Page 84 of Let Me In

I say them before I even think.

She’s too close.

Too unprotected.

And I told her—I told her—what the rules were.

But there’s no answer on the line.

I shift the scope.

She’s not holding the phone anymore.

My stomach turns.

The car is still idling near the edge of the field, just behind the old cedar fence that leans with time. The man inside doesn’t move at first.

Then the door opens.

And he steps out.

Fuck.

I know him.

Not by name. Not exactly.

But you don’t do what I’ve done without learning to read men. To catalog their posture, their eyes, their hands. This one?

He’s not new.

Not uncertain.

This is a man who’s done bad things. Not because he had to. Because he liked it.

Not military.

Not disciplined.

Freelance.

Mercenary.

No chain of command, no conscience—just the highest bidder and blood under his nails.

He steps forward, casual. Like this is nothing. Like he’s out for a fucking Sunday drive.

And then he waves.

To her.

I watch her hesitate.

Not in fear.

In thought.

And then—God help me—she starts walking.

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