Page 130 of Misery
"Didn't want to presume."
"After everything, you're worried about presuming?" There's no humor in it, just exhaustion.
I stand, joints protesting. "Coffee?"
"You know how I take it."
"Two sugars, splash of milk." The words are out before I think. Another thing I shouldn't know but do.
"Right. Because you've been watching." She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. A defensive position I've seen her take dozens of times through windows. "What else do you know?"
"Everything." No point lying now. "How you can't sleep past 6 AM even on days off. How you bite your lip when concentrating. How you always check locks twice. How you?—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand. "I need coffee before this conversation."
The clubhouse kitchen is empty this early.
Five AM according to the clock, that liminal time between night and morning when the world feels paused.
I make coffee while she sits at the counter, my shirt hitting mid-thigh on her.
She's not wearing anything underneath.
I try not to notice, but fail.
"Ask," I say, sliding the mug to her. "Whatever you need to know."
"Everything. Every moment you watched. I need to know the exact violation."
So I tell her.
Every surveillance point.
Every shift at the bar spent watching.
Every night on her fire escape, freezing in winter, sweating in summer, but never leaving my post.
Every report filed.
I detail it all with the same precision I'd use for a kill report.
Clinical. Exact. Honest.
"April 15th. You had a panic attack at 2 AM. Threw a glass at the wall. I was on the fire escape, watched you clean it up with bleeding hands."
She flinches. "I remember that night."
"May 3rd. You painted for six hours straight. That piece with the red sky and black birds. You cried the entire time."
"Stop."
"You asked for everything."
"I know, I just..." She takes a shaky breath. "Keep going."
So, I do.
I keep going and tell her about all of the nights I remember.
