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The sea of polyester parts.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

He doesn’t bother to look my way as he turns to leave. My feet clank loudly on the floor as I make my way out of the auction room. Professionalism be damned. He steps through the glass doors as I enter the lobby. In my haste to catch up with him, my heel snags on the edge of the carpet. The trip makes me lose a precious second. Pushing open the glass doors, I step out onto the street.

Empty.

My chest begins to sink. He was just here. Unless he’s sprinting down the street—in a suit no less—he’s got to be here.

Movement under an awning catches my attention. I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. I take a few steps in his direction before I see him step into a silver BMW. Of course, he drives a BMW.

I’m going to have to sell mine now. There’s no coming back from that.

I pull my new Mini Cooper into the driveway and smile. I was an aggressive driver before, but this thing is great. I can chuck it in between cars everywhere. The options are limitless.

Little chirps and claws along the wooden floor greet me as I enter the house. Gerald looks up at me from the stairs in despair. Poor guy is starving, at least he seems to think so. He ate only a few hours ago, but it’s twenty minutes past his supper time. After filling his bowl, I head upstairs. The sound of a mug breaking has me rolling my eyes as I enter the bedroom. My fault. I failed. Now, I must face Gerald’s wrath. RIP, dishes.

Looking in the mirror, I sigh. Gravity pulls at my cheeks like melting Silly Putty. The dark circles under my eyes seem to seep down into my bones. Lifting my fingers to my cheek, I spread the skin taut. At least the shadows make it difficult to see the annoying freckles. Silver linings!

My bed remains in disarray from the fight I had with the sheets during my attempt to sleep earlier this morning. Even in its current state, I long to be curled into the sheets. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen for some time. I’m not going to be put on the back foot with Ethan Passmore anymore. I need to conduct some field research.

I’m the picture of stealth in my black hoodie and sweatpants. I throw an extra handful of pellets into Gerald’s bowl and pack a protein shake for myself. Usually, this would be the time when I could head to the gym. Get some me time. Work out my thoughts. Play some metal music until the rage expels from my body. Which has never happened. But I harbor hope it can.

Thanks to the asshole inundating every facet of my life with deliberate assaults, I’m forced to eschew my normal practices.

There’s a park not far from Ethan’s house on the map that abuts the back of his house. If fortune favors me, I’ll be able to leave the car at the park and take the path on foot. The sun is setting, and there are few cars in the parking lot when I arrive. Throwing my hood up, I jog in the direction of his house. Light from homes peek through the trees along the side. The trees are too thick to make out the style of the houses. Pulling out my phone, I check my location.

His house should be just to my left. A break in the trees reveals a wooden fence, too high to see over. I can’t exactly climb it. These people would have a cop out here in five minutes. Looking around, I spot a tree with cut limbs. Luckily, the stumps left from the trimming work great as a ladder.

Once I reach the widest point, I’m able to stretch out a little. Peering over the fence, I have a nice unobstructed view of his house.

Modern.

It looked sterile in the photos, but it’s so much worse seeing it in person. Why did I expect anything else? Clean black trim against a white exterior, devoid of any color or personality. Every blade of grass is even and perfectly cut. I don’t know what is more obnoxious. Him or the lifeless box he lives in. I’ve seen closets that were more interesting. My head tilts to the side as I see the large windows and sliding glass doors. Okay, it has two nice elements.

The lights are on throughout the house, so presumably the asshole is home. Pulling the binoculars out of my bag, I draw them up to my face. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow me to see the onyx living room on the ground level. At least he has a cozy white couch. That’s something. Scanning the binoculars to the right, glimpses of copper in the kitchen sparkle against teal walls.

The whole thing is dressed to look like a magazine article. Who the fuck is this guy?

Only one window on the second level has the blinds pulled up. The area appears to be overlooking the landing of a staircase. Adjusting myself in the tree, I try to get as comfortable as possible.

It’s going to be a long night.

10

Sitting in front of my computer to check my investments, my eyes feel like sandpaper. Three emails are from my financial advisor fuming about the purchase this afternoon. This woman is going to be my financial ruin if this continues. My only saving grace is that I can sell the painting and recoup some of my losses. I might be able to sell it on the black market if Mark is willing to help.

An alert on my phone notifies me of movement behind the house.

I pull up the cameras placed in the pear tree out back—the neighborhood kids have a talent for errant balls flying into the yard—and my eyes widen when the cameras pinpoint movement in a tree.

The screen blurs. I rub my eyes and try to revive the focus in them, but it’s difficult to make out details on a screen this size.

I set the phone down and pull up the feed on my desktop monitor. The tracker lets me zoom in on the figure. What the fuck?

The binoculars fall.

Green eyes flicker across the screen. Patience.