Page 7 of Fractured Loyalties
She takes one sip, then another. She doesn't speak to anyone. Just listens to the breeze. Watches.
A car turns the corner too slowly. Not slow enough to be suspicious, but enough to pull her focus. Her shoulders lock. The paper cup stills in her hand. She shifts the strap of her bag tighter across her chest, fingers clenching once, then loosening—as if reminding herself to look calm.
I see the spike of adrenaline ripple through her. I feel it, almost.
She stares at the car until it’s gone, then checks over her shoulder once before disappearing inside again.
I don’t smile. But there’s a heat behind my ribs that wasn’t there this morning.
Fear is clarity.
She’s starting to see the world as it is. Unforgiving. Crowded with danger.
That’s how you know who you can trust.
After Mara slips back inside, I stay hidden a while longer. But not on foot. Not out in the open. That would be careless.
I double back toward the edge of the lot and return to the waiting car. My driver is still in the front seat, engine off, hands neatly folded. He’s used to waiting without asking questions. I knock once on the window, and he unlocks the door.
"You’re dismissed for the day," I tell him as I slide into the back. "Take a cab back. I’ll handle it from here."
He gives a short nod and exits, disappearing down the street without a word.
Once he’s gone, I slide forward into the driver’s seat. The interior is still warm from his body. I adjust the mirrors—not because I need them, but because I don’t like the idea of them being off by even a fraction.
The car is parked two blocks east of the clinic, angled discreetly along a side road that offers a partial view of the front entrance through the side mirrors. From here, I can monitor comings and goings without risk of being seen. I remain seated, engine off, phone in hand.
I scroll through the surveillance logs I tagged two weeks ago, not illegal—nothing traceable. Just footage from a public-facing building, and a license plate log from a friendly contact in Michigan. Caleb Rusk’s last known vehicle was sold six months ago. Cash. No paper trail since.
I already know that isn’t a coincidence.
If Mara feels hunted, it’s because she is.
But she’s not hunted by me.
I flip through images. One of her standing in front of the clinic. One outside her apartment building. Her face in all of them is still. Too still. Like something inside her is retreating.
I’ve seen that look in a mirror.
My hand tightens around the phone.
This isn’t curiosity anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. She doesn’t know it yet, but her protection is already mine to provide. Her fear is mine to redirect. If she won’t act, I will.
I pocket the phone and remain in the driver’s seat. No need to go anywhere, not yet. The route is clean. No one has seen me. Still, I sit for a while longer, watching. Calculating. When I finally turn the key in the ignition, it’s not to circle or approach—it’s to leave. My work here, for now, is complete.
The drive back to the penthouse is uneventful. Controlled. Exactly the way I prefer it. Every intersection taken with intention, every lane change deliberate. I arrive just before the traffic thickens, and by the time the car is parked in theunderground garage, the sky above is already draining of light, but inside my home, the light never shifts. Everything is exactly where it belongs—precise. Ordered. Unchanging.
I strip off the jacket, hang it on the single hook by the door. My shoes align perfectly beside each other. I cross the polished floors and pour a finger of scotch into a crystal. One drink. No more. Enough to think clearly without dulling the edge.
Then I walk to the room I never show anyone. No one knows it exists. Inside: four screens. All muted. One of them still shows a paused frame of Mara from last night.
She checked the locks three times. Pulled the blinds twice. Then hesitated at the window—reached toward the latch, paused, and backed away. The footage isn’t from inside her apartment, not directly. I secured access to a neighboring building’s outdoor security cam—the angle's wide, crude, but it gives me just enough. Her silhouette framed in low amber light. Her gestures outlined against the blinds. The hesitation at the window was subtle, but I saw it.
Maybe it’s just inference. I’ve studied her patterns long enough to know when something breaks. Her routine is unraveling.
I watch the video again.
And again.
