“Oh, that?” he says. “Yeah, someone stole ‘em a couple weeks back. Reported it and everything, but you know how the DMV is. Still waiting on replacements.”
He even throws in a laugh, trying to make it sound easy.
Bullshit.
I don’t blink. “You report it to the cops?”
There’s a beat. Just a breath. Then he nods.
“Yeah. Filed it online. They said it happens all the time.”
It’s a decent lie. Most people might believe it.
But I’m not most people.
And I don’t believe a damn word.
Because here’s the thing. Guys who actually report stolen plates? They don’t sit in unmarked sedans hoping no one notices. They’ve got a copy of the report on the dash. A temporary tag taped to the window. Something.
More importantly, they don’t park across from my sister’s home when she coincidentally has a stalker at the same time.
So I press.
“That right?” I ask, tilting my head. “Mind if I see the report?”
The guy stiffens. His hand twitches toward his pocket like maybe,maybe, he’s about to show me something that'll make me back off. But then he hesitates. Rethinks it. Switches tactics.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, just frustrated enough to look legit. “Look, man. You a cop or something? Because if so, you should show a badge. If not, then kindly mind your own fucking business.”
“Oh, I am,” I say calmly.
He scoffs. “How’s that? By harassing the first guy you saw?”
“By spotting something shady on my street and not looking the other way.”
Silence settles between us. His knuckles are pale on the steering wheel now, and mine are itching for a reason to act. But I don’t make the first move.
I wait.
He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to let go of something violent.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he mutters. “Just waiting. That’s all. My friend lives here. She’s coming out any minute.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
He stares at me, incredulous. “Are you fucking serious?”
I smile without warmth. “Dead serious.”
Another pause. A flicker of tension.
“…Sabine,” he says at last.
And my blood goes cold.
I lock it down before my body can react, but it’s already there—that shift. The one I used to feel overseas, when something snapped sideways and the air went too quiet right before everything went to hell.
“How do you know her?” I ask.
