Nate
Before heading over to Wren's house, I drive the truck into town a little after nine the next morning and find a spot where I can watch the diner without being noticed from inside. The reflection in the window gives me a clear view of the sidewalk. I keep my sunglasses on, even though it isn't really bright enough to need them.
People in places like this notice new faces.
So, I become background.
She doesn't show up for almost forty minutes.
I use the time to log foot traffic, delivery schedules, who parks where, which doors get used and which stay locked. A couple of locals come and go. A man in work boots. A woman pushing a stroller. Someone carrying groceries in reusable bags.
Routine.
Then she appears.
She doesn't walk like someone who feels entitled to space.
That's the first thing I notice.
Her steps are measured. Careful. She keeps her shoulders slightly forward, like she's learned to make herself smaller without thinking about it. Hair pulled back in a loose knot. Oversized sweater. Jeans. Flat boots.
She pauses at the door before going inside, glancing once down the street.
Not searching.
Checking.
I lift my phone and take the first photo through the windshield.
It's clean enough for confirmation.
Face. Profile. Time stamp.
That should be it.
That's all Daniel paid for.
But I don't leave.
I tell myself it's standard verification.
You don't build a pattern from one frame.
So, I wait.
She comes out twenty minutes later with a coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. She thanks the waitress with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Moves aside when someone brushes past her instead of holding her ground.
She walks, not drives.
Down the street. Past the general store. Toward the quieter part of town.
I follow at a distance, staying on the opposite side, pretending to scroll on my phone when she stops.
Her house matches the file.
A modern, mid-sized home which is situated away from the main road, hidden behind a screen of trees and reached by a long driveway.
She unlocks the door quickly.
Doesn't linger.
Inside in under five seconds.
That tells me more than the photos.
I move farther down the road and park where I can see the property through a gap in the trees. Pull out binoculars. Adjust focus.
A few minutes slip by in silence before she emerges again, making her way to the studio. Through the tall windows, I can just make out the interior: white walls provide a stark backdrop, and canvases are stacked neatly against one side, hinting at the space's purpose.
Once inside, her demeanour shifts noticeably. She moves with a new sense of ease—shoulders dropping, hands growing steadier. She ties an apron around her waist and puts on some music, keeping the volume low enough that it never drifts beyond the studio walls.
She paints standing up, her strokes long and assured. The confidence in her movements suggests she is well-practised, entirely at home in this environment. There is no hesitation; whatever she is working on, it's clear this is not her first time.
I take another photo.
Then another.
Enough to satisfy a client.
I package the images with the coordinates and send them.
Confirmed. Current residence attached. Visual verification complete.
Daniel replies within less than two minutes.
That's her.
No, thank you.
No relief.
Just possession.
I shut the laptop.
Job done.
I should leave.
That's the rule.
Confirm. Document. Disappear.
Instead, I stay another hour.
It's not about needing more evidence—something just doesn't fit. She doesn't act like someone who committed a robbery and fled.
No new car.
No expensive upgrades.
No signs of panic spending.
She gets coffee, walks everywhere, and paints quietly with simple speakers and open windows. Her life preserves peace, not secrets.
I don't assign meaning to that yet.
I log it.
Eventually, I return to my cabin. Sit on the edge of the bed, I linger, gazing at my phone far longer than needed.
Daniel got what he paid for.
Coordinates.
Photos.
Confirmation.
This was supposed to be finished. Yet here I am, reopening the pictures and examining each one closely. I zoom in on her hands as she paints, observe how she grips the brush, and notice how she gazed at the street before entering the diner.
The memory of her unlocking her front door remains vivid. She moved with a kind of precision that suggested she was neither hurried nor careless. Rather, it was as though she had rehearsed this action many times before, preparing herself for the possibility that one day she might need to do it swiftly. The door closed behind her with practised ease, not rushed but deliberate—each movement reflecting a readiness shaped by repeated experience.
I close the photo gallery, shutting down the images that have occupied my attention for so long. Feeling a sense of closure, I remove the duplicates, clearing away all traces of my repeated examination. I remind myself that none of this is my business, that I am merely fulfilling a task assigned to me—she is a job, nothing more, nothing less.
Yet, despite my efforts to remain detached, there is something about the way she moves through the world that does not align with the narrative I was given. This subtle discrepancy is enough to unsettle me, marking the first crack in my resolve.