Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Vito
I sit in my car with the engine off and the laptop open on the passenger seat, watching Teresa Donato walk out of Moretti’s with a full cart and that same brisk, self-contained energy she carries everywhere else.
She pauses just outside the automatic doors like she’s getting her bearings again. Saturday traffic moves through the lot in a slow crawl. A cart rattles somewhere to the left. Somebody slams a trunk shut three rows over. Normal sounds. Normal afternoon. Nothing that should put her on edge.
Still, she looks around.
Not sharply. Not enough to draw attention. Just a small turn of her head before she starts walking again, her expression thoughtful in a way that tells me the conversation inside got under her skin more than she wants to admit.
Good.
I know it got under my skin more than intended.
All I’d wanted to do was make quick contact with her, gauge her state of mind a bit. But she caught me off guard, too.
Not by the conversation itself. I knew she was smart. I knew she’d be observant. That much was obvious before I ever got close enough to test it.
What I didn’t expect was how easy she was to talk to.
Or how much I would like hearing her laugh.
That part lingers longer than I’m comfortable with.
I sit low in the driver’s seat with the engine off, one arm braced on the door, and watch her push the cart toward her car, a dark sedan parked three rows over from me.
She walks with purpose, quick but not rushed, her shoulders straight, her head up.
She’s tall for a woman, and it suits her.
Everything about her suits her. The dark jeans that accentuate her generous hips, the cream sweater, the heeled ankle boots that are sensible enough for a grocery store but still feminine.
Her hair is down, thick and chocolate brown, falling past her shoulders in a smooth swing that catches the light when she moves.
I watch as she reaches her car, unlocks it, and starts loading bags into the trunk with quick, efficient movements.
No wasted motion. No distraction. She leans into the cart for the heavier bags first, then the lighter ones, hair swinging forward over one shoulder before she pushes it back absently with her wrist.
From where I’m sitting, I get a quick glimpse down the front of her shirt before she straightens again and reaches for the second bag.
Curvy.
That’s the first word that came to mind the first time I really looked at her. Not at church in passing. Not during one of those polite nods across the parish hall. Really looked.
Tall and curvy. Soft in the places I like women to be soft. Smart green eyes. Pretty mouth. Composed almost all the time.
And under all that composure, a mind that works faster than most people can keep up with.
I watch too long. I know I do. But I don’t look away. Not just yet.
Whatever the reason, I like the way she carries herself without apology. It was an interesting contrast to the way her cheeks went red under my gaze in the grocery store.
I like that more than I should. Everything about her suits me too well.
That is a problem.
I drag my gaze from her and look down at the laptop screen.
Dr. Teresa Donato.
Born in New Jersey. Raised here too. Catholic school through high school. Not that high school took her long. Fourteen years old when she graduated. Fourteen.
I’ve seen the records twice now, and it still catches my attention every time.
Fourteen, then out of state to the University of Michigan.
Three years there. Graduated with honors and research experience.
Then straight through to Harvard for her PhD.
Honors again. Clinical rotations in hospitals and prisons.
Internship and fellowship at Mount Sinai.
Licensed in New York first. Then Massachusetts.
Michigan. New Jersey. A few other states after that.
She came back to New Jersey a couple of years ago and opened her own practice. She takes private patients and court-ordered offenders.
Brilliant, she was called in one article. Gifted. Exceptional. A prodigy.
All of this before the age of thirty.
Thirty, which she turned last week.
I know the exact date. I looked it up. I also know she didn’t do anything big for it.
Dinner with two friends in Montclair the Saturday after.
Nothing the day of, as far as I’ve found.
Back to work the next morning. No boyfriend in the picture.
No fiancé. No husband. No soft, forgettable man waiting at home who thinks he understands her.
Nothing serious in her life except work.
I tap the edge of the keyboard once and lean back in the seat, looking at the screen and then back out at her.
She’s perfect.
That word doesn’t come easy to me. I don’t use it for people. People are weak somewhere. Stupid somewhere. Greedy, vain, sloppy, scared. I know exactly how imperfect most people are. It’s one of the first things I notice about them.
But Teresa Donato is damn close.
She’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.
It doesn’t hurt that she looks the way she does.
I’m not going to lie to myself about that. I noticed her long before I started digging. At church. At fundraisers. Passing in and out of parish events. Always alone. She always looked polished, self-possessed, untouched by the kind of chaos most people drown in.
I noticed the body too.
I’m a man. I have eyes and a functioning cock.
I drag my thumb once over my bottom lip and watch her shut the trunk, then pause with one hand on the cart handle. Her head turns slightly. She looks across the lot, then behind her. Not frightened. Uneasy.
Like she feels something.
My mouth curves once, faint and humorless.
She doesn’t see me.
I’m far enough back, behind the windshield glare, partly boxed in by a pickup on one side and an SUV on the other. Just another car in the lot. Just another man sitting alone on a Saturday afternoon.
Her gaze passes over my row without stopping.
Teresa turns back, returns the cart to the corral, then comes around to the driver’s side and gets in. A second later, her brake lights flash. Then the car starts moving.
She backs out carefully, checks both directions, then pulls toward the lot exit without another glance in my direction.
I watch until her sedan turns and disappears behind a truck at the edge of the property.
I close the laptop, rest my forearm on the steering wheel, and stare out through the windshield at the row where her car used to be.
I’ve followed her before. Quite a few times.
Not close enough to spook her. Never close enough to make a mistake.
I know where her office is, where she parks when she works late, which route she takes home when traffic is light, and which one she takes when it isn’t.
I know the coffee place she stops at twice a week, the dry cleaner she uses, the nights she stays at the office later than everyone else.
I know everything there is to know about Dr. Teresa Donato.
Won’t be long now.
Soon, I’ll make contact the right way.
The store doors open and close in the distance. People push carts across the lot. Somebody laughs too loudly near a pickup truck. A woman wrestles a case of water into the back of an SUV while her kid spins in circles beside her.
Life moving on like nothing in the world is about to change.
Not today.
But soon.