Marty, that's who. Marty with his expensive fleece vests, and his earnest expressions, and his complete inability to say no to anyone with even a whisper of authority in their voice.
He was absolutely perfect for this assignment.
Immediately after he leaves the pizzeria, my phone starts blowing up with texts.
Srry man
coulnt do it
im out
I'm not even annoyed that he told Scarletta the truth—though I admit I wasn't entirely certain that would be how this played out. There was always the possibility he'd follow through, that his need for my approval would outweigh whatever nascent moral compass he pretends to navigate by.
But no. He cracked. Folded like wet cardboard under the slightest pressure of her direct, unflinching stare.
Now she knows.
Now.She knows.
I'm sitting in my Tahoe across the street from the pizzeria, engine off, windows tinted dark enough that no one walking past would even register my presence. But I'm not watching the street. I'm watching Scarletta on the dash display—a custom setup I had installed last month, three high-definition screens mounted seamlessly into the console, each one capable of cycling through every camera feed I currently have access to in Idaho Falls.
Right now, all three screens are locked on her.
I watch her sit perfectly still for forty-three seconds.
Not frozen—there's a distinction I've learned to recognize through almost a year of surveillance footage. Frozen means the body locks while the mind scrambles. This is different.
She's choosing to remain motionless.
Her chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths. Her hands rest flat on the table on either side of the abandoned pizza. Her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, not trackingMarty's retreating form, not examining the five hundred-dollar bills he left behind like an apology he couldn't voice.
Just... sitting.
I zoom the feed slightly, adjusting the angle. The camera I have control of inside the restaurant, courtesy of a hack into their pathetic security system, gives me a perfect three-quarter view. I can see her profile, the line of her throat, the way her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
She's thinking.
Processing.
And I know exactly what she's processing because I designed this entire scenario to force her into this exact mental state.
He's still watching.
He knows where I am.
He knows what turns me on.
He paid someone to say those specific words.
The thoughts probably aren't that articulate—trauma and arousal don't produce linear thinking—but the core realizations are landing. I can see them registering in the subtle shift of her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly against the laminate tabletop.
Fifty-one seconds now.
A waitress approaches, says something I can't hear. Scarletta doesn't respond immediately. The waitress lingers, awkward, probably asking if everything's okay, if she needs anything, standard hospitality script.
Scarletta's lips move. Short response. The waitress retreats.
Fifty-eight seconds.
