“Oh, it doesn’t record audio.Sing your heart out.”
I duck back under the hood, pretending to accept the answer with casual indifference.
Jag and I went our separate ways long ago, but we always know each other’s locations.He knows mine because he’s an unapologetic stalker with deadly hacker skills.And I know when he changes residences because he tells me.
He never texts this information.No digital messages.Nothing that can be tracked.We have a system.
I visit our parents’ graves in Anaheim often.He knows that’s where I go when I need to feel tethered to something, even if it’s pain.
Whenever I find a new plant in their grave dirt, I know he’s been there.And he’s left a message for me.
A year ago, I found a black willow sapling rooted near the headstones.He always chooses a plant that attracts doves.He’s strangely into symbolism like that, probably just to fuck with me.
I dug it up and found a smooth white rock underneath with sharpie-inked words bleeding into the cracks.
Sitka Tattoo.
It’s always a rock.Always a new city or phone number.
But of all places, why Sitka?
He must’ve already owned the shop to launder money or something like that.
Doesn’t matter.I’m here now, but this time, I’m not running.I’m not hiding.I’m making damn sure he sees me.
A few hours later, when my new coworkers are distracted—Chester arguing with a parts supplier over the phone and Taaq elbows-deep in a carb rebuild—I turn toward the camera.
Eyes locked on the lens, I hold my middle finger high and mouth,Fuck you, Jag.
Then I turn back to work and start singing “You Don’t Own Me” by Leslie Gore.
I sit in the unlit kitchen, surrounded by the scent of stale coffee and looming retaliation.My elbow rests on the table, an ankle propped on my knee, my eyes glued to the blue glow of my phone.
The grainy feed flickers, scattering pixels before the image steadies again.
I’ve hacked into every camera worth hacking into across Sitka—convenience stores, traffic signals, ATMs, residential security systems.I tapped them all, establishing a network of eyes, never blinking, always searching.
And there she is, my burdensome baby Dove.Working earlier today at the mechanic shop.Her stubborn independence and resourcefulness never cease to amaze me.And piss me off.
I’ve watched her every step since she started walking.Every stumble, every victory, every quiet moment when she believed herself alone.
She was never alone.
As she crouches to repair a tire on the recording, the two fuckheads who hired her stop what they’re doing to stare at her ass.
Add them to the list of dead men walking.
I scowl at my broken wrist, irritation crawling through my veins.
And Wolfson Strakh.
I’ve been balls-deep in research, digging through every database, every dark corner of the net, finding horrifying secrets about his family.But Wolfson himself?Almost nothing.That’s more terrifying than any file I’ve opened.
Something happened to him.Something sick and unspeakable in an off-grid cabin in the Arctic.A cabin that no one knows how to find.
His family knows.
His bloodline is tied to the old-world Russian mob.The real deal.Soviet-era executioners.Men who ruled from the summits of mass graves.
