Page 44 of Single Mom's Daddies
I nod.
He leads me to the back room. Small desk. Dusty monitor. The mouse sticks a little when he slides it. He cues up the night in question, clicks through frame by frame.
It’s decent footage—enough for me to recognize one of the boys by face. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Sloppy stance. Nervous eyes. Knife held like he’s seen it in a movie but never used it. The other is harder to read—taller, heavier, wearing a hoodie that conceals more than it reveals.
“You think they’ll come back?” Mr. García asks.
“No,” I say. “They know better now.”
He doesn’t ask how I know.
“I don’t want anyone else hurt,” he says.
“I understand.”
We leave it at that.
Back on the sidewalk, the sun’s higher now, burning off the last of the haze. The street smells like diesel and warm asphalt. And that’s when I see him. Leaning against the hood of my car like he has a right to it.
Fucking Ruger. Our very own stalker.
He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a pair of sunglasses that look expensive but not too expensive. His tie’s crooked. His shoes are clean. His posture is relaxed in the way people get when they’re either very sure of themselves or trying hard to appear that way.
“Morning,” he says as I approach.
I don’t smile. “Something you need?”
“Just admiring the neighborhood.”
“It’s not for sale, and I’ll thank you not to touch my car.”
He chuckles. “Wasn’t asking.” He steps away from the car, hands in his pockets. “That painting in the shop window. Svet, right?”
I nod once.
“Funny how things change. They get robbed, they hang up one of your paintings, and boom. No more trouble.”
“People respect art,” I say.
“They respect what it represents.”
“That too.”
He grins. “So the auction comes with follow-up service. Full suite.”
“We pride ourselves on client satisfaction.”
“Of course.” There’s a pause. Then he says, “You’re a hard man to keep up with, Victor.”
I glance at him. “You shouldn’t stalk me. You’re not my type.”
He laughs. “I’ve always had odd taste in…people.” He doesn’t move.
Neither do I. He’s waiting for something. For a twitch. For a mistake. For confirmation. He won’t get it from me. “Enjoy the sunshine, Agent.”
“Always.”
Then he walks off, casual as anything.
