Chapter 9
DANE
I close the door to my apartment, tossing keys onto the kitchen counter where they skid and hit the wall.
Eleven hours trailing Langford, and the bastard didn't do anything more suspicious than order a salad with dressing on the side.
No Sarah. No secret apartment visits. Just meetings, phone calls, and a workout that lasted way too long for a guy who clearly skips leg day.
My phone buzzes. Milo.
Milo: Got that info you wanted. Attached. Wild that we're stalking a bartender now instead of cheating husbands. Career change?
I don't dignify that with a response. It's not wasted on me he used the word stalking , though.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto my couch, opening the file on my laptop.
My screen fills with Lila's life, laid bare in data points and background checks. Twenty-five years old. Graduate student at NYU. Journalism major. Works at The Old Haunt about five nights a week, give or take. No criminal record. No credit issues. Nothing remarkable.
Then I hit her history. New Orleans native. High school records showing an abrupt departure before graduation. GED completion instead of traditional diploma. No social media presence from that time frame—like she erased herself.
Something happened.
I scroll down to the notes Milo compiled from local newspaper archives.
"Holy shit," I mutter, setting my beer down.
New Orleans Times-Picayune article from eight years ago. Allegations against a high school drama teacher named Marcus Colton. The article doesn't name the student, but the timeline matches Lila's sudden disappearance from school records, and it matches the school she attended her previous years.
The case was dropped. Insufficient evidence. The teacher resigned. The school issued bland statements about "maintaining appropriate professional environments."
I rub my hand across my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. The pattern is timeless—powerful man, young woman, system failure.
The image of Lila's face forms in my mind—those guarded green eyes, the way she flinches when men get too close, how she constantly scans the room. All the pieces clicking into place.
I throw my laptop aside and pace the room, my hands curling into fists so tight my knuckles turn white. The rage isn't cold and calculated like when I'm working a case. This is molten, primal—burning through my veins, making my vision blur at the edges.
If Marcus Colton were in front of me right now, I'd wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulged. Until he felt a fraction of the helplessness Lila must have felt.
"Goddammit," I growl, slamming my palm against the wall. The hollow thud echoes through my empty apartment.
I feel a similar anger when I think of Gianna and my father.
Except this… this feels different. More personal for reasons I don't comprehend.
The thought of Lila—her gentle hands, her watchful eyes, the way she tucks those auburn strands behind her ear—being hurt by someone she trusted makes me want to tear the world apart.
I grab my phone, scrolling to find the article again. Marcus Colton. Still teaching drama, now at a private school in Connecticut. New name, same predator.
The image of him touching Lila—taking advantage of her trust—makes my muscles coil tight. My military training kicks in, my mind automatically calculating how quickly I could drive to Connecticut, how easily I could find him. How many ways I know to hurt a man without leaving evidence.
I force myself to breathe. One. Two. Three.
This isn't about revenge. It's about Lila.
I look at her photo in Milo's file—a cropped image from some high school year book. There's a lightness in her face that's missing now, a softness that's been hardened by time and unwanted memories.
I want to protect her more than ever. Not just from handsy drunks at the bar, but from everything—the memories, the fear, the shadows that make her scan every room before sitting down.
I want to build walls around her—not to trap her, but to give her space to breathe without looking over her shoulder.
The intensity of these feelings scares me. I've never felt this protective over anyone since Gianna. And I failed her.
I won't fail Lila.
I grab my jacket, nearly knocking over the half-empty beer bottle in my haste. The digital clock reads 12:27 AM. Lila's shift ends at 1:00. I can make it.
My boots pound down the stairs—elevator's too slow—them I'm in my Charger. I crank the engine, muscle memory navigating through Manhattan's late-night traffic.
Despite my resolve from the other night, my doubts return. What the hell am I doing? Playing white knight for a woman who turned me down? Following her home like some creep when she made it clear she wasn't interested?
But that was before I knew. Before I understood why she keeps her distance, why she flinches at sudden movements.
The rain starts as I pull over, fat drops hammering the windshield. Perfect. Nothing says "not stalking you" like sitting in a car in the dark while it pours. I kill the engine and slouch in my seat, adjusting my position to keep The Old Haunt's entrance in view.
Through the foggy windows, I watch patrons hurry out, collars turned up against the rain. No sign of Lila yet. My hand drums against the steering wheel, keeping time with the raindrops.
The door to The Old Haunt swings open at 1:15, and there she is—small frame wrapped in an oversized jacket, auburn hair tucked under a knit cap. She pauses under the awning, staring at the rain like it's personally offending her. No umbrella.
She steps into the downpour, shoulders hunched, heading for the corner where Ubers usually wait.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, fighting every instinct to pull up beside her. Just roll down the window and offer her a ride again. Nothing weird about that, right?
Except it is weird. Following a woman who rejected you, then offering her a ride for the second time? That's not protection. That's the kind of shit creeps do.
"Fuck," I mutter, watching her small frame getting soaked. Her shoulders hunch forward like she's trying to disappear. The rain plasters her hair to her neck.
I almost cave when she checks her phone, likely tracking her Uber. But then headlights cut through the rain—her ride, finally. She climbs in, then I follow, which is easy at this time. Manhattan traffic is thin, the rain keeping sane people indoors.
The car stops outside her building. She gets out, runs through the rain toward the entrance. I park half a block down, sitting motionless until she disappears inside.
I give it five more minutes, rain drumming on the roof, then grab the duffel bag from the back seat, get out, collar up against the rain, and approach the abandoned building across from hers.
One of the side doors has a rusty padlock that gives way with minimal persuasion from my pocketknife.
Too easy—this city's falling apart at the seams.
Inside smells like piss and mold. My boots crunch over broken glass as I make my way upstairs, counting floors until I reach one with a direct view of her apartment.
I position myself by a window partially covered with a tattered sheet.
It seems someone has been here before. Through the rain-streaked glass, I can see her apartment across the street—lights flickering on as she moves from room to room.
What am I becoming? Guardian angel or just another predator?
I unzip my duffel, pulling out equipment I've used countless times for surveillance jobs.
The high-powered directional microphone comes out first—military grade, not the cheap shit civilians can buy online.
I mount it on a compact tripod, angling it toward Lila's apartment through a crack in the window.
Rain interferes with sound quality, but the software compensates, filtering out ambient noise.
Next comes the night vision scope with digital recording capabilities.
Five grand of tax-free income spent on government-surplus tech that officially doesn't exist in civilian hands.
The scope's familiar weight feels comforting as I secure it to another tripod, adjusting the focus until Lila's apartment windows sharpen in the green-tinted display.
Wireless transmitter. Battery pack. Laptop. Earbuds. The ritual of setting up feels mechanical, practiced. Like fieldstripping a rifle blindfolded.
"You're a fucking creep, Wolfe," I mutter, connecting cables with practiced efficiency. The fact that I've done this dozens of times tempers my guilt, however.
The directional mic picks up sound as I slide the earbuds in. Rain hitting her windows. Water running through pipes. The hum of her refrigerator.
I adjust the night vision scope, bringing her apartment into crisp focus. Modest studio. Bed against the far wall. Small kitchen area. Desk cluttered with books and a laptop. Everything within my view.
Lila walks into frame, wet hair dripping onto a towel draped around her shoulders. She's changed into an oversized sweatshirt and shorts that reveal shapely legs. There's a delicacy to her movements, like someone who's learned to move quietly through the world.
She peels off the wet sweatshirt, standing in a thin tank top, unaware of my intrusion. My throat tightens. I should look away, but I don't. Can't. The scope reveals a small tattoo above her heart—something I can't quite make out at this distance.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, disgusted with myself but getting turned on fast.
Through the earbuds, I hear what sounds like muttering. I adjust the gain. Her voice comes through clearer now.
"—stupid rain. Stupid Uber driver. Stupid broken umbrella."
She's talking to herself, moving around the apartment, gathering items from various shelves—a notebook, pens. She sits at her desk, opening her laptop.