Nate
I've been sitting in my truck, hidden in the trees, for three hours.
Engine cold. Legs cramped. Binoculars resting against my brow.
Her house sits quietly beneath the porch light, windows glowing warm against the dark. She's left the curtains open — careless. Or maybe just tired of living like someone is always watching.
Easy work.
I shift slightly in my seat, adjusting the angle.
She moves through the kitchen, barefoot, oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder. Opens the fridge. Stares inside too long. Closes it again without taking anything.
She doesn't live like someone who cleaned out an account and vanished.
She lives like someone trying to learn how to breathe.
I catalogue without attaching meaning.
Living room. Kitchen. Studio door propped open.
She disappears from view, then reappears carrying a mug. Steam curls up toward the ceiling.
She's been on the phone for almost two hours. My guess is Tiffany. People cling to one person when they're rebuilding.
On a side note — what the fuck is she watching, The Vampire Diaries?
I zoom in just enough to read the title on the screen.
I snort quietly to myself.
I make a mental note to look it up later. If I'm going to be here, I might as well understand her habits.
At 11:30 p.m., she turns off the lights.
Without thinking, I log the timestamp.
Routine matters.
I stay another thirty minutes, watching the dark windows, tracking ambient movement. Nothing unusual. No visitors. No cars are slowing.
Satisfied, I pull back from the tree line and head for the cabin.
Inside, I shower, change clothes, and replay the footage once more before encrypting and storing it. Her movements already begin to form patterns in my head — times, paths, pauses.
I lie back on the bed and let my eyes close.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table.
I don't move right away.
Late-night messages always tell you more than daytime ones.
Finally, I pick it up.
Sorry for the short reply earlier.
I needed a minute to process it. I kept telling myself it couldn't really be her. Guess part of me hoped I was wrong.
Thank you for confirming.
Since you're already on-site, I'd like to extend the contract.
I'm willing to pay extra if you can learn her routine.
What time does she leave the house?
She goes regularly.
Is she meeting anyone?
I don't want to confront her blind. I need to understand her movements before I approach her about what she took.
Let me know your rate.
I read it once.
Then again.
He frames it carefully. Calm. Rational. Almost apologetic.
He doesn't ask if she looks okay.
He asks about access.
That tracks.
People who believe they've been wronged don't want closure.
They want control back.
Routine is leverage.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees.
He believes money fixes inconvenience.
All familiar.
Nothing here technically crosses a line.
That's how people justify things.
Asset recovery often comes with surveillance. Clients always want timing. Predictability. Advantage.
Still, I don't like how quickly he moved from confirmation to control.
I type my reply.
I can provide routine patterns.
Payment for extended monitoring is separate from the location confirmation fee.
$4,000 for behavioural mapping over forty-eight hours.
Confirm if you'd like to proceed.
His answer comes back in under a minute.
Agreed.
The transfer clears seconds later.
I set the phone down and stare at the wall.
This is still work.
He wants timing.
He wants predictability.
That's not unusual.
I don't tell him I'll be installing cameras tomorrow.
That part is for me.
I pull the blueprints back up on my screen. Exterior access points. Studio window. Side door hinge placement—the narrow gap between the fence and the back wall.
Entry won't be difficult.
I zoom in on the floor plan and start marking sightlines.
I prefer to see everything before I decide what's worth sharing.
Whether Daniel realises it or not, he just paid for more than information.
He paid for my attention.
I messaged Jackson for the house schematics.
They arrive fifteen minutes later.
No questions asked.
I study the layout in silence, committing it to memory.
Outside, Stanley sleeps. Inside, I plan.