24. Chapter 24
SEAN
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DEAD END. I've scrubbed through the security footage from the bodega a few times and it shows fuck-all, just blurry figures that might be our guys or could be any random dudes with a questionable fashion sense.
A few days of frame-by-frame analysis, and all I've got is eye strain.
Same goes for the footage from the café and the exterior feeds of Londyn's apartment building.
I lean back in the chair, stretching arms that feel like they've been petrified for centuries.
The living room feed shows an empty place because Londyn has been in her room the past two days.
She ran in there the night of my voyeurism and has only come out for food.
She told Mike she's sick, but I don't think it's that.
I know it's my fault. My stomach has been acidic and I've barely eaten because I know I hurt her. Do I check in or leave her alone? Both options seem equally wrong.
I grab my phone for the hundredth time. My thumb hovers over Londyn's name. I should just text her to explain myself. Explain why we need to establish stronger boundaries and why I can't keep having these moments with her that leave me feeling like I'm standing on a cliff edge.
I should tell her I have issues I've never worked through. Open up about Wunmi. Tell her I'm compromised and worry I'll fail to keep her safe.
I should tell her something . Anything. Because this tightrope walk is going to kill us both.
But my phone screen locks before I can decide what to say. I drop it and sigh. Mike's been gone three hours now, hitting up more businesses along the street to see if we can get security footage of the day Londyn went out shopping.
My knee starts bouncing because I'm getting restless. I check my email for anything new from my contacts. Another layer of nothing. So far, just a string of 'sorry, no hits' and 'I'll let you know if anything comes up.' Even my CIA buddy came up empty.
The only lead, if I can call it that, is that Miller is currently in South Africa, knee-deep in directing a movie scheduled for next summer.
He's thousands of miles from Manhattan. Doesn't mean he couldn't hire men from afar, but it complicates any theory that he's involved.
He's a guy who likes trophies and control; if he wanted Londyn, I get the sense he'd either do it himself or be close by to ensure things were done 'right. '
I rub my eyes, trying to scrub away the grit of too many sleepless nights. Mike and I have been monitoring areas around the apartment building and Londyn's work, taking turns, but there have been no signs of Navy Caps. They seem to be lying low after realizing Londyn has security.
Unconsciously, I rest my hand on the gun at my hip. Are the Navy Caps gone for good? I doubt it. But when they might resurface is a guessing game, especially since I don't know why they're interested in Londyn.
One of my biggest questions is what this means for the future. We signed on for another month, but if these guys don't reappear, then what? Do I commit to six months? A year? Do I become Londyn's permanent neighbor on the off-chance these guys decide to circle back when we let our guard down?
I can't keep Mike away from his pregnant wife and kids much longer. Family and connection are the things that actually matter in this endless void we call existence. Mike needs to get back to them.
If I commit to protecting Londyn for longer, I'll be doing it solo. Honestly, Mike's the only person I trust with someone this important. Him and Declan, but Declan's not a trained security guard.
If I can't solve this puzzle in the next thirty days, I'll be Londyn's only security.
I'm sure as hell not leaving until I'm a hundred percent certain those guys are gone for good.
Gone from her life, gone from her nightmares.
Even if it means I have to keep digging through layers of nothing for months.
Even if it means she never speaks to me again because I have to reinforce those professional boundaries to stay focused.
Well, she's already not speaking to me. Londyn hasn't said a word to me directly since that night we pushed things too far. She communicates only with Mike, passing messages through him like we're divorced parents using our kid as a go-between.
"Mike, could you ask Sean if..."
"Mike, tell Sean that..."
It's my fault. I'm the one who shut her down when she made herself vulnerable. I had my reasons, good ones, but the hurt in her posture when I switched the camera back on still haunts me.
I've replayed the scenario a thousand times, wondering if there was a better way to handle it. But professional distance is professional distance. I can't let myself get tangled up in emotions when her life might be at stake.
There's motion on the living room feed. Londyn actually left her bedroom and she's carrying her laptop. She sets the laptop on the coffee table and switches the TV on. Then she curls up on her couch, looking small and vulnerable in a way that makes me want to wrap her in my arms.
But also, I feel sick from seeing that laptop; I didn't notice it wasn't at her desk.
I didn't see when she brought it into the bedroom.
It seems like a small thing, but details matter in my line of work.
A laptop isn't significant, but the fact that I was so preoccupied with what she does to me that I missed it?
That's the problem. If I can miss something small because I'm distracted by desire, I could miss something that gets her killed.
Shit.
She looks tired. Same baggy clothes, same messy ponytail. There's a heaviness to her movements, and I wonder if she's sleeping. I wonder if she's okay.
I wonder if she still trusts me to keep her safe.
As I'm wallowing in disappointment with myself, her gaze drifts up to the camera. That's new. For the past few days, she's pretended the cameras don't exist at all.
I swear she's looking right at me. Like she knows I'm watching. Does that mean she's not feeling as hurt? Or is she regretting that I'm here?
Either way, her sensing I'm on duty gives me the same spark as when we both waved at the camera that first day, before everything got so complicated. And just like that, my focus shifts from duty to desire, captivated by her all over again.
This is killing me. We're dancing around like two magnets constantly pushing and pulling. And at some point, one of us will make a decision that can't be undone.
Either way, I need to explain why I reacted the way I did so she doesn't think I'm some cold, unfeeling asshole.
It tears me up that I hurt her.
I reach for my phone, and before I can think myself out of it, I text her.
Me: Are you free to talk?
Her phone screen lights up on the feed. She glances at it, then up at the camera. I see the hesitation in her body—the subtle stiffening of her spine, the way her thumbs pause over the screen and then curl away.
Finally, my phone vibrates with her answer.
Londyn: Yes.