Page 6 of Fractured Loyalties
Lydia pauses. “No. Just...methodical.”
I tap the edge of the folder. The paper’s too warm, like it’s been held too long. Lydia hesitates, and that means she wants to say something but is calculating how much I’ll tolerate.
“You’ve been watching her for a long time,” she says eventually.
I glance at her. “You’re implying something.”
“I’m implying you’re not impartial.”
I let the silence stretch until she adjusts the cuff of her jacket.
“Keep running background on her ex,” I say. “The one from Michigan. Caleb Rusk.”
“Already flagged. Domestic complaints, two restraining orders—both expired. One sealed file that took some digging. Not the kind of man who lets go easily.”
“No,” I murmur, “he isn’t.”
Lydia waits for me to say more. I don’t. She leaves.
I sit back. Close the file without needing to read it.
I already know everything in it.
Because I’ve been watching her.
I first saw Mara seven months ago. Chance. Or close enough. She was sitting alone on a bench near the entrance of a community outreach event I was funding—half-present, like she hadn’t decided whether she belonged inside or outside. Nothing remarkable about the bench, or the moment, except the way she held herself.
Too still. Too composed. The kind of stillness that only comes from surviving something loud.
Most people reveal who they are by speaking. Mara tells you everything by not speaking. That day, I watched her study a crack in the pavement for seven minutes without blinking. That’s not boredom. That’s someone trying not to fall apart.
Since then, I’ve mapped her habits with the same discipline I bring to boardrooms and courtrooms. Same time, same path, same clinic. Her routines are exacting. They give her the illusion of control. I understand that need. I was raised in its teeth.
I’ve consciously stepped closer when it served me. Not every day—sporadic enough that she could call it a coincidence if she wanted. Once at the post office, long enough for her to hear someone greet me, my name clipped short in the noise. Another of those days was yesterday; I made sure to place myself across from her office around lunch, when I knew she took a short break, and I saw her as she stepped out. All she had to do was look straight ahead, and she’d spot me there, nothing direct, never direct. Just enough for her to register me without knowing why. Just enough to plant the seed that I was already part of her landscape.
I notice that lately, her mask is slipping.
This week, she started pausing outside her door before unlocking it. Pausing again in the stairwell. She checks her rearview mirror more often. She walks faster but pretends not to. Her world is starting to crack, and I want to know what’s pressing against it from the other side.
After Lydia leaves, I finish the remaining emails with mechanical precision. I forward a few directives, lock my screen, and slide my phone into my coat pocket. I text the destination without ceremony. The driver replies with a simple 'On it' and pulls up five minutes later. He knows better than to ask questions as I step into the back of the car.
By the time we reach the edge of Miramont, it’s just after nine. I don’t go to her apartment—she’s already left for work. I know because she always goes to the clinic early. That’s part of what steadies her: rhythm, ritual, routine.
Instead, I direct the driver to the outer edge of town near the business district. He parks without question, two blocks east of the clinic. I walk from there, moving through back alleys and narrow lots with practiced silence.
I pause near the post office, where the corner of the clinic comes into view. The building is modest—clean stucco, sharp lines, a row of windows that reflect nothing but pale sky. From this angle, I can watch her without risk.
I shift behind the hedge and let time pass. The staff trickles in, the first patient stumbles through the door, and Mara begins her day like nothing is wrong.
But I know better. I’ve been watching the cracks spread.
At exactly 10:14 p.m., she steps outside with a paper cup in hand—tea, I'm sure, not coffee. She never drinks coffee. But it's not just the tea that tells me she's rattled.
She's carrying her bag.
She never takes it out for short breaks. Not unless she plans to go somewhere. But today, it’s slung high and tight across her chest like she’s ready to run. That alone sets off an alert in my brain.
She walks to the corner of the building and plants herself near the wall, one foot subtly angled toward the street like she’s mapping an escape route. Her eyes sweep the sidewalk, the lot, the cars. Not fast. Methodical.
