9. Cara
— ? —
Cara
The security consultant’s name is Mike Reeves.
He’s ex-military, built like a tank, with a shaved head and a handshake that could crush bone. His office is in a nondescript building downtown - the kind of place you’d walk past without noticing, which is probably the point.
“Camera was in the building across the street.” He spreads photos across his desk like playing cards. “Fifth floor, abandoned office. Someone set up a real nice surveillance post - motion-activated camera, high-resolution lens, clear sightline to your apartment window.”
I stare at the images. My building. My window. The spot where I stand every morning with my coffee, watching Damien work in the construction yard below.
Someone’s been watching me watch him.
“How long?” Damien’s voice is controlled. Too controlled.
“Hard to say for certain. Based on the dust patterns and equipment wear, I’d estimate three to four weeks. Maybe longer.”
Three to four weeks. That’s before the gala. Before I even knew Damien existed.
“Marcus,” I say. “It has to be Marcus.”
“Almost certainly. But proving it is another matter.” Mike taps one of the photos. “No prints on the equipment. The lease for the office space is under a shell company registered in Delaware. Whoever set this up knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Can you trace the company?”
“I’ve got people working on it. But these things take time, and whoever’s behind this has resources.” He looks at me steadily. “The kind of resources that suggest deep pockets and a lot of practice covering their tracks.”
The Thornes have both. I’m learning that more every day.
“There’s more.” Mike pulls out another folder. “The photos that were leaked to your husband’s lawyer. I got copies from a contact. They’re… comprehensive.”
He spreads them across the desk.
Me, walking into Damien’s warehouse. Late at night, my silhouette visible against the lit doorway.
Me, leaving the next morning. Same clothes I’d been wearing the day before.
Me, silhouetted in my apartment window. Damien’s silhouette beside me.
And one more - from the grandmother’s birthday party. In the truck at the scenic overlook. Damien’s hands on my face. Our foreheads touching.
From the angle, it looks exactly like we’re kissing.
“We weren’t,” I say automatically. “Kissing. That night. We didn’t actually-”
“Doesn’t matter what you were actually doing.” Mike’s voice is matter-of-fact. “Matters what it looks like. And it looks like you’ve been having an affair for weeks.”
“That’s insane.” Damien’s jaw is tight. “I have photos of Marcus actually cheating. Actually having sex with another woman. In a supply closet. How is this-”
“How is this equivalent?” Mike finishes. “It’s not. But that’s not how the court will see it. His lawyers will argue that your photos were staged. That you and Cara set him up. That she’s the cheater, not him.”
“That’s-” I want to say impossible. But I’ve seen Marcus spin stories before. Seen him turn reality inside out until I couldn’t tell which way was up.
“We need to be more careful,” Damien says slowly. “Whatever’s between us-”
“There’s nothing between us.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “Not anymore. Not until this is over.”
Pain flashes in his eyes. Quickly buried.
“Good.” Mike is oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Keep it that way. No more late-night visits. No more cozy silhouettes in windows. Act like you’re being watched constantly, because you probably are.”
***
That night, I close my curtains.
For the first time since I moved in, I actually look at my apartment the way a stranger would. The thin fabric over the windows - practically transparent when the lights are on inside. The bed clearly visible from the street. The bathroom door that doesn’t quite close all the way.
Someone’s been watching me. For weeks. Recording my movements, my habits, the intimate details of my daily life.
I feel sick.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Smile for the camera.
A photo attachment.
My hands are trembling as I open it.
Me and Damien. In his office. Tonight. His hands in my hair, my body pressed against his. Through the window.
They got tonight.
I forward the message to Mike. To my lawyer. Then I call Damien.
“They have photos from tonight,” I say without preamble. “Us. In your office.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
“Someone was watching. Through the window. They sent me a photo with a message: ‘Smile for the camera.’”
“I’m coming over.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “That’s exactly what they want. More photos. More ammunition.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We be smarter.” I stare at my closed curtains, wondering if there’s another camera out there I haven’t found yet. “We be careful. We don’t give them anything else to use.”
“Cara-”
“I can’t do this right now, Damien.” My voice breaks. “I finally let myself be happy for one night - one night - and now it’s being used against me.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it? I knew they were watching. I knew he was looking for ammunition. And I let myself-” I press my hand against my mouth. Breathe. “I have to go.”
“Cara, please-”
“Goodnight, Damien.”
I hang up before he can respond.
Then I sit in the dark, surrounded by the evidence of my own surveillance, and try to figure out how to fight a war I’m already losing.