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Icy fingers trail my back.
I skip down to the night the UNSUB sent me a pic of Sadie in the club. It’s timestamped and labeled: Sadie and Wells.
My hand hovers over the mouse pad, my fingers trembling. Either with fear or hesitation, it’s the same. But I click the file and start the footage.
For a few minutes, everything looks normal. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. Sadie watches the stage, glancing over her shoulder toward the entryway every couple of minutes. She’s waiting for me. The sickness takes hold when I see him.
Standing at the bar, watching her.
I’ve seen him before.
He lifts his phone in her direction. There. Right there. The image that was sent to me. He sent it. And fucking Julian knew… Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
There’s footage of this guy all over the file. All labeled: Watcher Wells.
With adrenaline pumping, I close the footage and open the file dated for the first night I spoke to Sadie. Our very first conversation, when I finally found an opening to approach her.
I thought I was taking advantage of that moment. There was an asshole in a business suit hitting on her…and it was the perfect instance to meet her. No one could have planned a better chance encounter.
But he did.
I watch as the scene plays out. The guy in the dark gray business suit walking up to Sadie. Her demeanor changing, becoming withdrawn. Me leaning against the wall, watching them. When he bends down and touches her…then pulls her against him…that’s when I act.
What did he say?
“She wants it. She’s just shy… She needs a little persuading.”
And in his own demented way, he’s been trying to persuade her ever since, the sick shit. I accused him of not watching her. Of not understanding what she needed. Of not knowing that she hates being touched.
He knew it all.
Watcher Wells. Mother fucker. He’d been stalking her the whole damn time.
It happened so quickly.
I never thought about that guy again. Not once.
The bad apple.
18
Master
Sadie
The alleyway is damp and chilly. Fall grips the air, letting us know winter’s presence is inevitable. The storm that blew through left behind a frigid reminder that we’re all susceptible to the cold and dark nights.
My heels clack against the pavement. The echo being drowned out by the thump of bass the closer I get. I turn a corner and music bleeds into the street—an invitation to enter the only nightlife along this strip of the city.
So I do. I walk through the doors of the bar, where just above a neon sign blazes: Raven.
It’s a small bar. Trendy. Only a handful of two-seater tables, one pool table, and a long stretch of cherry oak bar top that wraps toward the back wall. That’s where I sit; the far corner where I can see the front door, the one leading to a single bathroom, and the scope of the room.
As the bartender approaches, a man with a beard and stretched earlobes, I order my pink champagne, having to shout over the music. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t mock my choice. I stare at the door, absentmindedly fingering the crest dangling from my neck.
A clatter draws my attention, and I whip around as someone whoops. Billiard balls bounce around the black felt, and I watch three sink home into the corner pockets.
“Ma’am.”
