I need to see her again. Not only because I enjoyed the time we spent together today, but because I want to see that code again. I can’t place where, but I feel like I’ve seen it before.
In my peripheral vision, a figure I would recognize anywhere stalks away. Whipping my head in their direction, I catch the back of the man as he gets into the back of his car.
That’s odd.
What was Luke doing over there?
CHAPTER 4
LUKE
My eyes roam my computer screen, looking over the report again as I sit in New York traffic in the back of my car. I’ve read it so many times that I have it memorized, but I can’t help myself.
Savannah Foster, born Savannah Bartlett. Lives in Brooklyn. Graduated from Cobble Hill Christian Academy. No secondary education. Parents are John Peter Bartlett, incarcerated, and Angela Foster Bartlett, deceased. Current employer is Mocha Lisa. No arrests or outstanding warrants, no driver’s license, and zero social media presence.
The report is thin, but insightful. The lack of information tells me that she’s living under the radar. And I don’t blame her. If the infamous serial killer John the Baptist were my father, I’d go into hiding.
I remember when he was terrorizing New York City. It was like Son of Sam all over again. People added extra locks to their doors and windows and upgraded their security systems, but that still didn’t keep John Bartlett out of the homes of twenty-four women.
When he was finally caught, society dragged Savannah through the mud. She was eighteen, so they had no problem sharing her name and face everywhere.
The last thing I want is to feel sympathy for the woman I saw Rory kissing in the street yesterday. They kissed, but that was it. She didn’t go home with him, which I know will make him chase her harder.
I didn’t intend to follow him, but I couldn’t help myself.
Rory is irresistible when he turns on the charm. Women practically hand over their panties at his smile.
But she didn’t, and I don’t understand it.
Which is why I’m out and about on a Saturday morning instead of sleeping in.
I tapped into the NYPD’s CCTV surveillance system and waited for Savannah to leave her apartment. She headed out on foot, and I hopped in the car while I tracked her location. She stopped about fifteen minutes ago and hasn’t moved since.
“We’re here,” William, my driver, informs me.
“Thank you,” I reply, stowing my phone in my pocket. “No need to wait for me. I’ll make my way back on my own.”
William’s expression doesn’t change. He’s used to my odd hours and requests. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He nods his head in understanding.
The sun’s rays warm me as I cross the sidewalk in the frigid air. I would never admit it out loud, but I love winter and all it brings. So the cold doesn’t bother me. I could’ve gone without a jacket today, but I’m not looking to stand out.
Walking between the red marble pillars of the Brooklyn Heights library, I enter through the main doors. The quiet atmosphere in the building is just like any other library, and I have no plans on changing that.
I just want to get a look at Savannah, only a peek, then I’ll leave.
Part of me despises her for choosing the library today, but another part applauds her. Reading is a pastime I wish I could enjoy more often.
There are surprisingly few people here. I find an old man on one of the computers, looking at porn, an elderly woman in a comfortable chair reading a book about World War II, and a group of middle-aged men meeting for what looks like a book club. I’m not sure what book they’re reading, but I hear mentions of the Cullens and the Quileutes.
After I pass the horror section, I find Savannah sitting on the floor with her back against the shelf, reading a book.
One look.
That’s all it takes.
