CHAPTER EIGHT
Echo
The interiorof my Audi RS7 is dark, save for the pale light of my phone screen reflecting faintly off my windshield. The street is quiet, and the only sound I hear is the soft ticking of my engine as it cools.
I scroll through the text thread. Stop. Then scroll again.
Same result.
The questions are fine. Neutral. Designed to invite elaboration without pressure.
What’s your favorite way to spend a day off?
What did you want to be when you were younger?
What do you value most?
She answered every one of them, and still gave me nothing.
No emotional hooks. No leverage. Not even a pattern I could trace with any kind of certainty. Every response was a closed door disguised as politeness.
Most people need to be understood. They fill thesilence when you give them space, and mistake undivided attention for safety. She didn’t, and that’s a problem.
I lock the screen and toss the phone aside, my jaw tight enough to ache.
Across from me, Better Than Fiction is still open, its lit front windows softening the edges of the otherwise dark city street. Every other storefront on the street is closed, only hers is open.
I don’t like that.
From here, I can see her clearly enough to follow the rhythm of her movements. The way she leans over the shelves as she dusts them. The way her shoulders stay tense even when nothing notable is happening.
I settle deeper into the driver’s seat, adjusting just enough to keep her in view without drawing attention. Anyone passing by would assume I belong here.
Bambi doesn’t know I’m watching her.
I should feel guilty about that, but I don’t. She gave me an open invitation into her world; it isn’t my fault for accepting it.
Movement on the sidewalk pulls my attention away from the window. A man has stopped three storefronts down from hers. He's average height, lean, and his hood is pulled up despite the weather being mild enough not to warrant it. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, peering through the dark window. My gaze tracks him automatically.
He moves on after a moment and stops at the next window. Leans against the glass and looks longer than necessary. Then the next.
The street is quiet enough that I can hear the soft scuffof his shoes against the pavement. I straighten slightly in my seat.
This time he pauses directly across from Better Than Fiction, close enough that the light from the windows brushes his face. I can’t see his expression clearly, but I can tell his attention is fixed on the inside of the store.
Onher.
Annoyance settles low in my chest. Her shop shouldn’t be the only one open this late. It’s careless. An invitation for trouble she doesn’t even realize she’s extending.
The man glances down the empty street, then back at her windows, and starts crossing the street. I get out of the car and follow. I don’t rush or announce myself, and when I stop beside him, he startles.
“They’re closed,” I say mildly, following his line of sight to the storefront. “Everything on this block is.”
His eyes flick to me. Narrow and assessing. “I was just looking.”
“Don’t,” I reply.
He shifts his weight, shoulders tensing. “Didn’t realize that was illegal.”
