Page 74 of Can't Stop Watching

Her breathing eventually slows, deepens. I trace nonsense patterns on her bare shoulder, feeling the goosebumps that rise in response.

The city lights paint blue-gray shadows across her skin. In this half-light, the freckles scattered across her shoulders look like constellations. I find myself mapping them, creating new mythologies.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I've been with women before. I'm not some inexperienced kid. But this—this bone-deep need to protect, to possess, to know—this is unfamiliar territory. Dangerous ground. No other woman ever arouse it in me.

Men like me don't get to keep things like her. We're the wolves, not the shepherds. We destroy what we touch.

But as I watch her sleep, her face finally peaceful, I allow myself to imagine. A life without ghost-hunting. A future where the past stays buried.

It's a fantasy, of course. The kind of bullshit happy ending they sell in movies. Real life doesn't work that way. Especially not mine.

Still, I hold her closer, letting her warmth seep into the cold places inside me. For tonight, I'll keep watch. Make sure nothing disturbs her dreams. Tomorrow, reality will reassert itself. The case. Langford. The cameras in her apartment that I need to remove before this goes any further.

But for now, I'll guard what's mine.

24

DANE

The day drags like a corpse through gravel. I tail Langford's Porsche from his home to his office, from his office to lunch meetings, from meetings back to the office. The man's a fucking metronome—tick-tocking between the same locations with clockwork precision.

No Sarah. No secret rendezvous. No wedding ring sleight-of-hand.

This morning, I'm parked across from his upscale gym, engine idling while Langford works through whatever privileged-asshole routine rich guys do at 6 AM. Probably peacocking on the weight bench, half-repping while some poor bastard counts his sets and nods approvingly.

Something's off. This sudden Boy Scout routine stinks worse than week-old fish.

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, the steady tap-tap-tap matching the rhythm of my growing unease. Either Langford made me and is playing it straight for show, or something changed. Did he give up on Sarah already? It seemsunlikely. The angles don't add up, and in my experience, when the math gets fuzzy, something unpleasant tends to follow.

Sarah's face flashes through my mind—too young, too trusting. Did she crack and tell him about our conversation? About the PI asking questions, poking at his perfect veneer? Smart money says she wouldn't—fear is a powerful motivator—but desperation makes people stupid, and young girls in over their heads with powerful men are nothing if not desperate.

Neither option sits well in the pit of my stomach, churning like day-old coffee and bad decisions. Man like Langford are sharks in custom suits who only show their teeth when they've got you cornered. And cornered predators don't suddenly find Jesus… They attack, then find new hunting grounds.

My phone buzzes. Claire Langford.

"Any progress, Mr. Wolfe?" she asks.

"He's being careful," I tell her. "Too careful."

"What does that mean?" The worry in her voice is palpable, like static on a bad connection.

"It means your husband's either reformed overnight or he's up to something. I'll find out either way."

Her sigh whispers through the speaker. "Should I be concerned?"

"Time will tell."

I hang up, my mind circling back to Sarah and her 'arrangement' with Langford. What arrangement? And why has he suddenly stopped seeing her?

A cold weight settles in my gut. The possibilities line up like spent shell casings. None of them good.

I call Milo.

"It's 6:17 in the morning," he grumbles. "Someone better be dead."

"I need you to find a particular Sarah at NYU."