Page 53 of Can't Stop Watching

"I did. NYU freshman named Sarah." I don't mention my conversation with the girl. Client doesn't need those details.

"Did you get pictures? Of them... together?" Her voice catches slightly.

"Just these." On the camera's screen, I show her the pictures of them going into the apartment, Brian's hand on Sarah's back.

She shakes her head, disappointment etched in the lines around her mouth. "I need more, Mr. Wolfe. Something undeniable. The court will need that."

"I'm aware." The words come out harsher than intended. I hate making excuses. Feels like failure. "I'll have them soon."

Claire wraps her hands around her coffee cup, knuckles white. "My lawyer says without evidence?—"

"I know what your lawyer says." I cut her off. "I'm good at what I do. You'll have your proof."

She studies me, searching for reassurance or maybe just honesty. "You're certain he's cheating?"

The question hangs between us. I think about Sarah's calculating eyes, about Langford's predatory smile.

"Yes." And my gut tells me there's more going on than just infidelity, I want to say, but I hold it back.

Proof. We both need proof.

I leave Claire Langford with promises I intend to keep. Her face follows me as I walk out—that look of controlled desperation. She's afraid of what she'll find, but more afraid of staying blind.

Makes two of us.

Back in my apartment, I toss my jacket over a chair and crack open a beer. The condensation feels good against my palm. Cold and real, unlike everything else in this case. Maybe it's time to admit I've been circling too long without landing a real blow. I would already have the proof Claire requires if not for my obsession with Lila.

I down half my beer, trying to ignore the twisted knot in my gut.

Lila.

She'll be here tonight, and the prospect of her coming over for dinner hits harder than walking into potential ambushes ever did.

I look around at my stark apartment, and for the first time in years, I question my approach. My carefully constructed walls. The deliberate emptiness I've cultivated like a fucking art form.

I imagine Lila walking through my door, those sharp green eyes dissecting me on arrival. What would she really see? A man with nothing to lose, or just nothing worth keeping? The distinction matters more than it should.

Hell of a time for existential crisis, Wolfe.

I check my watch. Only a few hours until she's here, a short window to decide how much of myself I'm willing to put on the table. Or if I even remember how.

The Langford case can wait one night. Some monsters have patience. So can I.

18

LILA

Iknock on Dane's apartment door, fidgeting with my purse strap while checking my lip gloss in my phone camera. The butterflies in my stomach have turned into full-blown hawks. God, I'm so nervous. What if this goes wrong? What if I'm making a mistake?

When the door swings open, the rich smell of sautéed mushrooms and white wine hits me. Dane stands there in a black t-shirt with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, looking annoyingly at ease.

"You found the place," he says, stepping aside to let me in.

"I followed the scent of someone trying too hard," I reply, but I'm smiling as I hand him the bottle of Cabernet I brought.

His apartment is surprisingly neat—spacious compared to my shoebox. In the kitchen, he goes back to stirring risotto, watching the rice turn creamy as it absorbs stock.

"I didn't know bartenders could be cooked for," I say, leaning against his counter while he works. "Usually we're the ones taking care of everyone else."