Stopping on the opposite side of the road from where it’s parked, I watch as both girls climb out of the car. Blair hugs her friends. They talk for a moment, saying goodbye.
The other girl walks toward an apartment building, and Blair tugs the Uber door open again. My heart stops when she glances nervously around her, searching the quiet street. Is she on edge because she saw something?
She climbs into the taxi, and they pull out into the street again.
I follow.
The next stop is to drop her off.
Blair smiles when she thanks the driver and says goodbye. She looks calm but walks quickly toward her front door.
A street-level apartment on the bottom of a duplex.
I switch my car off, parked far enough away that she won’t see me if she looks out of her window.
Pulling my phone out, I type her name and address into a message.
Find out who she is. Full name. Phone number.I hit send.
The reply comes quickly from my private investigator.
Will do. Give me a few minutes.
My eyes narrow toward her windows as lights come on in her apartment. Is she calling the police? Is she freaking out after witnessing a murder?
My phone beeps.
Blair Reynolds. Civilian. No known Bratva contacts. Twenty-five years old. Works at Book Lore, a secondhand book shop in the city.
He gives me her number and asks me if I need anything else.
All good. Thanks.
A civilian’s phone is far easier to hack than someone from the mafia, someone like Lucas.
From my car, I easily work my way past the generic firewalls that come installed on phones these days, and in no time at all, I’m going through her messages. She hasn’t phoned anyone. She hasn’t messaged anyone to report a crime.
It doesn’t mean she won’t. She still might be in shock.
But at least I can keep tabs on this now.
***
Over the next few days, I follow Blair everywhere.
I dive deeper and deeper into her life, her routine, her habits. She’s quiet, reserved, polite, friendly, and helpful. I watch her at the bookstore, talking to customers and keeping the filing system up to date. I follow her when she takes her daily lunch break and walks to a nearby coffee stand, ordering the same thing every time. A croissant and an iced coffee.
She sits on a bench overlooking the ocean with her long, dark, chocolate colored hair pulled up into a high, messy bun.She is strikingly beautiful, but I don’t think she realizes it. When men smile at her, she looks away, shy perhaps. She dresses in loose jeans, a t-shirt, and plain white sneakers. Her figure is gorgeous, and I find myself wondering what she would look like in a pair of tailored jeans made for her. Her features are delicate, almost pixie-like. Her dark brown eyes are big and curious as she watches the world around her.
In the evening after work, she goes straight home and makes herself dinner before curling up on her light grey sofa to read a book.
Nothing she does indicates that she knows what she saw the other night.
And on the fourth day of stalking her, I came to the unquestionable conclusion that I don’t have to worry about her. She isn’t going to be a problem at all.
It’s just past six, and she’s getting ready to close up at the bookstore.
I could drive away right now, never worry about this again, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. Her quiet nature and comfortable routine have captivated me. Or is it those gorgeous brown eyes and her soft, plump-lipped smile?
