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The front door across the street opens. Mercer steps outside.

Every trace of amusement disappears.

Bishop's photographs were accurate. Early forties. Brown hair. Average height. Average build. Jeans. Dark jacket. Nothing memorable.

That's deliberate. A man like Mercer doesn't want people describing him later.

He locks the door, walks to his car, and gets inside.

I wait.

One minute later, his vehicle finally backs out.

My phone buzzes again.

Chaos: Are you ignoring me?

Yes.

I wait before moving.

Mercer's careful.

So am I.

I pull onto the road and follow him from a distance.

Two hours later, I've learned three things.

Mercer likes black coffee.

He doesn't waste time.

And Bishop was right. He notices people.

Mercer sits alone near the back of a small diner outside Hollow Creek. His position gives him a clear view of the entrance and most of the room. He hasn't looked at his phone once. He hasn't opened the newspaper sitting beside his coffee.

He's watching.

Every time the door opens, his attention shifts.

Every time someone gets up, he notices.

A waitress refills his coffee. He smiles at her. She smiles back.

Then his gaze moves to the window.

I shift slightly. Not because he can see me. Because instinct tells me to.

He watches back.

I understand why Bishop doesn't want anyone else on this.

Mercer isn't stupid.

That makes two of us.

My phone vibrates. Again.