CHAPTER 7

Turns out, stakeouts are hard—especially when you’ve just dipped the last grape into the final scoop of hummus like a desperate snack goblin.

I scolded myself out loud as I washed it down with water and a pink Starburst flavor packet.

Now I have to pee.

But I can’t leave. Obviously.

What if he shows the moment I duck into the 24-hour bodega to beg for access to their questionable bathroom that probably requires a key chained to a hubcap?

No. I’m committed.

So far, I’ve jotted down twelve license plates (two might be duplicates—I got distracted by a cat). A pigeon flapped too close and scared me.

I’ve received four updates from my mother, now on chapter thirty-seven of her fairy smut saga and apparently thriving.

According to her, the shadow prince can make multiple replicas of himself—each with fully functional, anatomically accurate parts.

Of course he can.

Sebastian sent me dating profiles while on his own date. That tells you everything.

He’s either asleep or mid-quickie with someone from his roster.

We couldn’t be more different about sex.

Sebastian talks about it nonstop. I avoid it.

We balance each other out.

I stare out the windshield. One leg jiggling. My silver dollar flips steadily over my knuckles as I watch the apartment across the street.

Mariela’s fire escape is still. No movement. No lights.

I don’t know what I’m expecting.

Part of me wants him to show—just to prove I’m not losing my mind. To catch something. A threat. Evidence.

But the other part is terrified.

Because if he comes… what then?

What if he sees me?

What if he walks up, smashes the window, drags me out by the hair?

I picture it so vividly it feels like memory.

Glass shattering. Blood. Fingers knotted in my hair.

Adrenaline would hit fast. Enough to keep me silent. Enough to fight.

I’d grab the knife and swing. Hope for pain. Hope for blood.

I spiral too far into the daydream down to the exact choreography.

Low first. The thigh. Then the gut. Then maybe up—fast and frantic—like I’m trying to erase his face from the inside out.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Maladaptive daydreaming.

Most people count sheep. I choreograph trauma like ballet.

I can lose hours like this.

Tonight’s lead? The eight-inch chef’s knife in my passenger seat.

I pick it up and balance it between my fingers. Place the tip against my index finger and spin it in a slow circle.

It nicks me before I notice.

Just a pinprick. Barely enough to sting.

Of course it’s sharp. My mother always kept this blade like a scalpel—deadly, precise.

I set it down, squeeze my finger, and watch the bead of blood rise.

The knife is old. The rest of the set long gone—lost to moves and garage sales. A sleek new block sits on her counter now.

But this one? She kept.

Which is why the thought creeps in.

What if this is the knife she used to kill Colton Rhodes?

Travis’s face twists into Colton’s. The autopsy report I read last night returns.

Dozens of stab wounds.

Throat slit.

Overkill.

But which came first?

She could’ve ended it with the throat. Quick. Efficient.

But she didn’t. She kept going.

This is a classic question of the chicken-or-the-egg.

Except the chicken is a dead man, and the egg is my mom’s trauma-fueled rage.

If I had to bet: she slit his throat, then stabbed until nothing remained of her fear.

Until the girl who ran was gone and only the woman who survived remained.

That’s how I’d do it.

Not quite as messy.

My phone chimes and I jump, nearly launching the knife into the cupholder.

It’s my mother.

MOM: Goodnight, dear! Just finished chapter 49. The shadow prince split into six copies… simultaneously. Use your imagination.

What a wholesome way to end the evening—knowing my sweet, cardigan-wearing mother is winding down with a supernatural orgy.

I set the phone down like it just told me Santa isn’t real and also sex is weird now.

The dash clock reads 4:02 a.m.

Three more hours.

I can do this.

Probably.

Maybe.

The street is dead quiet. My eyes gritty, my legs are asleep and my bladder is screaming.

I’ll close my eyes for one second.

Just one second.

The knock on my window nearly sends my soul into orbit.

I jolt upright with a scream so sharp it startles me.

My elbow hits the door, my knee bangs the wheel, and I blindly grab the first thing I can?—

An opened pack of multigrain crackers.

I throw them with the energy of a woman who’s had too many shadow prince updates and not enough sleep.

They explode across my dash, lap, and dignity.

These crumbs will haunt me.

I blink to clear the surreal transition from sleep to panicked wake. A parking enforcement officer stares through the glass.

Early forties. Chewing her gum with her whole jaw. Existential crisis energy.

“You can’t sleep here, hon.”

Ma’am, I am one granola bar and a legal loophole away from total collapse.

I roll the window down a sliver. “Not sleeping. Just… conducting neighborhood surveillance.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t care.”

I point to my tote. “I’m a lawyer.”

She pops her gum. “I still don’t care.”

Well.

Who tinkled in her Lucky Charms?

She walks off without another word, her reflective vest swaying like a judgmental highlighter. I slump back—then bolt upright as panic socks me in the sternum.

Mariela.

Sprinkle-covered snickerdoodles! I fell asleep.

What if something happened? What if I missed it?

Nope. No spiraling.