line of sight.”
He clicks through.
There he is again. Long coat. Still not moving.
But this time, we get a clearer look, just enough to see that his head is tilted slightly toward the office building.
Toward Sabine.
My jaw locks.
“Trace pattern from there,” Grayson says. “He moves two blocks east. Picks up pace here—”
A third camera. Bakery footage.
We watch him cross an intersection.
Then, just before the light changes, he ducks into an alley. It's narrow, shadowed, barely wide enough for a body.
Grayson clicks again.
“Lost him here. Six minutes of dead space. Then—”
New footage loads.
Another camera. A different street. Twenty minutes later.
The man reappears, same coat. Same profile. Same controlled walk.
But something’s off.
It’s subtle.
But I see it.
“That’s not him,” I say.
Grayson looks over. “What?”
I point. “His left foot drags. The guy outside Sabine’s work had a solid stance. Confident. This guy’s gait is tight. Off. He’s imitating.”
Grayson frowns. Rewinds. Plays it again.
“Could be new gear,” he says. “Shoes. Weighted pockets. Limp from running.”
