Page 75 of Can't Stop Watching

"Jesus, Wolfe, do you know how many Sarahs there are at NYU? It's like asking me to find a specific grain of sand on Coney Island."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache building. "Blonde, about 5'6", probably a freshman. Saw her with Langford at Luigi's Pizza last week."

"Oh, well that narrows it down to only about a hundred blond freshmen named Sarah," Milo snarks. "You want fries with that impossible order?"

"Just do it, Milo. And make it snappy. I've got a hunch this Sarah's in deeper shit than she realizes."

Milo grumbles something about slave labor and hangs up. I return to my vigil, watching Langford's gym like a hawk watching its prey. An hour crawls by before my phone pings with Milo's data dump.

I scroll through a sea of young, hopeful faces. It's like flipping through a catalog of potential victims, each one a reminder of how fucked up the world can be. Then I see her, same wide eyes, same nervous smile.

Sarah Keller. Nineteen. Political Science major with a minor in theater.

Theater. Of-fucking-course. Because predators like Langford can smell dreams and desperation a mile away. They feed on it, twist it into something ugly and call it 'opportunity.'

I stare at her picture, wondering if she has any idea what kind of game she's playing. Probably thinks she's got it all figured out, using Langford as much as he's using her. But that's the thing about sharks in custom suits, by the time you realize you're bleeding, it's already too late.

My gut churns with a familiar cocktail of disgust and determination. Time to have another chat with Miss Sarah Keller before she becomes just another statistic in the grand tragedy of human nature.

I call Milo back. "Sarah Keller's the one. Find her for me."

"Now? I need sleep, man."

"Just find her," I say. "Hack her phone, trace her movements. I need to know where she is."

"Jesus, Wolfe. You don't think he?—"

"I think Langford's playing it too clean. I need to cover all my basis"

Milo's keyboard clicks rapidly in the background. "I'll get back to you."

While I wait, Langford emerges from the gym, freshly showered, suit immaculate. He slides into his car like he's boarding a spaceship—precise, practiced. I follow at a distance as he heads toward his office building.

My phone pings with Milo's text.

Milo: Her phone's pinging at Weinstein Hall. Room 512. No social media activity in last 48 hrs. Want me to keep digging?

Relief washes through me, immediately replaced by suspicion. I text back.

Dane: Call her.

Three minutes later.

Milo: No answer. Went to voicemail. But her location's steady. She's either there or her phone is.

That's the problem with tracking phones, they can't tell you if the owner's still breathing.

Dane: Keep an eye on her digital footprint. Let me know if anything changes.

As I follow Langford's car through morning traffic, I wonder what's going on with him. Men like him—narcissists, predators—they don't just stop.

The question isn't if Langford is still hunting.

It's who's become his new prey.

And I've let my guard down, spent too many nights with Lila's head on my chest instead of on Langford's tail. Too many mornings waking up to her soft breathing instead of watching him through a long-range lens. My surveillance has gaps you could drive a truck through. Not to mention I've failed to bug his place—something I would have done last week if I weren't so distracted.

My focus has slipped. What did I miss while I was playing house? Who is he circling now, showing those perfect white teeth, touching his wedding band while he lies? Some new secretary with stars in her eyes? A waitress working doubles? A neighbor who doesn't know better?