Page 9 of Fractured Loyalties
I need precision. Planning.
Control.
I sit down and begin drafting an operations sweep—timelines, patterns, routes, leverage points. I pull up traffic feeds, logistics on utility work around the blocks near her apartment. I want to know everything: who parks where, what lights are faulty, which corners flood when it rains. I map it all.
She sleeps unaware. I don’t need to see her to know it. Her routine is fraying, but she still follows it. She will lock the door. Check it three times. Pull the blinds. Pause at the window. Then curl up on the right side of the bed, feet tucked tight, as if the world can’t reach her there.
But it can.
And it will, if I don’t intervene.
Tonight, I let her have her illusion.
Tomorrow, I start stripping Caleb’s away.
Chapter 3 – Mara - Haunted Reflections
The sound that wakes me isn’t the alarm. It’s my own breath. Sharp. Fast. Like I surfaced from somewhere deep and violent.
My sheets are twisted. Sweat slicks the base of my neck, dampens the hem of my sleep shirt. The room is dark but not silent. The faint creak from the pipes in the wall. A whisper of wind nosing against the window. I stare at the ceiling and try to remember what I saw.
Nothing comes clearly. Just shapes. Pressure. A hand gripping my wrist too tightly. A hallway with no door at the end.
I sit up too fast. My head throbs once, then steadies.
The clock says 5:11 a.m.
I throw off the blanket and swing my feet to the floor. The air is cold. I welcome it.
In the bathroom, the mirror greets me like it always does—accusing and familiar. I touch beneath my eyes. Purple shadows. I dab my face with water and try not to think.
But it presses in anyway.
Caleb. Not his voice, not his face, but the way he made the walls feel like they were closing in. That endless waiting for a blow that might not come but always could.
I swallow.
Routine. That’s the only way out of this fog.
I wash. Brush. Dress. Pull on black slacks, a fitted gray blouse. Neutral tones. Professional armor. Then I cross to the living room and check the locks.
Once. Twice. A third time, even though I already know it’s secure.
I stand with my hand on the doorknob for a full minute.
Then I leave.
The walk to the clinic is short, but I make it feel longer by rerouting twice. There’s no logic to it—just instinct. One street feels too open. Another has a parked car I don’t recognize. I end up cutting behind the bakery, even though it smells like scorched sugar and old yeast.
Cutting behind the bakery, I spot him again. The same man from the café window, the one with the suit jacket too neatly draped, too precise for this neighborhood. Crisp charcoal suits this time, posture as straight as before, his reflection sharp in the glass door of the pharmacy. He buys a bottle of water, nothing remarkable, then walks out without a glance in my direction. Still, his presence ripples through the air like static. Coincidence, I tell myself. Small towns aren’t that small. But the word doesn’t sit right in my throat.
When I arrive, the receptionist is already there, flipping through the intake logs. She gives me a polite smile. I return it, small and quick. No words.
Inside, everything is in its place. The clean smell of antiseptic and sea air. My office with its tidy corners, my bookshelf arranged by height and subject. I boot up the computer and go through emails, though I can’t read any of them properly. My eyes skim the text but absorb nothing.
Alec knocks lightly on the doorframe around 8:02. Always that same minute. He leans in, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled. Casual, like nothing in the world could possibly shake him.
“Morning,” he says, voice low but warm.
