Page 29 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I adjust the final monitor on the fold-out table we're using as our command center. There are five screens, each showing different angles of Londyn's apartment and the hallway. Not exactlyPentagon-level surveillance, but it'll do the trick and it's the best we can manage in an old apartment building like this.

"Mona and the boys are three episodes ahead of me," Mike continues, his voice growing louder as he walks into the living room. "They promised not to watch more without me, but Noah's got zero impulse control. Kid's probably bingeing it right now while eating all the good snacks. Think I could have set times to video chat with them and watch shows?"

The fondness in his voice when he talks about his family makes something hurt inside my chest. It's like a hot coal, and it burns the more I give it attention. It's not jealousy exactly. Just… awareness of a blank space.

"Get a TV and, sure, you can have family time." I plug in the last cable for our hub. "We'll work out a schedule." I wonder what that's like, having a family who wants to see me each evening and sit with me on the couch and chill.

Having a military dad meant I didn't get a ton of time with him growing up, andummawas the neighborhood gossip no matter where we lived. I cooked with my mom, myumma, in the evenings, but someone else was always there—an aunt, grandma, the guy from down the street, the womanummamet that day at the convenience store. Besides our yearly weekend of making kimchi together, I didn't get a ton of alone, quality time with Mom. She's definitely way more invested now that I'm an adult and in my 'marrying prime.'

Since the hub for Londyn's security is all connected, I pull out my phone and open the security app. I check that both cameras we installed in our apartment are also operational. One covers the entrance, the other has a wide angle on the living room and bedrooms. Mike's phone pings as I add him. This is all standard protocol. Always secure your own perimeter. Can't protect a client if someone compromises our position.

"Both feeds coming through clear on your end?" I ask Mike as he checks his phone.

"Yup."

Mike passes by the couch—a sad, sagging thing Londyn found at a thrift store. It looks like it's been through several divorces and lost every custody battle. The whole apartment has that same empty, transient feeling. White walls. Zero decorations. A single lamp in the corner casting more shadows than light. Two metal folding chairs that I picked out, but honestly, they could double as medieval torture devices. And there's a single card table for eating. Not even a coffee maker. I brought my tea kettle so I'm good, but I know Mike's heart runs on dark vanilla roast.

This arrangement reminds me of certain deployment quarters. Bare minimum. Functional. Temporary.

I don't mind. I've lived with less, sometimes just a toothbrush and sleeping sack.

"This place makes a prison cell look cozy," Mike says, echoing my thoughts as he surveys our temporary home for the next month. "Londyn said the previous tenant just moved out?"

"Yeah," I reply, turning away to focus on Londyn's camera feeds again. "Good timing. But I've already got the couple's names and I'll run a quick background check on them. Probably just a coincidence that they moved out, but I'll make sure."

"Sounds good." Mike rustles with some bag behind me. "What about her digital footprint? Social media, online presence?"

"She said she doesn't have any, which is good. Harder to track." I pause. "But we should still run a search, see if there's anything she's forgotten about or doesn't know exists. Sometimes stalkers create fake profiles of their targets."

"Got it. I'll work on that tonight."

The hallway camera feed shows clear footage of both doors: Londyn's and ours. I glance at the living room feed next. Londyn is pacing back and forth, very animated, with her phone held out in front of her as she talks to someone. Must be video chatting with that Australian friend she mentioned.

The audio is off since we're here to monitor and not eavesdrop on her personal conversations, but I should look away. Give her privacy for a few minutes. I can't. Something about the way she moves holds my attention.

She's different than she was with us. Her hands gesture broadly as she speaks, her face expressive and open, nothing like the tense, guarded woman who could barely look at me. She laughs, her head thrown back slightly, completely unrestrained. It's like watching someone step out from behind a heavy curtain.

She's fucking captivating. Suddenly, she's holding space. If there were an audience, she'd have their complete, undivided attention. Hell, even social media couldn't compete with that energy.

Leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, I smile, and that damn hot coal feels doused for a minute as I watch. I'm glad she has someone who brings out that joy and spirit in her. Everyone needs at least one person they can be completely themselves with.

I'll still have to do a background check on her friend, though.

Mike leans over my shoulder, glancing at the monitor. "Our client is more relaxed when we're not around."

"I noticed that."

There's something familiar about the way she carries herself when others aren't in the room, the theatrical way her hands emphasize whatever she's saying. It brings me back to the thought I had at the convention, that she might be an actress. But if she was, that part of her seems disconnected with the version of Londyn I see when I'm in the room.

She's a puzzle. One I shouldn't solve. I'm here to look for a stalker—that minor detail called my actual job—not spend my time admiring such a captivating, beautiful woman.

She tries to make herself plain and hide behind those large glasses and t-shirts, but I see it: Londyn is fucking gorgeous.

Mike moves into the tiny kitchen, unpacking a ridiculous amount of supplements from his duffel bag. The sound of plastic containers hitting laminate countertops echoes through the apartment as he arranges his protein powders like they're family heirlooms.

"I really appreciate this, man," he says, pulling out a blender that looks like it could pulverize concrete. "Thanks for bringing me in on this job. It couldn't have come at a better time."

I adjust another camera angle, zooming in slightly on Londyn's front door while keeping an eye on the living room feed. "No problem."

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