I noticed everything about him except the part where I should have looked away.
He noticed me too.
And now he knows exactly how much I’ve been watching.
I pull into my apartment complex and sit in my car with the engine off.
Stare at my steering wheel.
Process what just happened.
I should be horrified. Traumatized. Calling my therapist and asking about PTSD treatment.
Instead, I’m sitting in my car at 1 AM thinking about the way his hand felt on my arm. The exact timbre of his voice when he said breathe. The way he stayed when he should have run.
He stayed for me.
Nobody ever stays for me.
I’m the forgettable girl. The background character. The woman men look through on their way to someone more interesting.
But Dario Marchetti, killer, mobster, walking wet dream with a death wish, stopped the world and saw me.
And I sent him away, gift-wrapped for the state.
The laugh that bubbles up sounds unhinged even to my own ears.
I gave them everything. His routine, his patterns, every detail my brain collected like evidence.
And the whole time I was thinking about how his hands would feel in my hair.
I get out of the car. Lock it. Walk to my apartment on autopilot.
I brush my teeth. Change into pajamas. The bright blue ones with the cookie monster on them. Get into bed.
Stare at the ceiling.
Think about Tuesdays at Carmine’s. Linguine and observation. The careful distance I maintained while cataloging every detail.
All that work. All that restraint.
And in one night, he learned more about me than I learned about him in five weeks.
I’m the woman who notices everything.
The woman whose witness statement read like a love letter written in forensic detail.
He knows that now.
And somewhere, in a holding cell, or a lawyer’s office, or wherever alleged mobsters go after committing extremely public murders, he’s probably laughing about it.
Or forgetting me entirely because I’m just the weird witness who talked too much.
Chapter Two
STEVIE
I didn’t sleep last night.
