Page 23 of Spade

I forced a smile. “Just a long week. Paperwork backlog.”

“Uh-huh.” She reached over and flicked the rim of my glass. “You ever think about quitting?”

I didn’t answer right away. My eyes drifted to the window beside our booth, where the neon OPEN sign flickered in time with the headlights passing on the strip. The question should have been simple. It wasn’t.

“Not really,” I said, and it sounded weak even to me.

Cara nodded again, filing the answer away. She switched topics, telling me about her sister’s upcoming wedding, the nightmare of picking out a bridesmaid dress, and how she was sure her mother was secretly hoping for a grandchild. I made myself listen, tracing the sound of her voice while my mind assembled a different conversation.

What I didn’t say: There were twenty-four bodies in that folder at home, each one dissected, annotated, tabbed with post-its in my own handwriting. There were timelines and maps and expense reports, all pointing to a woman with a face like a blank wall and a habit of never saying more than was strictly necessary. I’d spent months watching her move through the city, always a step ahead, never repeating a mistake. I’d spent even longer trying to figure out if I wanted to catch her or just understand her.

What I also didn’t say: The part that should have horrified me was the part that drew me in. The symmetry, the pattern, the sense that someone out there was not just improvising violence but composing it, like music. The bodies were almost incidental. It was the intent that kept me up at night.

Our plates arrived, and we made a show of eating. I asked questions when I could think of them, let her lead the conversation when I couldn’t. I tried to anchor myself in the here and now, but my mind kept drifting back to the kitchen table, the spread of photographs, the way Spade’s eyes followed you even when she wasn’t looking straight ahead.

At one point, Cara reached across the table and touched my wrist. Her hand was warm, nails painted a careful neutral, the kind of touch that would have meant something if I’d been capable of feeling it.

“You know you can talk to me,” she said.

I nodded. “I know.”

She held the look for a second longer, then let it go, refilling her glass. The rest of the meal passed in a kind of practiced rhythm—her talking, me listening, both of us pretending there was a future in it.

After the check, we walked out together. She looped her arm through mine, a reflex more than a desire, and we stood outside for a minute, letting the desert night dry the sweat from our faces. She kissed my cheek, light as air, then slipped her keys from her purse.

I gave her a key to my apartment and told her to meet me there. There was something I needed to do first.

***

When I got back to the apartment, Cara was inside, shoes off and sitting on the edge of the bed. She’d let her hair down and was scrolling her phone, face lit in a blue rectangle of light, foot bobbing at the end of a long, crossed leg. She looked up when I came in.

“Hey,” she said, tucking her phone away. “Do you have any water?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Kitchen’s that way.”

I went to the galley and found a couple of clean glasses. The light from the table hit me first—the folder in the exact center, a neat rectangle of obligation that radiated gravity. I poured the water, kept my eyes off the file, and brought the glasses back to the bedroom.

“Nice place,” she said, though the tone was more polite than sincere. She took a sip, eyes never quite leaving mine. “You always bring your dates here?”

I smirked. “Only when I want to scare them off.”

She laughed, teeth flashing. “I think you’d have to try harder.”

It could have gone a couple of ways from there, but in my experience, once two people crossed the threshold, it was just a matter of waiting for the inevitable. Cara set her glass down and stood, closing the gap in two steps. She kissed me hard, hands going straight for the collar, and when I didn’t resist, she pushed me backward until my knees hit the bed.

Her body was lean and practiced, a little muscle under the office attire, the quick, assertive movements of someone who liked to set the rhythm. I let her take the lead, and for a minute it almost worked: her mouth at my throat, her hands on my chest, her breath hot against my jawline. I responded out of habit, rolling her underneath me, hands in her hair, her hips grinding up. She liked it rough—biting at my shoulder, nails across my back—and I was happy to give it, or at least simulate the impulse.

But somewhere between her mouth and the skin, my mind wandered. It was a familiar problem, one I thought I’d solved in my twenties, but now it was back with a vengeance. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Spade’s face, the details from those goddamn photos crowding out everything else.

The scar. The angle of her jaw. The flat, feral intent in her expression, the certainty that never wavered.

My hands kept moving—thumb tracing Cara’s clavicle, palm splayed across her lower back—but I wasn’t there. I was in the security cam footage, the parking garage, the moment just before Spade turned toward the lens. I was cataloging the geometry of her face, the way she’d looked past the camera as if she could see me waiting on the other side.

Cara noticed. She started to slow down, movements less certain, eyes searching mine for something that wasn’t there. She pulled back, catching my chin in her hand, forcing me to look at her.

“Jason,” she said, voice sharp. “Where the hell did you just go?”

I blinked, tried to recover. “Sorry. Long week. I—”