Chapter 5 Watching
Watching
"Your boyfriend's here," Matt said on day fifteen, and I nearly dropped the martini shaker.
"He's not my boyfriend." The protest came out too quick, too sharp. "He's just a regular."
"Uh-huh." Matt's knowing look made me want to throw something at him. "A regular who you light up for like a Christmas tree. Who only talks to you. Who watches you like he's memorizing your movements for later study."
"That's just—" I started to argue, then caught sight of Nathan entering.
Right on time, as always. My pulse did that stupid skippy thing it had learned, and I hated how my body betrayed me.
Gabriel had trained me better than this.
No—I caught myself—Gabriel. When had I stopped thinking of him as Daddy?
Nathan's eyes found mine immediately, and that almost-smile touched his lips.
He'd loosened up marginally over two weeks—still wore the expensive suits but had abandoned any pretense of keeping the jacket on.
Today's was navy, paired with a grey shirt that made his green eyes darker, more forest than sea.
"Bunny." He settled into his seat with that controlled grace I'd catalogued and re-catalogued. "How's the pattern hunting?"
It had become our thing, these careful references to my "hobby." He never pushed for details, and I never offered them, but we danced around the edges of truth like it was a cliff we might fall off.
"Found some interesting connections last night," I said, already pouring his scotch. My hands knew the motion by muscle memory now. "You know how sometimes one thread pulls and suddenly the whole fabric starts to unravel?"
"Dangerous business, pulling threads." He accepted the glass, fingers brushing mine. Always that brief contact, never quite accidental. "Never know what might come loose."
I leaned on the bar, closer than strictly professional but not quite personal. We existed in that liminal space, I'd realized. The boundary between customer and something else, between hunter and hunted, though I still wasn't sure which of us was which.
"Maybe I like danger." The words came out lower than intended, weighted with more truth than smart. "Maybe safe is just another word for boring."
"Says the girl tending bar in the safest part of the city." But his eyes said he knew better. Had known since that first day when he'd catalogued my scars and secrets. "Speaking of danger, you heard about the body they found?"
My hand stilled on the bar towel. "Body?"
"Real estate developer. Gregory Marsh. Found him in his office this morning, though the coroner says he'd been dead at least a day.
" Nathan watched my face with that intensity that should have felt invasive but instead felt like recognition.
"Apparently he'd been... extensively questioned before he died. "
"How awful," I managed, keeping my voice steady. "Did they say who might have done it?"
"No leads yet. But word is he was connected to some nasty business. Human trafficking." He took a sip, still watching. "Sometimes karma catches up with people in unexpected ways."
After my shift two nights ago, I'd gone back for Gregory.
Moved him to a secondary location, asked more questions about Gabriel's supposed death, then left him in his office arranged like a warning.
The placement of the body, the careful positioning of evidence about his extracurricular activities—all designed to send a message to his buyer friends.
"Karma's funny like that," I agreed, refilling his glass without being asked. Another habit we'd developed. "Though I always thought karma would be more... poetic. You know? Like if someone hurt girls, maybe a girl should get to return the favor."
"An eye for an eye?" His thumb traced the rim of his glass, and I found myself watching the movement. "Careful. That kind of thinking leads down dark paths."
"Bold of you to assume I'm not already on one."
The words hung between us, too honest for our usual dance. Nathan set down his glass with that deliberate precision I'd learned meant he was choosing his words carefully.
"Actually," he said, tone shifting to something more serious, "I've been meaning to ask you something."
My spine straightened automatically. "Oh?"
"I'm looking for someone." He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a photo. "A girl. Well, woman now. She went missing about seven months ago."
He turned the phone toward me, and the world tilted.
It was me. Not me-now, with my calculated innocence and pigtails, but me-before. Lilah, according to the missing person report on the screen. Hair darker and longer, face softer without the sharp edges trauma carved, eyes that hadn't yet been emptied and refilled by Gabriel's careful conditioning.
"Have you seen her?" Nathan asked, and I realized he was testing me. He knew. Had known from the beginning, probably. "She might go by a different name now."
I studied the photo with performed curiosity, tilting my head like I was trying to place a stranger. Inside, my mind raced through possibilities. Who had filed the report? Who was I to him? Why was he really here?
"She's pretty," I said finally, handing the phone back. "But no, sorry. I've got a good memory for faces. I'd remember her."
"Worth a shot." He pocketed the phone, but his eyes never left mine. "Her family's worried. They hired me to find her."
"You're a private investigator?" The pieces clicked into place. The observation skills, the careful questions, the way he'd gradually built rapport over two weeks. "That explains the day drinking."
"Consulting detective," he corrected with that almost-smile. "Less paperwork. And the day drinking is purely recreational, I assure you. This is the only bar in the city with interesting enough conversation to justify it."
"Flatterer." I moved to serve another customer, needing the distance to think. Lilah had family who'd noticed her absence. Who'd hired someone to find her. The concept felt abstract, like learning about strangers in another country.
When I returned, Nathan was writing something on a napkin. His handwriting was precise, controlled like everything else about him.
"My card," he said, sliding it across. "In case you remember seeing her. Or in case..." He paused, choosing words. "In case you ever need someone who's good at finding people. Or losing them."
The double meaning wasn't subtle. I picked up the card—Nathan Cross, Consultant, with just a phone number beneath. No address, no email, no pretense of normal business operations.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, slipping it into my pocket next to the trafficking phone. "Though I'm pretty good at taking care of myself."
"I don't doubt it." He stood, leaving cash instead of paying by card like usual. "Same time tomorrow?"
"You're very predictable for someone in your line of work."
"Only about certain things." He adjusted his cuffs, a gesture I'd learned meant he was about to say something that mattered. "The girl in the photo—Lilah. Her parents think she was taken. Kidnapped. But I think maybe she ran. And I think maybe she had good reasons."
My throat felt tight. "That's quite a theory."
"I'm good at patterns too." He headed for the door, pausing to look back. "See you tomorrow, Bunny."
After he left, I stood frozen for a full minute before Matt's voice snapped me back.
"You okay?"
"Fine!" Too bright. Always too bright. "Just thinking about that poor developer. Gregory whatever. Such a tragedy."
Matt gave me a look that said he wasn't buying it but wouldn't push. Yet. "Take your break. You look like you need air."
I escaped to the alley, pulling out the trafficking phone to check messages while my real mind processed. Nathan knew who I was. Had known the whole time, probably. Every conversation had been a careful excavation, him digging for truth while I fortified my lies.
The smart thing would be to run. Pack up my pattern wall and my growing collection of evidence and disappear into another city, another name, another life.
But I had leads here. Dr. Petrova arriving next month.
The Volkov brothers' transport network. Other Institute girls who might know if Gabriel was really dead or just very good at hiding.
Besides, some traitorous part of me whispered, Nathan came every day at 3:17. Had I ever been someone's routine before? Someone worth searching for?
Gabriel made you his routine, my mind supplied. You were his last project. His Batch 47.
But that was different. I was an assignment to Gabriel, a doll to be perfected. Nathan was looking for Lilah, and even though she didn't exist anymore, the fact that someone had noticed her absence felt like touching a live wire.
The next few days followed the new pattern. I worked my shifts, hunted my prey, searched for Gabriel. But now there was this added layer—performing innocence for someone who saw through it, dancing around truths with someone who collected them professionally.
"You know what I find interesting?" Nathan said on day eighteen, swirling his scotch. "Missing persons cases usually go cold after the first forty-eight hours. But Lilah's parents didn't report her missing for almost two weeks. Like they expected her to come back on her own."
"Maybe she'd run away before," I suggested, wiping glasses that didn't need it. "Some people are just naturally restless."
"Maybe." He watched me align bottles with obsessive precision. "Or maybe they knew something about where she'd gone. Why she'd gone. Maybe they were giving her time to come back from something specific."
My hands stilled. What had my parents—did I even have parents? The memories felt watercolored, too vague to trust—known about where I'd gone? Had I told them about the Institute? About the man who promised to fix what was broken in me?
"You think a lot about people's maybes," I said.