“You went to dinner alone? As a kid?”
“My parents were busy with my brother and sister.”
“But you were a kid.”
I shrug and then lift my sandwich and take a bite. Finishing the conversation. As we eat, we don’t discuss anything more. We really don’t talk at all. But when we are both done, and finally when the quiet got stifling, I start to ask my dumb questions again.
She thinks I’m annoying. Maybe I am, but what I’m really doing is gauging her.
I need to measure her reactions, see the way her pulse in her neck jumps, watch how her cheeks tuck in and study the furrow of her brow. Because one day, these tells will give me all the information I need to know about Willow.
When lunch is finally over, I pay the bill, and we stand, walking outside together. Her coat tight around her, and she looks cold, but I need to say one more thing.
“I got it.”
“You got what?” she asks, a small line forming between her brows. Her chin trembles and I know as we stand here that it’s too cold to keep her any longer. Winter has officially taken hold of New York City.
Cars drive by and horns honk, but I pay them no mind.
“I know who you are.”
Now the rattling jaw stops, and instead, it tightens. I look into her eyes. They look glassy. A normal person would think her eyes were glassy from the cold, but I can see the way her chest rises and falls.
I can see everything.
I make sure I smile. Big and bright.
Playful.
“You, my friend Willow, are a preschool teacher.”
She lets out an exhale. Relief.
I go on. “Who realized, after a few years of teaching, that you, in fact, hate little kids and prefer to spend your time with drunk men.”
She laughs, her whole body relaxing. She thought I learned something about her.
I did. Just not what she thought. What I learned is Willow is the farthest thing from a preschool teacher.
But I also learned . . .
Willow . . . is scared.
Chapter Seventeen
Jaxson
I can’t get my lunch with Willow out of my head. It’s been days but still, every comment lingers in my brain. Something is off about her. She’s jumpy. The first few times I saw her, I knew something was off. But this last time it was obvious.
I told her I wouldn’t hack her, but it’s killing me to keep that promise.
She’s scared.
The way she walks and looks down was the first tell. At the gas station, I noticed it when she was at the store. She looked down and away from the cameras. Her hair is not naturally that color either. Also, when she worked at the poker game, I swear she had blue eyes, but at my office, they were brown, which makes no sense unless she’s disguising her appearance because she’s worried about public places. The phone number, though, was the kicker.
Right before I left her, she gave me her number. Most wouldn’t have known there was something wrong with it, but I knew right away that it was a burner phone. To the average person, maybe these things wouldn’t stand out, but I’m not the average person.
Each clue proves it. The fear of the cameras, looking down, changing her appearance. Wearing glasses all the time that I’m sure are fake.
Even her clothes are too big. If I hadn’t been at the poker game, I might have missed it, but I was. I know what’s behind the large clothes she wore the other day.
Who is she hiding from?
I pick up the phone and dial the number she gave me.
Pressing send. I wait for her to answer.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hi, it’s Jax,” I say.
Through the line, I can hear her sudden inhale of breath.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course, it’s okay. Why would you ask that?” I say.
“Well, you’ve never called before . . .”
“I just wanted to see what you were up to.”
“Umm. I’m working.”
That makes me laugh. I pivot my chair and face the city. It’s a beautiful day. Cold, but it’s still beautiful. The sun is shining bright. No rain and still no snow.
It’s the perfect day to lure the prey out to play.
I know she’s lying.
Although it would normally drive me crazy to know she’s lying, especially since I can’t do my usual stalking, I find it’s even more intriguing to figure her out. It feels like this is becoming my new favorite pastime.
“You’re lying.” I chuckle.
“How do you know?”
“Well . . . you told me you only work for your friend’s catering company. Since I’m sure there is no party at”—I lift my wrist and check the time on my watch—“at ten thirty-five a.m., I know you’re lying.”
“I’m busy,” she says again, but it only makes me smile broader.
“Too busy to eat lunch?”
“I’m skipping today,” she mutters. She knows I’ve got her there.