Is that what she thought?
That I'd orchestrate months of elaborate psychological seduction, spend literal millions of dollars creating experiences tailored specifically to her darkest fantasies, confess to multiple homicides, and then just... what?
Move on?
Find another broken girl who writes prettily about her own destruction?
The business suit guy is definitely calling someone now. Probably not 911—he doesn't look concerned enough—but security, maybe. Downtown has private patrols that deal with public disturbances.
I should feel something about that. Concern, maybe. Strategic recalibration.
Instead, I'm just watching her.
"You don't get to do this!" She's crying now, tears streaming, and she doesn't bother wiping them away. "You don't get to—toleaveme alone for six months and then?—"
She stops.
Realizes what she just said.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Leave me alone.
As in: you abandoned me, and I hated it, and now you're back and I hate that too.
I see the exact moment she hears her own words the way I heard them.
Her expression shifts. Closes down. The fury drains out of her posture like someone pulled a plug, and suddenly she's just a girl standing on a sidewalk in downtown Idaho Falls, crying in public while strangers stare.
She looks smaller.
Defeated.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. Straightens her shoulders. Takes one long, shaky breath that I can see even through the camera feed.
Then she looks directly at the camera positioned above the bookstore entrance.
She can't possibly know which one I'm using. There are seven feeds covering this block alone.
But she's looking right at it anyway.
"Fuck you," she says clearly. Quietly. Just loud enough for the microphone to catch. "Fuck you, Caleb."
The business suit guy definitely heard that. He's looking at her differently now—not crazy lady, but someone who knows a specific person's name. Someone with a story.
Scarletta turns and walks away.
Not running. Not fleeing.
Just... walking.
Back toward her apartment, finally. Toward safety. Toward the only space she thinks I can't reach anymore.
I watch until she turns the corner and disappears from the downtown camera coverage.
Then I sit back in the driver's seat, hands resting on the steering wheel, and smile.
Finally.
