He lingered at the corner, then pulled out his phone and typed something. Noting the time, maybe. Or logging her route. The screen lit up his face as he did, showing me that he was mid-forties, with gaunt, sharp, hungry features.
My back teeth began to ache and I consciously relaxed my jaw.
I'd been watching Raven for weeks. I knew her patterns better than he ever would. But this was different. I watched her because I couldn't stop.
He watched her the way a coyote watched a rabbit with a broken leg.
I pulled out my phone and took three photos of him through the windshield. Then I got out of my car.
I stayed on him for two hours.
He followed her to the restaurant, then stood outside for forty minutes, chain smoking, watching the golden glow of The Silver Table through the plate glass like it was a movie screen. I studied him from a distance, cataloging details. Noticing the wayhe positioned himself behind a mailbox to break his silhouette and the way he angled his phone, taking pictures through the window.
Of her.
Rage sat high and hot in the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down. I needed to keep my head on straight.
Then he walked the perimeter of the building, paying particular attention to the alley. He noted the exits, then tested the service door handle. Which was, of course, unlocked.
I knew exactly what he was doing. He was building a plan. A timeline. Finding the gaps in her routine where she was most alone.
When he finally left, I tailed him to a shitbox apartment twelve blocks south of Raven's building. Ground floor. No security cameras. There was a rusted fire escape clinging to the brick like a dying vine. His blinds were drawn, and outside his window there was a window AC unit that rattled like a smoker's cough.
I memorized the address, then I called a contact who owed me a favor.
Twenty minutes later, I had a name. Derek Scodal. He was forty-one, and had two prior arrests for stalking women.
My grip tightened on the phone as my contact rattled off the information.
Derek had one restraining order, which he'd violated more than once. But the charges had been dropped both times because the women were too afraid to testify.
The women. Plural.
I thanked my contact and ended the call, then set the phone on the passenger seat and stared at his darkened window. I thought about the photos on his phone he took tonight. Raven at the piano. Raven walking to the bus. Raven with her white cane, tapping her way through a world she couldn't see.
He's not Bratva. He's not your problem. Call in an anonymous tip and let the cops handle it.
That was the smart play. The clean play.
But the cops would take a report. Maybe they'd talk to him. Maybe they'd issue a warning. But he hadn't actually done anything yet, so they wouldn't arrest him. And then he'd wait a few weeks, adjust his pattern, and try again. Because men like Derek didn't stop. They just got better at not getting caught.
I knew, because I'd cleaned up after men like him.
I got out of the car.
***
It took four minutes.
I won't say it was quick, because quick implies I rushed. I didn't rush. I was precise. Methodical. The same way I approached every job.
Afterward, I stood in his bathroom, washing my hands in his sink. The water ran clear. I hadn't been sloppy. I'm never sloppy.
My hands were steady.
My heart was not.
I dried my hands on his towel and looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. Same shaggy blonde hair. Samegreen eyes. Same surfer-boy face that made people trust me. Same hoop earring catching the fluorescent light.
