Chapter 4: The Watcher Watched
The coffee shop opened at six-thirty. I was there at six-fifteen, leaning against a lamppost across the street, watching the barista flip the sign.
First customer through the door. Ordered a large black coffee and a muffin I didn't want. Took the window seat with a clear sightline to Mooney's Rare Books.
Joe wouldn't arrive for hours. I knew that from the store hours posted online. But surveillance wasn't about the target—it was about the environment. Learning the rhythm of the street. Which cars parked where. Which pedestrians were regulars. What "normal" looked like so I'd recognize abnormal when it appeared.
The coffee was decent. The muffin was dry. I ate it anyway, breaking off pieces and chewing slowly while my eyes tracked movement outside.
By eight, I'd cataloged the street's morning routine. Delivery truck at 7:40—dry cleaning pickup. Dog walker at 7:55—three dogs, struggled with the leashes. Office workers streaming toward the subway at 8:15. A homeless man who settled onto a bench at 8:30, same spot every day based on the worn cushion mark.
Normal. All of it.
At 9:45, Joe Goldberg arrived.
He walked from the east, messenger bag over one shoulder, travel mug in hand. Moved with easy confidence—the gait of someone who owned their space. Not aggressive, but certain. The kind of man people stepped aside for without knowing why.
The Detection kicked in the moment he came into range. Cold pressure against my awareness, like stepping into air conditioning after summer heat. Patient. Controlled. Nothing active, just... present.
Joe unlocked Mooney's front door and disappeared inside.
I finished my coffee and relocated.
The bench down the block offered a different angle. I brought a newspaper—physical copy, something to hide behind—and pretended to read while watching the bookstore's windows. Joe moved through the space, turning on lights, adjusting displays, preparing for the day.
Charming. That was the word. Even from a distance, I could see it. The way he smiled at the first customer who entered. The attentive tilt of his head when they asked a question. Body language that said you're the most interesting person I've talked to today.
Practiced. Perfect. Completely false.
The Detection stayed steady all morning. Cold but dormant. Joe was hunting, but not right now. Now he was playing the role of helpful bookseller, accumulating goodwill like spare change.
Lunch came and went. I grabbed a sandwich from a cart vendor, ate it on a different bench, rotated back to the coffee shop for an afternoon refill. My feet protested—Fin's body wasn't used to this much standing and walking. The balls of my feet burned. My lower back had started to ache.
I ignored it. Discomfort was data. This body needed conditioning.
At 3:47 PM, the Detection spiked.
I straightened in my seat, newspaper forgotten. Through the coffee shop window, I watched a woman enter Mooney's.
Blonde. Young—mid-twenties maybe. Pretty in a trying-too-hard way, like she'd dressed for attention but wasn't sure she deserved it. She carried herself with uncertain confidence, shoulders back but eyes darting. A contradiction walking.
Joe emerged from behind the counter before she'd taken three steps inside.
The cold pressure in my head doubled. Tripled. Not threatening—not yet—but focused. Laser-locked on this woman with an intensity that made my stomach turn.
I couldn't hear them through the glass. But I could read the choreography.
Joe approached with perfect casualness. Said something that made her smile. Gestured toward a shelf. She followed, and he walked beside her—close enough to seem helpful, not so close it was creepy. His body angled toward hers. His attention never wavered.
She pulled a book from the shelf. He leaned in to see the cover. Made a comment. She laughed—genuine, surprised—and something in her posture relaxed.
The Detection screamed.
Not danger. Not violence. Something worse: recognition. Joe had found what he was looking for. The target had been acquired.
They talked for another fifteen minutes. I watched every second, filing details into my Memory Palace. Her gestures. His responses. The way she tucked hair behind her ear when he complimented her taste. The way he mirrored her movements without being obvious about it.
She bought the book. He wrapped it himself, taking extra care with the brown paper. Their fingers brushed during the exchange.
When she left, Joe watched her go. His expression didn't change—still pleasant, still professional—but the cold in my Detection didn't fade. It followed her out the door and down the street like a leash.
The woman walked past my window without glancing inside. Blonde hair catching afternoon light. Pretty face lost in thought, probably replaying whatever charming thing Joe had said.
She had no idea.
I set down my coffee and stood. Decision made without conscious thought. Joe stayed in the store. But the woman was walking away, and I needed to know where she went.
Three blocks back. Basic surveillance distance—close enough to keep visual, far enough that she wouldn't notice. I matched her pace, stayed behind clusters of pedestrians, used window reflections to track her when I couldn't look directly.
She stopped at a bookstore—different one, mainstream chain—and browsed for twenty minutes. Emerged with another purchase. Walked to a subway entrance and disappeared underground.
I didn't follow.
The Detection was quiet now. Joe wasn't nearby. But I memorized the subway station, the direction she'd gone, the exact moment she'd descended the stairs.
When I surfaced from my focus, my feet were screaming.
I found a subway bench—not to ride, just to sit—and let my legs rest. The platform was crowded with commuter noise. Nobody looked twice at a tired man staring at nothing.
The blonde woman was Joe's target. That much was certain. Everything I'd seen in the bookstore confirmed it: the practiced attention, the careful charm, the way the Detection had flared.
But I needed more than certainty. I needed information.
Her face was stored in my Memory Palace. Hair color, eye color, approximate height and weight. The nervous habit of touching her ear. The books she'd been drawn to—literary fiction, nothing genre.
Not enough to identify her. Not yet.
A hot dog cart sat at the station entrance. My stomach reminded me I'd only had a sandwich today. I climbed the stairs, ordered one, and discovered the vendor was heavy-handed with the relish.
The hot dog was overcooked. Bun slightly stale. I ate it standing on the sidewalk, watching evening traffic thicken.
Joe would be closing the store soon. If he was already this focused on the blonde, he might—
My thought cut off.
The Detection flickered. Cold pressure, distant but moving.
Joe.
I stepped into a doorway, made myself small, watched the street.
He appeared two minutes later. Walking east with purpose. Not hurrying—Joe wouldn't hurry, wouldn't do anything that looked suspicious—but moving with direction.
I followed.
Three blocks back, same as before. Using every trick I'd figured out during the day. Store windows for reflection. Crowds for cover. Never looking directly at him for more than two seconds.
Joe walked for fifteen minutes. Crossed streets, turned corners, moved through neighborhoods like he knew exactly where he was going.
He did.
The blonde woman's apartment building was brick, pre-war, the kind of place NYU students crammed into with too many roommates. Fire escapes zigzagged up the facade. A deli occupied the ground floor.
Joe stopped across the street.
He didn't look up immediately. Too smart for that. Instead, he checked his phone, scrolled through something, created the appearance of a man waiting for an Uber or killing time before a dinner reservation.
Then, casually, he glanced at the building.
Fourth floor. Third window from the left. A light had come on.
Joe watched that light for eight minutes. I counted. Eight minutes of standing on a public street, attention fixed on one window, expression completely blank.
The Detection held steady the entire time. Cold. Patient. Satisfied.
This was the beginning. The opening move of a pattern I'd seen in documentaries, read about in case studies, understood intellectually but never witnessed.
Joe Goldberg was stalking this woman. Learning her schedule. Building a map of her life that she didn't know existed.
And if I didn't intervene, that map would eventually include a grave.
After eight minutes, Joe walked away. Satisfied, apparently, with whatever he'd confirmed tonight.
I didn't follow. Didn't need to—I knew where he worked, where he'd return.
Instead, I stayed across from the apartment building. Memorized the address. Counted windows. Noted which lights were on, which were off, which had curtains drawn.
Fourth floor, third window from the left. The blonde woman's home.
Somewhere inside, she was probably thinking about the charming bookstore manager who'd made her laugh. Maybe telling a friend about him. Maybe wondering if he'd remember her next time she came in.
She had no idea two men had followed her home tonight.
One wanted to own her.
One wanted to save her.
Neither had introduced himself yet.
My feet ached. My back complained. The hot dog sat heavy in my stomach.
I turned and walked toward the subway. Tomorrow, I'd find out who she was.
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