This bakery’s too cozy for a creep to hang around unnoticed. He’d be recognized too fast. People would remember his face. Too easy to track. So I let my eyes wander, searching for somewhere more fitting.
Where are you hiding…?
Past the coffee shop, I spot a small gas station across the street. There’s a bench by the bus stop, half-hidden. Could work, but it’s too exposed, and the bus stop blocks the line of sight. Not ideal.
Then there’s the bookstore next door. Big front windows, plenty of places to sit and read while watching foot traffic. If he bought a book and camped out there, he could watch all day. Worth checking out.
But then I see something better.
A black sedan, parked just past the intersection. No plates. Lights on. Doesn’t belong. Not the kind of car people leave overnight. Not in a neighborhood like this. I take a slow sip of coffee, watching.
Then I see it.
A flicker. A shadow.
Someone in the driver’s seat adjusts the rearview mirror. Subtle. But enough.
They’re watching something.
Or someone.
I set the cup down, roll my shoulders, and make a decision.
Time to say hello.
I cross the street like I’ve got nowhere to be, keeping up the runner act. But once I’m close, I slip between parked cars, moving fast, coming in from the blind spot of the side mirror. By the time the driver notices me, I’m already at the window.
I knock. Hard.
He jumps. Then—too late—he tries to play it cool, like I didn’t just catch him doing exactly what he was doing.
But I know the look in his eyes.
He’s been caught.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice casual. Like we’re just two strangers passing time. “You waiting on someone?”
His fingers twitch on the steering wheel. He’s younger than I expected. Mid-twenties, clean-shaven, trying to look forgettable in a cheap windbreaker. If he weren’t so jumpy, we might even pass for the same type. Gross, but yeah. I’d fit right in with some messed-up stalker if I let myself.
I’m a monster too.
“Just parked,” he says. “Waiting for a friend. Why?”
He’s got middle-length blond hair, dark blue eyes, and those kinds of features that make people trust him. Harmless.Believable. Even my radar’s not screaming. But guys like him, or me, don’t always set off alarms.
I lean against the car like I own it, arms crossed, half-smiling.
“Funny,” I say. “I’ve been sitting in that bakery a while. Haven’t seen you pick anyone up.”
He shifts. Fingers flex on the wheel. He glances past me like he’s looking for an exit. His jaw twitches.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, feigning casual. “Maybe my friend’s running late. What’s it to you?”
I don’t answer.
“No plates,” I say, nodding at the blank spot where his tag should be. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”
He swallows. There’s a flicker—a tell—before his face smooths over. He forces a crooked smile.
