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I close my laptop and sink into the couch, my mind racing with a million questions.
The mob?!
I mean, it does make sense. Leo seemed to already be aware of Cash. And if he’s more than just a businessman, if he’s making even more money through illegal channels, it would explain him being able to afford “the best” lawyers and why he’s untouchable.
Am I getting in way over my head? I can’t help but think this is going to end with me dead in a ditch somewhere. Isn’t that what mobsters do? Cut out tongues and kill their enemies?
Despite that thought, a ripple of something dangerously close to excitement runs through me.
This is an absolutely terrible idea. And I’m absolutely going to do it.
I have a coffee in one hand and the biggest sunglasses I own in the other. I am ready. Stepping out of the June Bug Café across the street from The Fox’s Den, I slip on my shades and snag an outside table with a view to the restaurant. I pretend to scroll on my phone while really tracking every person that comes and goes. It’s just before they open for lunch, so I assume most of these people are workers. I notice a lot of the women have dark hair. I don’t know if this is important or just a coincidence, but I write it down anyway.
I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that you never know what small detail will break the case, and with God as my witness, I am breaking this case.
There are apartments above the pub, the entry door right next to it on the street. Few people come and go, but I note them all the same.
I’m already regretting several factors to this stakeout. One, I am so jittery with nerves that I accidentally ordered a hot coffee despite it being the warmest time of spring. Two, I am wearing jeans for the first time in weeks and can’t get comfortable in these straitjackets for my legs. Other patrons are looking at me for all the noise I’m making scooting around in the wire patio chair.
And that’s the last thing I want. To be noticed.
I take a reluctant sip of my coffee and try to act like I’m not trying to catch a serial killer. I stretch over the back of the chair and attempt to look relaxed and at ease.
Someone inside the restaurant flips the closed sign to open, and I perk up. Does he even come here regularly? He has plenty of other businesses to check on, both above and below board.
What if, while I’m here stalking him, he’s out there stalking his next victim? Nausea overwhelms me. There’s going to be another victim. AnotherBeth.
Suddenly, this pathetic excuse for a stakeout seems like an absurd waste of time. Have I been numb for so long that I’m desensitized to the gravity of this situation, the potential for danger?
No, that’s not it. I am fully aware of the recklessness, the risk.
I don’t want to admit it, but a part of me wishes he’d killed me too that night. He probably would have, if the sirens hadn’t scared him off. So teetering the edge of stupidity and bravery with this mission doesn’t scare me the way it should. Because that same part of me is probably hoping Idoget caught, so he’ll finish what he started.
The apartment door opens, catching my attention. A white man steps out, and my heart stops until I realize it’s not him. He looks similar, same facial structure and dirty-blonde hair, though this man’s is longer and falling into his eyes. The man leans against the wall beside the door and kicks up a foot to rest on the wall. He taps a pack of cigarettes, but doesn’t open it.
A realization slams into my chest. He uses doppelgangers.
That’s how he can be in two places at once. I still don’t know what his alibi is, but if it’s grainy footage or sightings from a distance, this man could totally pass for Cash.
I pull up Leo’s contact, and my finger is hovering above the call button when the door opens again. The blood pumping heavily in my chest drains to my feet and I have to consciously remind myself to breathe.
There he is.
He starts talking to the other man and I can see they share similarities, but they are far from identical. Now that I see the two next to each other, I throw out my short-lived doppelganger theory.
Cash is shorter by a few inches, but broader. Where the other man looks leaner and younger, Cash fills out the white tee he’s wearing, and tattoos trail from his hands all the way up his toned arms. Cash’s hair is in a tousled crew cut and is the kind of dark, dirty blond that towhead kids grow into. The other man has retained much more blond.
I wonder which Fox brother this is.
He offers Cash a cigarette, and my eyes zero in on his lips wrapping softly around it and blowing out the smoke. I tell myself the zing I feel deep in my core is excitement for potential DNA evidence and not because his profile, when he tilts his head back, looks like a dark prince waiting to be crowned.
I reach for my cup without looking away from the duo, entranced by how casual they look—you’d never expect the dirty secrets hidden below those tattoos.
“Ah shit!” I howl and jump up as hot coffee spills into my lap, my knocked-over cup laying empty on the table. Everyone on the patio is looking at me, and when I glance across the street, I swallow in horror when I see that the brothers are too.
Cash’s eyes lock on mine, and I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
He tilts his head like a curious observer, taking a slow drag. A cold shiver runs down my whole body. His mouth forms into a subtle-but-wicked smirk as he exhales smoke, and though it’s impossible from this distance, I swear I can hear a chuckle.
