Page 15 of Micah

I know it.

I can feel it.

The same instinct that kept me alive overseas—the one that whispered don't go through that door or that truck doesn't belong here—is whispering again.

Something about Sloane O'Brien doesn't fit.

Something in her life is out of place.

And I hate unsolved puzzles.

The scary part?

I'm not sure anymore if I'm watching because I think she's in danger...

Or because somewhere along the way, watching her became the best part of my day.

I stare at the monitor for a few seconds longer than I should.

Then I sigh.

“Yeah,” I tell the empty cabin. “That's probably not healthy.”

But I don't close the feed.

I just keep watching.

This has to stop.

I know it. But I can’t seem to make myself turn that monitor off.

I don't flirt.

Don't date.

Hell, I barely talk.

Women deserve more than a man who spends twelve hours a day staring at monitors and another six convincing himself the nightmares aren't real.

PTSD doesn't make for good company.

Neither does the kind of work I still do after hours.

I'm not Sawyer.

I'm not Benji.

I'm the guy they call when something's already gone sideways.

The fixer.

The ghost.

The one who notices things other people miss.

Like the dark SUV I spy parked across the street from her bar.

It wasn't there yesterday.