CHAPTER SEVEN JAX
The lie comes easily. It always has.
The fact that she left me access feels significant. Trust, maybe, or desperation. Possibly both. She's inviting surveillance into her private space because the alternative—being watched by people who want to harm her—is worse.
I climb to the third floor, find her door, retrieve the key from under a mat that's seen better days. Inside, the apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time.
Small. Sparse. Temporary in a way that suggests she's still deciding whether to stay or run.
The living room contains a second-hand couch, a coffee table with water rings, and no television.
The kitchen is barely used—clean dishes in the drainer, empty counters, a French press and coffee grinder that look newer than everything else.
One bedroom is visible through an open door, minimal furniture, and boxes stacked against the wall.
She hasn't unpacked. Five months after Gabriel's death and she's still living like she might disappear at any moment.
I set down my equipment, pull out my phone and text her: I'm here. Starting installation. You'll have full system access within two hours.
Her response: Thank you. And Jax? The bedroom is off-limits. I mean it.
I text back: Understood. No cameras in private spaces without explicit consent.
Then I get to work.
The installation requires strategic thinking. Cameras need to cover entry points, common areas, blind spots where someone could breach without triggering alerts. But they also need to feel unobtrusive enough that Lana doesn't feel imprisoned in her own home.
I start with the entrance. A small camera integrated into what looks like a smoke detector.
Covers the door, the small entryway, gives a clear view of anyone entering or exiting.
The second camera goes in the living room, positioned to monitor the windows—fire escape access, potential breach points.
Third in the kitchen, covering the back door that leads to a service hallway.
No bedroom. No bathroom. The spaces where she undresses, where she's most vulnerable, remain unwatched. It's the boundary that separates protection from violation.
By 10:23 AM, I've installed six cameras, integrated them into a secure network that feeds to both my monitoring system and—per our agreement—gives Lana admin access. She'll be able to see every angle I see, disable feeds if she wants privacy, and control her own surveillance.
I'm testing the final camera placement when my phone rings. Lucien.
"How's the installation?" he asks without preamble.
"Almost finished. She'll have full access by noon."
"Full access." His tone sharpens slightly. "You gave her admin privileges?"
"Per our agreement. She wanted transparency. I'm providing it."
"That defeats the purpose of covert surveillance, Jax. If she can disable the feeds, she can hide things we need to see."
"She's not hiding anything. She's establishing boundaries." I adjust the camera angle in the kitchen, making sure it covers the entry point without invading her limited privacy. "If this is going to work—if she's going to trust the protection—she needs to have a say over how it happens."
Lucien is quiet for a moment. Then: "You're getting attached."
"I'm being strategic."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." A pause. "Have you confirmed surveillance on Ezra's investigator?"
"Working on it. The man who followed her yesterday is professional—former law enforcement, probably NYPD or similar.
He knows how to avoid counter-surveillance.
But I've identified his pattern. He watches her building in the mornings between seven and eight, follows her to the foundation office, and documents her routine. "
"For what purpose?"
"Building a case. If Ezra's contesting the will, he needs to establish that Lana is unstable, dangerous, unfit to inherit Gabriel's estate. Surveillance documentation helps construct that narrative—look at how paranoid she is, how she changes routes randomly, how she isolates herself."
"Ironic, given that we're surveilling her for the opposite reason."
"The difference is consent." I finish the camera test, and confirm all feeds are live. "She knows I'm watching. She agreed to the terms. Ezra's investigator is building a file without her knowledge or permission."
"You think that distinction matters legally?"
"I think it matters ethically. And ethics are the only thing separating what I'm doing from what Gabriel did to her."
Lucien makes a sound that might be agreement or amusement. "You're moralizing surveillance. That's new for you."
"Elias taught me that protection without consent is just control with better marketing. I'm trying to remember the difference."
"How noble." His tone shifts and becomes more serious. "Speaking of Elias—he's been asking questions. About you. About Lana. About why I'm so interested in Gabriel Pope's widow."
My pulse kicks up. "What did you tell him?"
"That she's a patron with security concerns.
That you're handling it professionally. That he's welcome to mind his own business.
" A pause. "But Jax? Elias doesn't ask questions unless he already knows the answers.
If he's investigating your interest in Lana, it means he's concerned you're repeating patterns he tried to train out of you. "
The comparison lands exactly where Lucien intended. Elias and Mara. The relationship that made Elias walk away from everything he'd built. The cautionary tale about obsession disguised as protection.
"I'm not repeating anything," I say. "I'm doing my job."
"Of course you are." Lucien's voice carries that edge of calculation I've learned to recognize. "Finish the installation. Make sure Lana understands how to access the system. And Jax? Thursday's lunch with Ezra—I want you there. Not at the table, but close enough to intervene if necessary."
"She's bringing Solange."
"Solange isn't security. You are. Be there." He hangs up before I can respond.
I spend the next forty minutes configuring Lana's access to the system, creating an interface simple enough that she can monitor feeds without technical expertise.
By 11:17 AM, everything is operational. I text her the access codes, include instructions for how to enable or disable cameras, how to set alerts, and how to review archived footage.
Her response: This is more control than I expected.
I type back: That's the point. You decide what surveillance looks like. I just provide the infrastructure.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: Thank you. This feels different from Gabriel's cameras. Like I'm in charge instead of being managed.
You are in charge. That's non-negotiable.
I'm packing up my equipment when I notice the boxes stacked in her bedroom. Visible through the open door, labeled in neat handwriting: Kitchen, Books, Gabriel's things. She hasn't unpacked most of her life. Still living in limited space between who she was and who she's becoming.
The bedroom itself is minimal. Bed, nightstand, lamp. No mirrors. No photographs. No decoration. Just functional furniture in a room designed for sleeping and nothing else.
It's the bedroom of someone who doesn't want to be reminded of their life.
I finish packing, do a final sweep to make sure I haven't left evidence of installation. The cameras are invisible unless you know where to look. Lana will see them because I gave her the locations. Everyone else will miss them.
Before I leave, I pull out my phone, open the monitoring app, check each feed. Living room: empty, afternoon light through windows. Kitchen: clean, unused. Entrance: door closed, no movement. Everything is secure. Everything watched.
I lock her apartment, return the key under the mat, and text her: Installation complete. System is live. You have full access.
Her response comes as I'm leaving the building: Can we meet? I have questions about Thursday.
When and where?
Lunch. My treat. There's a place near the foundation office—Stella's. Noon?
I check my schedule. Nothing that can't be rearranged. I'll be there.
Stella's is the kind of place that survives on neighborhood loyalty rather than ambiance. Worn booths, laminate tables, a menu that hasn't changed in twenty years. The food is good, the prices are reasonable, and nobody asks questions about who you are or why you're eating alone.
I arrive at 11:53, seven minutes early because early is control and control is the only thing keeping me from acknowledging that meeting Lana for lunch crosses boundaries I've been pretending to maintain.
This isn't surveillance. This isn't protection.
This is two people sitting across from each other, talking, the way people do when they're interested in something beyond professional obligation.
She's already here when I enter. Sitting in a back booth, facing the door the way someone trained to monitor exits would position themselves.
She's wearing gray today—slacks and a sweater that make her look softer than a black dress would make her look, more approachable.
Her hair is down, and she's studying the menu even though something about the way her eyes move suggests she already knows what she's ordering.
I slide into the booth across from her. "You're early."
"So are you." She sets down the menu. "I ordered coffee. Want some?"
"Please."
A server appears with coffee, takes our orders—grilled cheese and tomato soup for her, club sandwich for me—and disappears. We're left in that awkward space of two people who've agreed to meet but haven't established what they're meeting about.
Lana breaks the tension first. "I tested the camera system. Disabled the living room feed for an hour, then re-enabled it. Checked the archived footage to make sure it worked."
"And?"
"And it's exactly what you promised. Full control. Full transparency." She wraps both hands around her coffee cup. "That's not what I expected."