"Estate litigation firm. Malcolm brought them in. They want to meet before formal proceedings." I set down my phonebefore I throw it. "I need a lawyer. A good one. Someone who can fight back."
"I know someone." Solange pulls out her phone, scrolls through contacts. "Mira Keaton. She's expensive, but she's vicious in court. Specializes in estate disputes where family members try to screw widows out of inheritance. Let me text her, see if she's taking new clients."
Within minutes, Solange sent the text and received a response. "She can see you Thursday morning. Nine AM. That gives you time to meet with her before lunch with Ezra."
Thursday is becoming the most important day of my life since Gabriel died. Meeting with my new attorney, lunch with Ezra where I'll be wearing a wire and monitored by Jax and Solange, documentation being built for cases I didn't know I'd need to fight.
"Thank you," I say. "For all of this. For finding attorneys and coming to lunch and not judging me for accepting surveillance."
"I'm judging you a little," Solange admits. "But I'm also pragmatic. You need protection, and this Jax person seems competent even if his methods are concerning. Just be careful. Men who watch women obsessively don't always stop when asked."
"I know. That's why I have exit clauses."
I leave the office at 5:30, take the subway home through rush hour crowds. The paranoia from yesterday returns—that sensation of being watched, cataloged, and documented. I scan faces looking for Ezra's investigator, looking for anyone paying too much attention.
Then I remember: Jax is watching. Through my phone's location data, through whatever surveillance he's running, heknows where I am. The thought is simultaneously reassuring and disturbing.
At home, I stand in my apartment doorway for a moment before entering, aware that cameras are now watching. Six of them, Jax said. Entrance, living room, kitchen, hallway. Not the bedroom. Not the bathroom. The distinction matters, even if the presence of any surveillance feels invasive.
I step inside, close the door, lock it with the three mechanisms I installed two weeks after moving in. Deadbolt, chain, auxiliary lock. Gabriel never let me have locks on interior doors—said they created unnecessary barriers in our home—but this apartment is mine. Every lock is permission I give myself.
My phone buzzes. Text from Jax:You're home. Good. Tomorrow, 10 AM work for you? I'll bring the recording device, we can configure it and run through Thursday's prep.
I type back:10 AM works. Should I make coffee or is this purely professional?
His response comes quickly:Coffee would be good. And nothing about this is purely professional anymore. We both know that.
The honesty is startling. Dangerous. Exactly what I asked for when I demanded transparency.
I set down my phone and look around my apartment with new awareness. The cameras are invisible—Jax integrated them well—but knowing they're there changes how I move through space. I'm performing even in privacy, aware that someone might be watching even if that someone gave me permission to disable the feeds.
I pull out my phone again, and open Jax’s installed app. The interface is clean, intuitive. Six camera feeds displayed in a grid. I can tap any feed to expand it, disable it individually,or disable all cameras simultaneously. There's also an archive function—I can review footage from any time the system has been active.
The power is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. Gabriel's surveillance was discovery. Finding cameras I didn't know existed, realizing I'd been watched for months or years without consent. This is an invitation. Jax showed me where every camera is, gave me control over when they record, and made me administrator of my own monitoring.
The difference should matter. It does matter.
But it also normalizes surveillance in ways that feel dangerous.
I test the system. Disable the living room camera. The feed goes dark. Re-enable it. The image returns. Expand the entrance camera to full screen. I can see my apartment door from the hallway, clear view of anyone who approaches.
Then I do something I probably shouldn't: I access the archive, pull up footage from this morning when Jax was here installing the cameras.
The earliest footage is from 9:14 AM—twenty-seven minutes after he arrived. The entrance camera must have been his first installation. The feed shows him in my living room, setting up the second camera. He's wearing dark jeans and a jacket, carrying equipment that looks professional. His movements are methodical, careful. Installing, testing angles, adjusting placement.
I switch between feeds as they come online. The kitchen camera captures him working near the back door at 9:38 AM. The hallway camera starts recording at 9:52 AM.
At 10:03 AM, the hallway feed shows him pause near the path that leads to my bedroom. The door was open—I forgot toclose it this morning. He looks toward it for maybe five seconds, and I can see the decision happening in his posture. The way he shifts his weight, considers entering, then turns away and returns to his work.
He respected the boundary. Bedroom off-limits, and he honored that even when I wasn't there to enforce it.
The final camera—another angle in the living room—comes online at 10:17 AM. Then I see him testing each feed systematically, checking angles, making final adjustments. At 10:31 AM, he gathers his equipment and leaves through the entrance, locking the door behind him.
I close the archive and set down my phone. The gesture shouldn't mean as much as it does. Respecting boundaries is basic human decency, not extraordinary behavior. But after five years with Gabriel, basic decency feels revolutionary.
My stomach reminds me I haven't eaten since the soup I barely touched at lunch. I make dinner—scrambled eggs and toast, the kind of meal that requires minimal effort and even less thought. I eat standing at my kitchen counter while watching the evening light change angles through my windows.
The apartment feels different with cameras. Smaller, maybe. Or more contained. Like I'm performing even when I'm alone, aware that my aloneness is monitored aloneness.
