For the first time since we saw the message, the shaking in her arms began to ease.
* * *
The back office shrank once we both stepped inside, walls closing around a desk buried under invoices and an old monitor Kane set up before heading out.I pulled the single chair forward for Marci and stayed on my feet behind her, close enough to watch both the door and the screen.Old habits kept my spine straight and every sense sharp.Never sit facing a wall.Never narrow your focus so much someone can approach from behind.
The monitor cast a blue haze across the room while the footage rolled backward in jerky fast motion.The security camera offered nothing fancy, just a basic wide angle of the front entrance and part of the parking lot.Good enough to catch faces when the lighting cooperated.Good enough to show who walked up to our door in the middle of the night.
“What time did you lock up?”Marci asked, voice steady enough to tell me she was using control as armor.
“1:47.”I remembered checking my phone before setting the alarm.
I stopped the rewind at 1:30 and let the video play normally.The bar sat still under night vision -- silent parking lot, security light bleaching everything into harsh white and heavy shadow.Minutes crawled forward.1:45.2:00.2:15.My hand stayed on the mouse, ready for anything.Marci barely breathed.
At 2:47, movement appeared on the left side of the screen.
I paused instantly.A figure froze mid-step.Dark jacket, baseball cap pulled low, head angled away from the camera like he knew exactly where the lens pointed.
“Him?”I asked.
Marci leaned forward, fingers gripping the desk.“I can’t see.”
I hit PLAY again.The figure walked with purpose, not sneaking, not rushing.Closer to the door.Closer to the camera.The jacket showed nothing distinctive.The cap had no logo.Work boots, well worn.Shoulders squared.A stride full of confidence.
Three steps from the entrance, he pulled something from his pocket.The spray paint can.Even grainy footage couldn’t hide the shape.He shook it once, twice, unhurried.Like no one in the world could stop him.
Then he turned.
Not fully.Just enough to swing his face toward the camera for a heartbeat before returning to the door.That single glimpse was enough.Marci sucked in a painful sounding breath.
“That’s James.”Barely a whisper.
I froze the frame.Detective James Mercer.The man who had spent two years hunting her.The man who had hurt her and refused to release his grip even after she ran.
I committed every detail to memory.Dark hair cut short.Clean-shaven face.Jawline built to look trustworthy.Broad shoulders.Athletic.Someone who trained regularly.Someone who counted on physical presence to intimidate.
He would learn soon enough what intimidation really looked like.
The video continued.Mercer raised the can and painted with quick movements.I.SEE.YOU.Four minutes to leave a threat meant to hit her straight in the gut.When he stepped back, something in the footage shifted.
He turned to face the camera directly.
Chin raised.Features lifted so nothing remained hidden.The look in his eyes told a story he knew we would understand: I found you.I can reach you.You can run forever and I will stay on your heels.
Then he smiled.
Not a pleasant smile.A predator’s smile.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
A raw sound broke from Marci.“He wants me to stop trying.He wants me to know he can get to me again.Always.”
Mercer left the scene the same way he arrived, casual and unhurried, like he’d done nothing more than take a peaceful walk under the moon.
I rewound.Watched again.Took in every movement, every detail.“You can tell he’s law enforcement.Full situational awareness.Knows camera angles.Executes fast and clean.”
“He served in the Marines before becoming a cop,” Marci said quietly.“Eight years.Two tours.”
Everything clicked into place.All useful skills to him.All useful to me.
