Page 65 of Joker

That night, after most of the clubhouse settles and the main room noise drops to a manageable hum, I do a slow walk around the outside of the building with a flashlight and a temper. I check every window in the downstairs hall. Her room first. Then the bathroom. Then the one at the far end of the corridor.

Locks solid. Frames good. No weak points worth worrying about. Still, I wedge a better stopper into the lower track of her window anyway because I don’t like how easy the old one would be to force if somebody got stupid.

Then I check her door lock.

Not from inside, obviously. I’m not a fucking psycho.

But I know this building, and I know exactly which doors stick, which locks need pressure, which hinges are due for replacement. Hers works fine.

Fine isn’t enough.

So the next morning, while she’s in the kitchen with Emma and the kids are busy destroying a pile of blocks in the common room, I swap out the strike plate and tighten the screws in under three minutes flat.

Nobody notices.

Then there are the cameras.

Dom usually handles most of the tech stuff when it matters, but I know enough to adjust the basics without bothering him for every little thing. The outside camera on the east side had too much dead space near the side lot anyway. I angle it lower. Widen the porch sweep. Tighten the hallway coverage on the downstairs entrance so if anyone unknown comes near that end of the building, I’ll know before they get close enough to matter.

Still not enough.

Then I start paying attention to who gets near her. That one happens by instinct more than plan.

A brother lingers too long in the kitchen doorway while she’s making lunch for Lexi? I appear beside the fridge.

Some old hangaround from one of the out-of-town crews wanders a little too close on the porch while she’s outside with the kid? I ask him if he’s lost.

One of the prospects clocks her a little too openly in the common room? He suddenly finds himself volunteered for a deeply unpleasant cleanup job in the garage.

Nobody gets too comfortable. Nobody gets too curious. Nobody with a pulse and a functioning survival instinct mistakes her for available.

That’s not possessive. That’s practical. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The lie gets thinner every day.

By late afternoon, I’ve managed to talk myself into the garage long enough to keep my hands busy with something mechanical because if I spend another hour inside the clubhouse cataloging every small change in Raven’s expression, I’m going to lose whatever edge of objectivity I’ve still got left.

Shadow finds me there, naturally. Because if there’s one thing that man does well, it’s appearing exactly where he’ll be most irritating. He leans against the open bay door, cut on, arms crossed, watching me with the kind of expression that says he’s been noticing entirely too much and enjoying it. “You look pissed.”

I don’t glance up from the bike in front of me. “That your official diagnosis?”

“Pretty sure that’s the technical term.”

I tighten a bolt harder than necessary. “What do you want?”

Shadow is quiet for a second, which usually means he’s deciding how annoying he wants to be. “Nothing,” hesays eventually. “Just wondering why you’ve suddenly got the downstairs hallway under tighter security than church.”

That gets my attention.

I straighten slowly and look at him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t grin.

Just waits.

I wipe my hands on a rag and keep my tone flat. “You got a problem with it?”

“Nope.”