That stubborn assed kitten sits back on its haunches, tail flicking, as if offended by the decision.
I slip outside, ease the door shut behind me, and lock it with the same pathetic little click.
By the time I’m back in the car, Shiloh is sauntering down the sidewalk a mere hundred yards behind Reva. All while she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she’s being followed already.
I sigh and shake my head and recline the seat slightly, watching through the tinted windshield as she climbs the stairs to her room with a tray of coffee and a white paper bag folded at the top.
She looks tired. Wary, but still oblivious. She looks like she still thinks she’s bought herself some kind of breathing room.
SHILOH
You get in and out?
Yes.
Anything interesting?
I glance toward her door as she unlocks it and disappears inside. Everything about her is interesting…and even everything will never be enough. Not of Reva.
Some.
Shiloh sends back a laughing emoji, which makes me want to break his fingers.
I don’t start the car.
I sit there with one hand loose on the wheel and her black lace panties tucked into my surveillance bag like a confession I’ll never make aloud.
Inside that room, she’s setting down the coffee. Probably talking to the kitten. Probably thinking she’s hidden herself in some anonymous little corner of the city where she can regroup and make a plan.
She has no idea I was just in her space, breathing her air, touching the things she thought belonged only to her.
No idea that I’ve read enough to know now that revenge isn’t just a story she tells. It’s the spine holding her upright, the cells holding her together. And we need to make a plan for the moment her revenge no longer becomes an option. Losing her isn’t a possibility.
That just makes her that much more dangerous. It just makes me want her that much more.
I watch her window as Shiloh opens the passenger-side door and slips inside, and I think of leashes.
That moment you let something run just far enough to make the snap back hurt. Somewhere under all of that, quieter but meaner, another thought settles in.
She ran from Nash.
But she’ll never run far enough to get away from me. She’s in my blood now, and there’s no escape.
You’re right. I did know you were lying.
You write differently when you’re tired. Shorter sentences. More profanity.
And I don’t think that was an insult from Cal. It sounds more like reluctant admiration, which I imagine is his preferred love language.
You do seem built for triage. Some people freeze when something goes wrong. Some people fracture. Some people become very calm and very useful.
I suspect you were never going to be anything but useful in a crisis.
Just don’t let usefulness become the only thing you think you’re good for.
That’s a dangerous habit.
And for the record, antiseptic and old coffee is the scent of competence. Panic is optional.
