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I rolled my eyes at her idea of parenting. She escaped spending time with them every day and then stuck a screen in front of them when she was “with” them.

Those poor boys.

Some days, it was a tossup between continuing to agree to watch her sons for the extra money I needed to provide for Brady and continuing to agree to watch them so that they could experience some love and affection from a responsible adult.

“Ready,” Brady told me as we hurried out the door. He took his backpack with pajamas and toys while I ushered him down the hallway in the other direction from where Mrs. Richards headed for the elevator.

My son was always ready, clued in to this routine that had to be our life. I’d wake up and do some minor work like content creation that paid a teeny bit. Then we’d have the Richards boys over. Then I’d go to work and not get home until well after midnight. Rinse and repeat every day.

I was sure it’d be easier once he was in school full time, but then I’d have to address how much time I’d missed out on being a present parent at home with him all those early, formative years.

“Carly says you’ll bake cookies tonight,” I told him, so thankful that the young woman was a good source of childcare in the building.

“Yay!” Brady smiled up at me. “When can I bake cookies with you, Mama?”

My heart ached. This sweet boy. I wished I could have the time to make a dessert with him, but I couldn’t even enjoy time one-on-one with him, always having the Richards boys over.

“Someday soon,” I promised.

I brought him to Carly’s apartment and she frowned at me. “Go, go, go. You’re going to be late and Owen will complain.”

I nodded, hating to rush in saying goodbye to Brady. He was the light of my life. After kissing him one more time, I backed up. “He will complain,” I agreed. “See you later. Save me a cookie!”

Not wasting another second, I turned and jogged out of her apartment. If I hurried, I might be able to get there before Owen would make his rounds through the office. He liked to linger and shoot the shit with one of the other “surveillance specialists” who usually napped in his cubicle. They’d talk about sports and hitting up bars to score easy pussy. All kinds of misogynistic crap that I had no patience for.

“What do you expect?” I mumbled to myself as I exited the building and speed-walked to get to the office building where Pickering Inc. Security was located. “You’re the only woman who works there. Of course they’re going to be like that.”

Minding my own business as I rushed to get to work, I tried my best not to let my emotions get the better of me. I hated this job and hated that I needed it, so I was usually tense and unenthusiastic to report for my shifts.

But it wasn’t just that.

I glanced over my shoulder, unable to shake off this hunch that someone was watching me.

Stop being dramatic.

No one is stalking you.

I heaved out a deeper exhale and tried to ignore this nagging sensation that someone could be following me through the city. Lots of people were around. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalk as I neared another casino to pass by. I was just one among many, yet this prickling unease captured me, convincing me that someone was watching me.

I licked my lips and I glanced over my shoulder again. No one stood out. Life carried on as usual, a busy day in Sin City. But as I caught a reflection of myself in the windows as I faced forward again, I realized that this was unusual. I furrowed my brow, looking not only harried but distressed as well.

Just get to the office and snap out of it.

No one is following you.

It didn’t matter how many times I tried to brand the thought into my mind, that sensation didn’t disappear. Ever since that one night when I could have sworn I saw a big bag being moved from a car to a warehouse that belonged to one of our clients, a specific fear had crept into my mind and taken root.

What was in that bag, though?

A lot of what I did on the clock consisted of checking through surveillance camera feeds and making sure nothing was going on. Other administrative tasks fell on my shoulders too, but the majority of the time, I was watching the footage. That night, I’d been tracking multiple monitors, though, and by the time I could get back to seeing what happened at the warehouse camera, I realized I’d accidentally hit the command to record a backup copy of those hours.

Or did I?

When I made up my report near the end of the shift, I couldn’t find evidence of any suspicious activity. No footage or copies of it. No sign of a body bag⁠—

I cringed as I reached the doors to the office building.

“It wasn’t a body bag,” I whispered to myself in a scold.