Soft. Warm. Already off-balance.
I catch her before the thought forms.
"Watch it." Reflex, not anger.
She apologizes quickly, flustered, and then looks up. Blonde hair spills over her shoulder. Sunlight finds it and turns it gold. Her eyes meet mine and hold — green, not bright, not soft, muted, like sage pressed between fingers — and something shiftsin the air between us that I don't have a name for and don't want one.
Her breath catches.
So does mine, which is the problem.
Color rises along her cheeks, down her throat. I follow it without deciding to. The line of her neck. The dip at her collarbone. She fits too easily into my hands and I am aware of that the entire time I'm holding her.
I let go first. Control. I don't need this.
I roll my eyes like she's nothing and jog past.
Behind me, a scoff. Small and sharp and indignant.
Good. Better she thinks I'm an asshole. The alternative is a problem I don't have room for right now.
Except her voice stays with me as I put distance between us. Soft, southern, apologetic in a way that somehow had an edge underneath it. The flush along her throat. The way she looked at me like she felt exactly what I felt and resented it just as much.
No. I don't linger. I don't do this.
Across the lot, my target emerges and heads toward his car. Brand new Porsche. Of course. I clock the license plate, the parking sticker, the time. Routine, patterns, vulnerabilities. He peels out toward lunch and I circle back to the truck, windows already hot from the sun, and write down everything I've gathered.
Less than fifteen minutes pass before movement catches my eye.
Blonde hair. She walks past the truck, two spaces down, unlocks a silver CRV, pulls a box from the back seat, and heads toward the building.
So she works here.
I watch her go and tell myself it's just habit. Clocking everyone in the environment. Situational awareness. Nothing specific about her.
I almost believe it.
My target pulls back into the lot before I've finished talking myself out of it. He's moving fast, glancing over his shoulder before he gets out, tucking something into his jacket with the practiced ease of a man who does it often. Salad in hand, easy stride, like the parking lot belongs to him. I photograph the Porsche while he's inside — license plate, parking sticker, the mail visible on the passenger seat with the address showing, the three empty beer bottles and open condom wrapper on the floor, the notebooks scattered across the back seat. Up close, the car smells like fast food and bad decisions. For a man who argues law in tailored suits, he keeps his private life like a college freshman.
Sloppy men make mistakes. I'm counting on it.
I'm back in the truck and hours into mindless scrolling when my phone buzzes.
Raul.
"Yo."
"How's it looking?"
"Too easy. I expected more resistance. I'll have it wrapped before the end of the week."
A low chuckle. "That's what I like to hear. Keep me posted." A pause, then: "How's your mom?"
My grip tightens on the wheel. "She was good this morning. Why?"
"We helped her out a little."
Something about the phrasing lands wrong. "What does that mean?"