Chapter 16
DANE
I 've been watching Langford's office building entrance for over two hours, and the bastard's a no-show.
The marble lobby sits empty except for the security guard flipping through his phone and a cleaning lady polishing the already spotless glass doors.
First rule of surveillance: patience beats persistence. Second rule: sometimes both fail you.
"Where the hell are you, Langford?" I mutter, opening Milo's hack of Langford's electronic calendar on my phone. The screen shows a single, cryptic entry: "Interviews" with no location, no details. Convenient.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. Goddammit. Sloppy. I'm getting sloppy.
Should've checked his calendar first thing this morning instead of thinking about Lila's goddamn green eyes and what she looks like when she sleeps. Such bullshit. I'm thinking with my dick instead of my brain.
"You know better than this," I mutter. "Focus on the mission."
Funny how the Marine Corps stays with you. Ten years out and I'm still hearing drill sergeants in my head.
A memory flashes—Lila's calendar showed her interview at Veritas today. My stomach tightens. Just a coincidence. Has to be.
Why didn't she answer my text?
I shoot Milo a text.
Dane: Need location on Langford. Calendar says "Interviews" today. Dig deeper.
The three dots appear.
Milo: One sec.
Milo, efficient little bastard. After a few minutes, my phone pings. Jackpot.
"Look at this fancy motherfucker," I mutter, reading Milo's update.
Milo: Langford's calendar just sprouted a new entry—lunch at Claremont's in the financial district.
An expensive place where the wolves of Wall Street swap secrets and lies over $200 steaks. Of course.
Milo: Really need to hack his phone, but the extra security he has on is no some serious shit. Still trying.
I stare at Milo's message, jaw tightening.
If Milo's still hitting walls, this shit runs deep.
The kid once hacked the Pentagon on a dare—said it was "like picking the lock on a Fisher-Price toy"—but Langford's phone got him stumped?
He must have hired someone better than Milo.
The only reason for someone to do that is if they're hiding something.
"What are you hiding, you polished piece of shit?" I pocket my phone.
He has build himself a digital fortresses around his phone. Does it hold the secrets that hide whatever sickness he's cultivating? People don't invest in security like this unless the penalty for exposure is catastrophic.
Dane: Keep trying, Milo.
He send me a thumbs up as I think back to Claire Langford. I need to close this case. The quicker, the better.
I check the time again. If I hurry, I might still catch Langford before he slithers back to whatever rock he's hiding under. I start the car. Claremont's it is. Maybe I'll catch Langford with his mask off, fork halfway to those perfect teeth, unaware he's being hunted.
I make it to Claremont's in record time, sliding into a spot across the street with a clear view of the entrance. The ma?tre d' stands at attention like he's guarding Fort Knox, only letting in the right kind of wealth through those doors.
Forty minutes later, Langford emerges by himself. His stride has that confident rhythm of a man who's never had to question if he belongs somewhere. He raises his hand casually—summoning a taxi like it's his birthright—and climbs in.
"Game on," I mutter, pulling into traffic behind them.
The taxi winds through Midtown, heading north. I stay close enough to track, far enough not to trigger awareness. Even sociopaths have survival instincts.
When the cab pulls over on 72nd—Brian's secret apartment—I slide past and circle back, parking with a sightline to the building entrance. It's a pre-war brownstone—understated elegance, discreet doorman. Perfect little fuck pad for a man with secrets.
Langford pays the driver and adjusts his tie as he approaches the building. Then he stops, checking his watch with theatrical patience.
"What are you waiting for?" I whisper, zooming in with my camera.
The answer arrives five minutes later in a blue dress and nervous smile. Sarah. The NYU freshman he was circling at Luigi's. My chest constricts with a familiar fury.
"Motherfucker."
How is she back in the picture? I thought she was smart.
Langford greets her with a gentleman's smile and guiding hand at the small of her back—polite, not possessive. Not yet.
They disappear into the building together.
The sick symmetry isn't lost on me. This is exactly how it happens—the slow, careful grooming. The illusion of opportunity masking exploitation. I saw this play out through childhood bedroom doors I wasn't supposed to open, in my father's office when vulnerable clients thought nobody was listening.
I raise my camera, start snapping pictures. Confirmation. Evidence Claire will need.
But Sarah needs something else entirely. Something I couldn't give Gianna twenty years ago.
A warning. Protection. Justice.
I will give her that much.
I sit in my car for two hours, engine off, radio silent. Just me and the toxic cocktail of memories sloshing around in my brain. Girls like Sarah disappearing into men like my father's orbit. The statistical likelihood of them emerging intact: negligible.
Langford finally exits the building alone, straightening his cuffs with the practiced precision of a man who's never had to rush to clean up his messes. No Sarah. My stomach drops through the floor of the car.
"Fuck this."
I'm out of the vehicle before I can think twice, slamming the door behind me. My boots hit the pavement with military purpose. Twenty years ago, I couldn't save Gianna. I promised myself never to let anything like that happen again.
The doorman eyes me as I approach. I've got about three seconds to convince him I belong before?—
Sarah emerges from the building, head high, shoulders back. Relief hits me like a physical force. She's all right. She walks with purpose, the shy freshman act completely gone now.
I pivot, following at a distance as she makes her way down the block. She's checking her phone, smiling at something.
"Sarah," I call out when we're far enough from the building.
She freezes, then turns slowly. The transformation is remarkable—a complete identity shift from the hesitant girl at Luigi's. Her eyes narrow, taking my measure.
What am I doing? I'm blowing my cover.
"Do I know you?"
"No, but I know Brian Langford. He's no good." I close the distance between us, keeping my hands visible. "And I know what he does with girls like you."
I don't know it, and yet I do.
Her laugh is sharp, unexpected. "Girls like me? You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough. I know how it works. The internship offer, the special attention, the promises—it's a pattern. This thing is… I think he's capable of much more."
Something flickers across her face. Doubt? Fear? Then her features harden.
"You're following me. Who the hell are you, some kind of pervert?" She takes a step back. "You're the creep here, not Brian."
The irony would be amusing if it weren't so fucking tragic. "He's married, you know that?"
"Of course I know that." Her chin tilts up defiantly. "We have an arrangement."
Christ. She thinks she's special. They always do. "Let me guess… he's going to leave his wife. You're different from the others ."
"You don't know anything about our relationship."
That word—relationship. The hook is set deep.
"His wife hired me to investigate him. You're not the first, Sarah. Probably not even the first this year."
I'm certain of this. I've seen it enough times to be duped by any act, no matter how sleek.
Her eyes flash. Maybe I've gotten through.
She shakes her head. "You're lying. I don't need your warnings or your judgment. Brian and I understand each other."
That's when I see it—the shift in her posture, the calculating gleam. She's not being manipulated anymore, at least not in the way I thought. She believes she's got some sort of power now, maybe thinks Brian's in love with her or something.
So fucking naive. She thinks she's playing chess while Langford's playing a game without rules.
"You think you have power here? Girls smarter than you try to outsmart men like him. You know where they end up?"
"I can handle myself." She glances at her watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have classes to attend."
She walks away, confident. Doomed, but confident.
"Hold up," I call after her, my voice cutting through the afternoon noise. She stops but doesn't turn around. Progress.
"Don't tell him about me." The words feel strange in my mouth—like I'm negotiating with a hostage taker, except she doesn't know she's the hostage. "I can be your insurance policy. Be smart about it."
She glances over her shoulder, those collegiate eyes suddenly showing the first flicker of actual intelligence I've seen from her. Survival instinct kicking in, maybe. The human animal's most reliable feature—we sense danger right before walking into it.
"Why would I need insurance?" But her voice has lost its edge. She knows. Deep down, she fucking knows what kind of man Langford is.
"Because monsters wear Italian suits too."
Sarah turns fully now, doubt softening the hard lines of her face. For a moment, I see the girl beneath the act—young, ambitious, out of her depth.
"I won't tell him about you," she finally says, "as long as you leave me alone."
Fair enough. She needs to believe it's her choice, her game. I nod. "Deal."
She walks away, back straight, footsteps just a little faster than before. I've planted the seed of doubt, and that's sometimes all you need. Doubt is survival's first cousin.
Back in my car, I watch her disappear around the corner.
The whole interaction leaves a taste like copper pennies in my mouth.
We're all so fucking fragile, constructing elaborate fortresses of self-deception just to make it through the day.
Sarah thinks she's using Langford, while he's just adding her to his collection of pretty, disposable things.
I start the engine, wondering how many other Sarahs are out there, believing they're the exception to ancient, bloody rules.