3. Eve
Chapter 3
Eve
THE NIGHT BEFORE . . .
O nce again, sleep is the elusive ghost that haunts me, just out of reach. Instead of continuing to fight it, I flip off my covers and trudge back out to my living room. My dad’s camera on my table catches my eye, and that same warm feeling that accompanies any memory of him washes over me.
I trace the edge of Dad’s old Nikon, remembering his hands guiding mine to find the perfect focus.
“The camera doesn’t just capture what’s there, Evie,” he’d say, voice gentle in my ear. “It reveals what others don’t see. The truth hiding in plain sight.”
Mom would watch us from the porch, her journalist’s notebook always nearby. “Like a good story,” she’d add, “the facts matter, but it’s the connections between them that reveal the truth.”
I set the camera down, tears threatening. Eight years gone, and their voices still guide me. Would they understand the darkness I’m drawn to now? The justice I’m seeking outside their cherished systems?
My father believed in truth above all else. James Thorne, award-winning photojournalist, who documented wars and famines and revolutions with unflinching clarity. His photographs showed the world what most people turned away from—the raw, unfiltered reality behind sanitized headlines.
“Never look away, Evie,” he’d tell me, showing me images most parents would hide from their children. “Looking away is how injustice thrives.”
My mother was his perfect counterpart. Lydia Thorne, investigative reporter, who dug into corruption others deemed untouchable. Corporate malfeasance, political scandals, systemic abuses—nothing was beyond her reach if she believed the public deserved to know.
“Facts are weapons,” she’d explain while working late at our kitchen table. “The powerful count on people not having them.”
Together, they were formidable. The Thornes—truth-tellers, justice-seekers. They taught me to question everything, to look beneath surfaces, to trust my instincts when something felt wrong.
And then they were gone. A “tragic accident” on a rain-slicked road.
I pull out the box I keep on a low shelf—their personal effects salvaged from the crash. Mom’s notebook, water-damaged but still legible. Dad’s press credentials, stained with something I’ve never been able to bring myself to acknowledge might be blood. A USB drive with their final projects.
I knew the last investigation they were working on together involved corporate negligence covered up by powerful interests. They never named the company in their notes—too careful, too professional to commit accusations to paper before they had irrefutable proof. But they were excited, I remember that. They thought they were close to breaking something big.
Three days before the crash, Mom paced our living room, phone pressed to her ear. “We need more time,” she argued with her editor. “This goes deeper than we initially thought.”
Dad sat at his computer, sorting through photographs he refused to let me see. “Evidence doesn’t lie,” he muttered. “It’s all right here if you know where to look.”
I never found out what they discovered. The police investigation into their deaths was perfunctory at best. Road conditions, mechanical failure, case closed. Their research materials from the office disappeared—“misplaced during the transition,” their editor explained apologetically.
I flip through Mom’s notebook now, searching for clues I might have missed in previous examinations. Most pages contain interview notes, meeting schedules, source references. Nothing explicitly naming their target.
But on the last used page, a single name catches my attention: It looks like scribbled initials followed by what looks like an appointment time. I’ve never noticed it before, tucked in the margin, partially obscured by water damage.
I return to the memories that have sustained me through eight years of grief.
Mom at the kitchen table, explaining ethical journalism over hot chocolate. “It’s not enough to tell the truth, Evie. You have to tell it in service of justice.”
Dad showing me how different angles can tell different stories. “Context matters. The wrong frame can turn victims into villains.”
The last dinner we shared was the night before the accident. They were preoccupied, excited about whatever they’d discovered but careful not to discuss details in front of me.
“We’re close to something important,” Mom said, squeezing my hand across the table. “Something that could help a lot of people.”
“Just a few more pieces to confirm,” Dad added, sharing a look with her I couldn’t quite interpret. “Then we bring it all to light.”
They never got the chance.
I pull out my phone, deciding to send a message to my old contact at the police station, Detective Reeves. He was the one who tried his hardest to help me investigate Tia’s death—the woman whose obituary I couldn’t let go of, even if Reeves’ boss ultimately decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.
Me
Hey, long time no chat, but I’m sure you can imagine the reason I’m reaching out. I need a favor. Can you re-run the plates on the car that hit my parents? It says in the police report that a registration couldn’t be found?
I was nineteen, sophomore year of college, when the police called. The rain was pounding against my dorm room window as the officer’s voice delivered words that split my life into before and after. Car accident. No survivors. Contact information for the morgue.
The funeral remains a blur. Faces of their colleagues, murmured condolences, unexpected rain that seemed fitting for the darkness that had swallowed my world. I remember standing alone, apart from the small crowd, unable to accept their presence or their sympathy.
I took the semester off, then switched majors from photography to English. I couldn’t bear to look through a viewfinder without hearing Dad’s voice guiding me. Couldn’t imagine pursuing the kind of investigative journalism that had consumed my mother’s life—and perhaps led to her death.
Instead, I ended up choosing the safest, most sanitized form of journalism available: obituaries. Death already neatly packaged, the messy business of living and its consequences already concluded.
For years, I told myself it was a respectful way to honor the dead. A way to give dignity to lives concluded. A way to ease the pain of those left behind.
But the truth was simpler: It was safe. No investigation required. No powerful interests threatened. No late nights chasing leads that might place me in harm’s way.
Until I wrote the obituary for Tia Fellows. Until I noticed the inconsistencies in the police report. Until I started asking questions no one wanted answered.
And something awakened inside me—something inherited from both of my parents. Something that couldn’t look away from injustice, couldn’t accept convenient narratives, couldn’t stop until truth was exposed.
My phone buzzes with Reeves’ response.
Reeves
Wow, haven’t seen your name pop up on my phone in a long time. Plate registration records purged from the system. Unusual. Will keep digging.
I stare at the message, a chill spreading through me. Records purged? That doesn’t happen accidentally. Someone wanted that information erased.
I look back at the photographs, the notebook, all these fragments that don’t quite connect into a coherent picture. My parents were investigating something significant enough to document covertly. Something involving a man with an expensive car and the resources to have records deleted from police databases.
And three days after these photos were taken, they died on a rain-slicked road.
Dad’s voice echoes in my memory: “The camera doesn’t just capture what’s there, Evie. It reveals what others don’t see.”
What am I not seeing?
I gather the materials, placing them carefully back in the box—all except Dad’s camera. That, I tuck into my bag alongside my own. Two generations of Thornes, seeing truth through the same lens.
Something fundamental shifts inside me. For eight years, I’ve been hiding in the safety of obituaries, keeping my parents’ investigative spirit at arm’s length. But now, with these new questions emerging, with the possibility that their accident wasn’t accidental at all, I can’t look away.
If they were killed because of what they discovered, I owe them the truth. If their deaths weren’t a random tragedy but deliberate silencing, I owe them justice.
Whatever form that justice might take.
* * *
S taring at the ceiling, waiting for my alarm to go off, the harsh light of day makes my plan seem far less courageous. In fact, it’s starting to feel like a complete waste of time. A man like that isn’t going to confess and come clean, so I’m not sure what my goal is here.
Just to tell him so that he knows I know? What’s that going to do other than put a target on my back?
But I don’t let the fear deter me. I’ve already lost everything, so the only thing left that he could take would be my life, and I’m not so sure I even care about that anymore.
I’ve only ever called in to work sick two times, and today will be the third. Brian didn’t seem to care much and didn’t press for any further details. Just dismissed me with his usual brashness: “Well, don’t expect any grace on your deadlines for the week because of this, Eve. You’re an adult; figure it out.”
“Of course not, sir. I’ll have everything done in time.”
He hangs up without a goodbye, and I toss my phone onto my bed then reach for the sensible, no-nonsense outfit I picked out for this impromptu meeting: a navy blazer, white blouse, and matching navy pencil skirt. It’s the outfit I wore to my interview at the Trib years ago, and I’m pretty confident that was the last time I wore it.
As I grab my things and head for the door, I give myself one last glance in the floor-length mirror in my hallway. I look professional, so at least there’s that. Hopefully it will be enough to get me in the door.
What if they don’t even let me past the lobby?
I stop in my tracks, an embarrassing flush coming over me as I start to panic and talk myself out of doing this.
How could I not have even considered that I might not make it past the lobby? Of course I won’t. A man like Damien Knox has more layers of security than the president. Then again, if the odds are that I won’t even make it to the elevators, I guess there really is no harm in going . . . is there?
I shrug, yanking open my apartment door and locking it before I can change my mind again.
Knox Industries occupies all fifty-eight floors of the impressive skyscraper in downtown Chicago that also bears his name in massive letters. I shield my eyes from the morning sun as I stare up at the impressive building. It’s not the tallest in the city by far, but if his goal was intimidation, he nailed it.
Ignoring the burning pit in my stomach, I stop procrastinating and whisk through the revolving door with a few other people I assume are employees. As expected, there are X-ray machines and metal detectors before you can even scan your badge to get past the lobby. But that’s not what catches my eye. It’s a massive, shiny black sculpture in the middle of the marble lobby. Something about it makes me feel uncomfortable, but I push the thought aside.
When I pass through security, I approach the large, ornate desk that has two security guards sitting behind it. With feigned confidence, I push my shoulders back, hold my press badge in my hand, and plaster a huge smile on my face.
“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Knox.” I tilt my head, suggestively biting my lip just enough that the other guard notices.
“Do you have an appointment, Miss?”
“Yes,” I say, again with feigned confidence. “Miss Eve Thorne, from the Chicago Tribune .” I hold my breath as I watch him click through the calendar.
“Sorry, not seeing anything with that name. You can call?—”
“What?” I interrupt him, my hands flying to the counter. “Oh my God, you have to be kidding, right?” He looks confused. “Shit! I thought I had called to make the appointment. Ugh, my boss is gonna kill me.” I really start to put on a show, pouting my bottom lip.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t?—”
I let the tears start. “I know, I’m just so . . .” I fan my face, tilting my head backward a little for extra effect. “My boss already hates me, and he thinks I’m an idiot. This was supposed to be my big break, my chance to ‘prove myself,’ as my boss put it.” I roll my eyes. “We’re doing this huge profile piece on Mr. Knox, and I was tasked with the portion about his philanthropy and how amazing he is for the city of Chicago.” I make sure to lay it on thick, and it must be working, because both men look at each other then back at me, like they feel sorry for me.
“I was hoping to get just a few direct quotes, and now . . .” My lip starts quivering again. “Now I’ll be fired and probably homeless.”
“Shit, okay, listen . . . I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ve been in your shoes. Let me call up to his assistant. She’s a friend of mine, so maybe she can squeeze you in.”
“You would do that?” I jump up and down. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
He still looks a little skeptical, but he picks up the phone and steps aside just far enough that I can only make out fragments of the conversation.
“Yeah, Tribune reporter . . . no, just a quote or something . . . yeah, okay, sounds good.” After what feels like an eternity, he hangs up. “Take that elevator just over there up to the top floor, and someone will meet you there.”
I glance down at his name tag as I reach for his hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Thank you a million times over, Joe. Karma will repay you for this.”
The elevator ascends with stomach-dropping speed, each floor giving me another chance to walk out of here. I reach inside my purse and pull out my compact, dabbing beneath my eyes to make sure I didn’t ruin my makeup. By the time the doors open on the 58th floor, I’ve mentally rehearsed and discarded at least a dozen ways to approach this.
A tall, impossibly thin woman waits for me, a tablet in her hand and a stunning smile on her face. “Miss Thorne? I’m Amanda, Mr. Knox’s executive assistant. I understand you’re here about a philanthropy piece for the Tribune ?”
“Yes.” I smile, reaching for her outstretched hand. She ushers me through a reception area that looks like it came from the cover of Architectural Digest . “I’m profiling Chicago’s most charitable businessmen.”
“I’m sure he will be happy to oblige your questions.” She gestures to a seating area. “Mr. Knox is currently in a meeting. Can I get you anything while you wait?”
I’m about to refuse when I realize how dry my mouth has suddenly become. “Water?”
She disappears, leaving me alone. My heart pounds in my chest and floods my ears. I glance around, noting the security cameras that cover every angle. I’m sure there are plenty more I can’t even see. I touch my bag, the weight of my own camera feeling conspicuous. I brought it along more as a prop to validate my journalist story rather than with any real intention of using it.
A few moments later, Amanda returns with a glass of water and her practiced smile. “Mr. Knox’s meeting is running long. He suggested I collect your questions and arrange a proper interview for later this week.”
Shit. Fucking shit.
“Oh.”
The brush-off is polite and firm, but I’ve come too far to accept it. I’m about to quiver my lip again, but something about Amanda tells me it won’t work on her. So I go with a different tactic. Honesty.
“I appreciate that, really, but my deadline is rather tight. I’m perfectly happy to wait longer if there’s any chance he’ll have even five minutes to spare today.” She doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, so I lean forward slightly. “Between us, my editor is particularly interested in Mr. Knox’s connection to several prominent businessmen who’ve passed recently. The story angle is: Is someone targeting Chicago’s wealthy elite to siphon their money and launder it through charitable organizations?”
Something flickers in her expression so quickly, I almost miss it. I’m not sure how to interpret it exactly, but I can tell that my shot in the dark has struck something. She excuses herself with another tight-lipped smile.
“Let me see what I can do.”
I sip my water, attempting to remain calm and appear halfway casual while my mind feels like it’s spinning a million miles an hour. Whatever Amanda is saying to Damien, I’m confident that hearing a reporter mention a link between him and those deaths will be enough to garner five minutes of his precious time.
The floor-to-ceiling windows in this building provide a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. I’m staring at the boats that dot the sparkling blue landscape, lost in thought, when a smooth, deep voice breaks the silence.
“Miss Thorne. I understand you have questions about my philanthropic work.”
My body flinches at the sound of his voice, my spine stiffening as I slowly turn, coming face-to-face with Damien Knox. He’s even taller in person than he appeared through the camera lens. His presence fills the entire space we’re standing in. A dark and commanding energy radiates from him—the kind that can’t be captured in a photo.
But it’s his eyes that hold me—the same cold, calculating eyes from the photographs. It shocks me. I expected to see the man everyone else sees when I finally met him in person. The man who smiles and winks at the camera. I swallow down the lump in my throat as he stares at me like he sees through my hastily constructed plan.
“Mr. Knox,” I choke, extending my hand nervously, “thank you for making the time to see me.”
He grips my hand firmly, his warm hand lingering on mine just a second too long. “I always make time for the press. Even if they mention something as unpleasant as death .”
His emphasis on the word death makes my stomach drop at the same time my body’s sense of fight or flight is screaming at me to get the hell out of this situation. But I don’t. I maintain my professional smile.
“Yes, it’s part of a larger piece on how other successful Chicago businessmen like yourself honor their colleagues’ legacies.”
“Is it?” He gestures for me to sit in the large velvet chair behind me, and I do as he asks while he takes a seat opposite me. We’re even closer now, and he’s even more intimidating than I anticipated. Everything about him looks curated, almost too perfect. Like he was designed to lure you in, completely ignoring the glaring danger that lurks beneath his shiny surface. Then that cruel smile slowly slips across his lips. “And here I thought you were just an obituary writer, Miss Thorne.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush and I feel every ounce of color drain from my face. His smile widens slightly. “You seem shocked. Did you imagine a man in my position wouldn’t do a simple search on a journalist requesting an unscheduled interview?”
His voice flows like silk, so rich and smooth. Even in a moment like this, when I know very well that I’m in danger, there’s something . . . inviting about him. Something that makes me want to know just a little bit more.
I recover quickly, or at least try to. “Of course not. I’m just surprised, Mr. Knox, that a man in your position would take time from your busy schedule for an interview with someone who normally writes obituaries.”
“Maybe I find obituaries fascinating.” His expression doesn’t give anything away. “They’re the final punctuation on life’s story, aren’t they? A period at the end of a sentence that can’t be rewritten.” He leans back, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. “But you didn’t come here to discuss linguistic philosophy, did you, Miss Thorne? So what exactly are these ‘connections’ you’re investigating?”
My facade is crumbling a lot faster than anticipated. I can either retreat by asking vague questions about philanthropy, or I can jump headfirst into the abyss. As my mother would say: “The practical choice is always the right choice.”
So I leap.
“I think you’re involved in something that goes beyond your public image, Mr. Knox,” I say carefully, watching his reaction. “Something that happens in the shadows of your legitimate business. I’ve seen things that raise serious questions about your activities outside the boardroom.”
I watch his face for any hint of a reaction, but his expression remains perfectly stoic. Controlled. Even his dark eyes stay so focused on me that I’m confident he hasn’t blinked yet.
“That’s quite an accusation, Miss Thorne.”
“Observation,” I correct him. “I’m not making any accusations.” I impress even myself with the steady timbre of my voice. “An observation I found curious enough to investigate further.”
He drums the fingers of one hand slowly atop the armrest, my attention briefly distracted by the simple gesture. His fingers are long and thick, and for the briefest moment, I blush, imagining them doing unspeakable things to me.
“And what has your investigation revealed?” His tone remains conversational, but it still sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the danger that lurks just beneath his calm exterior.
“Not enough. Yet.” I steady my gaze, meeting his directly. “But I’m just getting started, Mr. Knox.”
He studies me for several long and agonizing seconds. It could be minutes. Then he completely takes me by surprise, letting out a rich laugh that completely transforms his face. For an instant, his mask is back in place, allowing me a glimpse of the charismatic businessman the world knows—the one who charms investors and society.
“You know, most people who decide to investigate me start with public records, interviewing ex-business associates, or fired employees. They don’t typically walk into my office and announce their intentions to my face.” He leans forward, the mask gone along with all traces of any humor. “It’s either remarkably brave or remarkably fucking foolish, and I haven’t decided which.”
Once again, my body betrays me. My brain is still screaming at me to stop—to get out of here before I cross a line that can’t be uncrossed. But I feel pinned to the chair, like I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. A shiver of excitement runs through me at his threatening tone.
“Maybe it’s both,” I say softly, maintaining eye contact despite my thighs starting to tremble. “I believe in a direct approach.”
“Clearly.” His head tilts curiously, his gaze shifting almost imperceptibly down my body before returning to my eyes, a smirk playing across his lips. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
My attempt at playing coy is an immediate failure. Even with the heat that’s rapidly coursing through my body right now, I know my face is glowing red.
“Do you really want me to say it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Knox, I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I’m simply trying to listen and interpret your body language.”
Leaning another inch forward, he reaches his fingers out, resting them lightly atop my knee. “You’re trembling.” His eyes are fixated where he touches me—my skin so warm beneath his fingertips, it almost burns.
He stands abruptly, moving to the window. His back is toward me, just like he was at the preserve when I first saw him. His mood and demeanor change like a chameleon. “You understand, of course, that connecting unrelated deaths to a business as large and diverse as Knox Industries is simple pattern-seeking behavior. The human mind loves to create narratives where they don’t exist.”
“True,” I acknowledge, rising slowly from my seat and coming to stand beside him. His eyes stay focused on the people below, and I can’t help but wonder what he thinks when he looks at them.
Are they just bugs to squish? An obstacle to hurdle and trample on his way toward another conquest?
“Or perhaps some patterns exist because they were deliberately created by someone who thought they were insignificant enough not to be noticed.”
He turns to face me, close enough that I catch the subtle notes of his cologne. “Let me offer you some friendly advice, Miss Thorne. Investigating powerful people, especially when they value their privacy, can be dangerous. Not everyone appreciates having their lives scrutinized.”
My throat squeezes shut and I have to swallow down the fear that keeps threatening to make me run screaming. “Is that a threat, Mr. Knox?”
“I don’t make threats.” His voice stays steady, his eyes holding mine with an unblinking stare that feels like it could melt me. “But you can consider it a promise.”
The memory of his words in the forest preserve echoes in my head: “If you fail this time, you’ll be answering to The Skull. And trust me, he won’t be as forgiving as I am.”
“I’ve upset you,” I say with a smile, feigning an apology. “That wasn’t my intention, Mr. Knox. Let’s refocus on your charitable work.”
His smile returns in a flash, charming with an edge. “I don’t think that’s why you’re really here, is it?” He steps closer to me, his presence overwhelming. He lowers his voice to that raspy, almost-whispered tone. It carries a heavy current of danger. “No, I suspect your interest lies somewhere else. Why don’t we stop playing games and you tell me what you really want?”
The energy between us is thick and charged, confusing my brain and my body even more than the way he’s looking at me. I can’t tell if the fire in his eyes is pure rage or something else . . . something that makes me curious.
His question hangs between us, but I’m not sure how to answer it. What I want is the truth. What is The Shadows? And why was he threatening that man, Roberts? Who is The Skull? I want to know how he’s connected to these deaths. But revealing all of my knowledge to him this early feels dangerously premature.
“I want to understand how a man like you came to be who you are,” I say instead, the words more honest than I’d intended. “The public narrative seems . . . vague and incomplete.”
Something flickers in his eyes but does little to give away his emotions. “Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?”
He’s so close now that the material of his suit jacket brushes against me. My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips, and for the first time, he loses focus. He looks down to my lips, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Unfortunately,” he says, stepping back and breaking the tension, “our time is up. I have another meeting.”
And just like that, I’ve been dismissed. But as I gather my belongings, Damien turns back to face me.
“I’m hosting a charity gala this weekend at my estate, Eden. Perhaps you’d like to attend? You can see firsthand all the good that our foundation does.” He pulls a card from his pocket, extending his arm toward me. “My private number. For your . . . research.”
I take the card, our fingers momentarily touching. Just that millisecond of contact shocks me. “I don’t typically attend social functions for stories.”
“And I don’t typically invite obituary writers to my home.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it an exclusive for your feature.”
“I’ll consider it,” I say, tucking the card away.
He moves around me. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He reaches inside his suit coat. “You dropped this.”
My blood freezes when I see what’s folded neatly in his hand.
My green scarf.
He steps close to me again—too close. The scarf tumbles from his hand like a silk ribbon, the edge still in his fingertips as he brings it up to my neck and begins to drape it around my throat with deliberate slowness. His fingers brush against my skin, leaving a trail of heat as he leans in closer.
“I don’t like loose ends, Miss Thorne,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
“Is that a threat?” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
He chuckles low and throaty, the sound vibrating through me as his eyes meet mine with chilling clarity.
“Of course not.” He winks. “It’s a promise, remember?”
I’m frozen in place, even after he turns and walks back toward his office. I reach up, yanking at the scarf as if that will alleviate the suffocating presence of him. I stuff it into my bag, then punch the button for the elevator, glancing back toward his office one last time just as he reaches his door.
“I look forward to seeing you at Eden.”
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft mechanical hiss, and instantly, my knees buckle. I grab the handrail, steadying myself as the car begins its descent. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as my free hand flies to my throat where his fingers had been just moments before.
My scarf. My fucking scarf.
The intimate violation of it crashes over me in waves. That scarf was my mother’s, and it’s one of the few personal items I have left of her. And he touched it. Handled it. Used it against me like a collar to mark his territory.
I press my fingertips against my pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm. My skin burns where he touched me, as though his fingerprints have seared themselves into my flesh. It wasn’t just a threat . . . it felt like he was claiming me. Like a primal statement of possession that my body understood before my mind could process it.
“Shit,” I whisper, catching sight of my reflection in the mirrored walls. My cheeks are flushed, pupils dilated, lips parted. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.
This isn’t fear, at least not entirely. It’s something else. Something darker and more disturbing. The way he looked at me when he wrapped that scarf around my neck, like I was already his and just didn’t know it yet . . . it should repulse me. Instead, it’s awakened something I’ve buried so deep, I didn’t know it existed.
I pull the scarf from my bag, rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers. It smells slightly like him, like something shared between us. A connection.
A tether.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine as the elevator reaches the ground floor. I stuff the scarf back into my bag, but I can still feel it there, a physical reminder of his intrusion into my life. Of the invisible mark he’s left on me.
As I push through the revolving doors of Knox Tower, stepping into the bright Chicago afternoon, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. That by walking into his office, by challenging him directly, I’ve initiated something I no longer have the power to stop.
And the most disturbing part isn’t that he might be watching me right now. It’s that some twisted part of me hopes he is.