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I watch her from behind a newspaper someone discarded on a bench. She's oblivious to my surveillance, thank God. To her, I'm just a gust of wind, a shadow that doesn't exist.
I'm a cop, not some peeping tom. I should be above this, but here I am, tracking Lori like prey. It's messed up, but I can't help myself. She's the itch I can't scratch.
* * *
Lori's got this rhythm when she walks, a kind of sway that's hypnotic. My feet shadow hers, my strides shortening or lengthening to match the beat of her boots hitting the concrete. It's an art form, staying just out of sight, close enough to see the way she brushes her jet-black hair from her face, far enough to be just another guy on the sidewalk.
She laughs at something someone says. I can't hear it over the traffic and the city's heartbeat, but it's a sound that hits me right in the chest. It's like watching some old-timey silent film. Her expressions tell stories her voice doesn't need to. Her eyes, those damn emerald sirens, they light up, and even from a distance, they've got a pull on me. I tell myself I'm here to keep her safe, but who am I kidding? I'm caught up in her gravity.
When Lori turns into the soup kitchen, it's like a punch to the gut. The place is a gray smudge on the vibrant city canvas, its windows grimy with the breaths of too many hungry souls. She hesitates for just a split second before pushing open the door, and I feel it, that hesitation, like it's mine.
I find a spot across the street, tucked between a newsstand and a phone booth plastered with flyers. From here, I can see the entrance. I watch as people drift in and out. I can't see Lori anymore, but I picture her inside, that tough shell around her softening just enough to accept help. It kills me a little, thinking of her needing to be here, of her doing it alone.
It's not my place to swoop in, not yet. But hell if every fiber of me doesn't want to storm in there, grab her hand, and tell her she'll never have to set foot in a place like that again. Instead, I stand guard, a silent sentinel, waiting for her to reappear and remind me why all of this, every crazy, messed-up part of it, is worth it.
I wait, and then Lori emerges, her shoulders squared against the world that never seems to give her a break. I'm across the street, my eyes locked onto her every move. She's unaware of me, but it doesn't stop my gaze from softening when she tugs her jacket tighter around herself against the chill. There's a grace in her step, a sort of defiance that says she won't be beaten down by life's cruel hand.
"Damn," I whisper to no one, as a swirl of emotions clogs up my chest. There's pride for her strength, pain for her struggles and this fierce protectiveness that's becoming my constant shadow. It's a wild tangle, this feeling inside me. I'm drawn to her, like a moth hell-bent on circling a flame it has no business flirting with.
She takes a left, heading towards the park, and it's the long way round to where she stays. My feet echo her path, keeping distance, as if there’s an invisible string between us. Funny how I've become this ghost flitting at the edges of her life—there, but not quite.
The setting sun casts a golden glow over the city, making silhouettes of the skyscrapers that stand sentinel over our clandestine dance. They know the secrets of a million souls, and now they're privy to mine—to this thing pulsing between Lori and me.
As she disappears around a corner, I hang back, my heart hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs. A mix of longing and worry etches lines into my usually stoic face.
Just what the hell am I going to do about Lori White?
CHAPTER THREE
Lori
Every shadow seems to have eyes tonight, and even the whisper of the wind feels like a secret being passed along with me as the punchline. I quicken my pace, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I'm not usually one to get spooked by a few creaks and poorly lit alleys, but tonight, the hairs on the back of my neck are staging their own little uprising.
"Get a grip, Lori," I mutter to myself, but my sneakers slap a little too loud against the wet pavement. They echo, almost mockingly, in the empty street. It's that prickling sensation crawling up my spine, the kind you can't just shrug off. I am being watched. I know it. I’ve felt it the past few days, and I just can’t shake the feeling.
I fish out my phone, clutching it like a lifeline. The screen's glow is cold comfort, but it's all I've got. My thumb hovers over the police department’s number. Officer McLean, with his chiseled jaw and those eyes that aren't just brown but a whole damn autumnal forest. He's been nothing but gentle—a real knight-in-shining-badge since we met. But knights can turn into dragons, right? Especially the ones with handcuffs.
Trust is for suckers, I remind myself. Yet there's this itch, somewhere deep beneath my ribcage—a nagging ache to lean on someone. And Officer McLean—damn him—makes it look so easy to just... believe.
My past is a scrapbook of letdowns, all thanks to the boys in blue. Promises falling through like they're made of smoke. So why should this one be any different? He says he's got my back, but what if that's just code for pinning me against the wall once he gets bored playing hero?
I glance over my shoulder, half expecting some creep to be tailing me, but all I find is more darkness. My gut twists, and I can't help wondering if Officer McLean’s warmth is just another con. Maybe he's genuine, or maybe I'm just the latest charity case in his book of good deeds. Do I really want to find out which it is?
A shiver races down my spine, and I tell myself it's just the chill in the air. But deep down, I know better. I'm scared, and not just of the shadows. I'm terrified of letting someone in, only to watch them walk away. Or worse, to be led astray by a false sense of safety and end up shipwrecked on the rocks.
I force my legs to move faster. My breath comes out in visible puffs, each one a reminder that I'm still here, still fighting.
The truth is, I want to trust Officer McLean. I want to believe that not everyone wears a mask. But wanting and having are two different beasts, and I'm no stranger to the bite of disappointment.
As I round the corner, the sense of being followed ebbs, replaced by a fiercer determination. Officer McLean might be my wildcard, but I'm playing this hand close to the chest. No more folding. It's time to see whether he's bluffing or if, just maybe, he's holding onto something real.
My fingers tremble like a leaf in a storm as I pull out my phone. The numbers blur before my eyes, but I punch them in anyway—9-1-1. A click, then a ring, and the hollow sound echoes in my ears, matching the hollow feeling in my gut.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"Uh..." My voice is a fragile thing, cracking under the weight of my fear. "I think someone's following me."
"Can you describe the person?" The dispatcher's voice is calm, practiced, but it does nothing to soothe the wild dance of my pulse.
