17. LYLA
Chapter seventeen
I was already sweating by the time I handed off the third cappuccino of the morning.
The shop was warm, bustling with early risers, and the espresso machine had been groaning nonstop since we’d opened the doors at five.
My apron strings dug into my waist, the winter boots I’d chosen to wear were making my feet sweat, and my hair was falling in my face, annoying the crap out of me—thanks to my broken hair tie.
Anxiety was shooting through my veins, and it felt as if my skin was on too tight.
Maybe I was angsty because I hadn’t slept.
At all.
So much had happened last night—having to do that humiliating performance for Delgado, getting grabbed in the stairwell on the way up to my apartment, watching yet another man get murdered in front of me.
The entire series of events was something straight out of a psychological thriller.
There’d been no hesitation by my stalker. No mercy. Just a sickening crunch, then silence, my attacker’s limp body crumpling to the ground before our feet.
I’d called the police in a frenzy and told them everything about the man who’d attacked me and about the one who’d saved me.
They had followed me down to the third floor.
But we’d found nothing there.
No body. No signs of a scuffle. Not even a scuff mark.
It was like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean in a matter of thirty minutes.
The policemen hadn’t said it, but I’d seen it in their eyes: She’s crazy or maybe confused. Maybe she had too much to drink .
By the time they’d left, I had less than an hour before I needed to get ready for my shift at Cipher.
I was wired, and my brain wouldn’t shut off.
My fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. Again and again, my mind replayed it all—the rough grab, the brutal kill, the low command he’d given me as he leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine: Run.
Sleep hadn’t even been an option.
Outside, snow was falling in soft, clean flurries, coating the sidewalk and parked cars in a dusting of white that looked like something out of a Hallmark movie.
The front windows were rimmed with evergreen garlands and dotted with little holly berries and twinkle lights that blinked cheerfully against the darkness.
Carmine had made the girls who worked the afternoon shift hang decorations yesterday, the kind that straddled that awkward seasonal holiday period between Halloween and the Christmas season.
All they needed to do was swap the turkeys and cornucopias for Christmas trees and stockings, and the whole place would go from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a snap.
I had to admit, the decorations looked surprisingly good—festive and cozy.
Too cozy for the mood I was in.
It seemed like the universe had decided to rub holiday cheer in my face—wrapping the world in glitter and snowflakes while I tried to pretend I wasn’t still reeling from hearing the sound of a man’s neck breaking.
“Two everything bagels with scallion cream cheese and a medium dark roast—no room, to go,” I called out to the waiting crowd of customers.
A man in the black trench coat stepped forward and took his order, mumbling a thank you before heading out the door. Another customer stepped up to order. My hands moved on autopilot as I worked the register.
Smile, bag, swipe, nod, ring up.
But my thoughts were far away.
Back on the third floor of my apartment building.
The hallway had been pristine , as if it had all been a delusion.
The younger cop had looked at me like I needed a straitjacket and a seventy-two-hour hold. They’d left me with generic information, told me to file a report if I ever got the guy’s name, and handed me a card with the precinct’s address and phone number.
And now, I was questioning my own sanity. File a report on what? A corpse that had vanished? A ghost of a not-so-good Samaritan?
But he wasn’t a ghost. He was real. The pressure of his hand on the back of my neck had been real. The heat of his breath against my lips, the way his body had vibrated with fury, the way he’d told me to run—that had all been real .
And I had run like a coward. I’d gone back to my apartment, locked the door, and called the police.
Now I was here, taking orders. Smiling. Acting like I hadn’t watched a man die less than three hours ago. And it was the second time in a matter of days! If this kept up, the male population of Manhattan was going to be significantly impacted.
“Hey, you okay?” Trina asked, her voice cutting through the fog in my head.
I blinked and looked over at her. She was carrying a tray of breakfast sandwiches from the small kitchen area in the back, her ponytail bouncing as she moved toward the glass case.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.”
She didn’t push. Thank God.
The shop was starting to fill up now. Mostly regulars. I wondered how many of them knew who really owned this place. How many of them had noticed the tattooed man in the back corner hammering away on his laptop as he sat there for hours on end? Not that he was ever coming back, but who really knew?
My stomach twisted. I didn’t know which man in my life was worse.
Carlos? A monster.
Delgado? A gang lord.
Carmine? I wasn’t sure about him.
And what about the man who’d stalked me, saved me…killed for me? The man whose name I didn’t even know?
Mr. Stalker haunted my thoughts. Since the first day I’d waited on him, he was never too far away. Part of me actually felt safer to know he was nearby, even if the other part thought he was a psychopath.
I left the counter to take some orders for the guests sitting at tables. I glanced outside; the snow had thickened. The garland and twinkle lights made the windows glow with warm light. All was peaceful.
And then I saw him.
Standing just beyond the glass, staring in the window with an angry scowl. Black coat, dark hair tousled from the wind, and a shopping bag in his hand. He didn’t move.
Every muscle in my body froze.
Of course he was here.
Like the devil reading my thoughts and then appearing.
I turned my back to him and asked the couple at the table for their order.
But I knew—I knew —I wasn’t going to get through this shift without having another confrontation with him.
I returned to the register.
I’d just finished ringing up a cinnamon latte for a woman in a hurry when he stepped up to the counter.
His eyes locked onto mine—unreadable.
“Step outside,” he said calmly, in the kind of tone that brooked no argument.
The man behind him in line shifted uneasily and took a step back.
Trina froze mid-pour, her eyes darting between us, but she stayed quiet.
I didn’t move right away but just stared at him, my pulse thudding hard in my throat.
“Now,” he insisted. “Unless you’d rather do this in front of an audience.”
My stomach dropped.
I handed the receipt to the woman I’d just rung up and slipped around the counter, ignoring Trina’s raised eyebrows as she moved to take my place at the register.
I followed him. God help me, I don’t know why I did.
The door shut behind me with an ominous thud as I stepped outside, the cold air slapping me in the face.
It was still dark out. The street was quiet, except for the occasional car gliding by.
Snow drifted in soft spirals around the curb, barely sticking.
I folded my arms against the chill as he turned to face me.
We stood just under the twinkle lights, half in shadow and alone—but not really.
People from the other side of the glass were watching us.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped.
I blinked.
“What?”
“You called the cops.”
“I— You murdered a man!” I whisper-shouted, arms hugging my body tightly as I shivered.
“I saved your life.”
“You snapped his neck like it was a twig!”
He stepped closer. “You think he was just some random jerk? Joel Epstein served time for assault with intent. The rape charges were sealed after the trial—two victims, both young, both grabbed near their buildings at night. He stalked them for days before making a move. Same pattern both times. He waited until they were tired. Distracted. Coming home from work.”
My stomach flipped, a jolt of alarm going through my body.
“He was out of jail for less than three months. I ran background checks on every tenant in your building. I know who shares your floor—how the guy down in 2B works nights and has two DUIs; he’s usually passed out by sunrise.
I know that the woman in 1A filed a restraining order against her ex last year, then moved back in with him.
The kid across the hall in 1B? Works for a weed delivery app and leaves his door propped open when he’s high.
The girl in 3A? She’s solid. Nursing student.
Keeps pepper spray in her coat pocket and never walks with earbuds in. ”
My jaw dropped. “That is insane.” I took a step back. “You’re insane.”
“I don’t take chances when it comes to security,” he said. “I collect data. Analyze risk. And I saw yours from a mile away. You’d be dead if I hadn’t been diligent.”
“And you think that justifies murder?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he handed me the bag he was carrying.
“Put that on.”
Confused, I peered down into the bag and pulled out a navy blue peacoat. The wool was dense but soft. It looked expensive. “No, I can’t accept this. It’s—”
“Take it, and for Christ’s sake, stop wearing that damn hoodie everywhere you go.”
Hesitantly, I unbuttoned the coat and slid into it.
I was instantly warmer but also more confused.
He looked pissed off, but then again, he always looked pissed off.
So what was new? Still, the fact that he was aware I always threw on my hoodie whenever I went out into the chilly air was disconcerting.
But he’d cared enough to give me something useful, and that was thoughtful and kind, which was unexpected to say the least.