Business was booming. That was the problem. My bank account looked healthy for the first time in three years, but my sleep schedule was on life support. I needed a second body. Preferably a large, intimidating one that could sit in a humid car for six hours without complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi.
I made a tactical error with the job posting. I didn't want to get sued for discrimination, so I kept the language neutral. The result? Twelve applicants. All women. All looking for a "True Crime" adventure they could post about on Instagram.
The last one I fired—a twenty-two-year-old named Priya—literally clocked out at 5:00 PM in the middle of a tail because she had a Zumba class. She treated the agency like a glorified administrative internship. I didn't need an admin. I needed someone to kick down a door if I asked them to.
I was rubbing my temples, contemplating burning the stack of resumes, when Number Thirteen stumbled in.
He didn't knock. He sort of fell through the doorway.
Male. Late twenties, maybe. Scruffy. He looked like he'd just run a marathon in steel-toed boots. Sweat was practically dripping off his nose, and he was clutching a camera to his chest like it was a newborn baby. Not a DSLR. A brick-heavy, battered Nikon analog with duct tape on the strap.
"Sorry," he wheezed. "Am I late?"
"You ran all the way here?" I asked. I was desperate. If he had cardio, he was hired.
"Something like that."
I waved him into the chair. "Sit. Don't bleed on the upholstery."
He sat on the edge of the seat, knees bouncing. I went through the motions. Generic questions.
"Tell me about your experience with surveillance."
"I'm good at watching spots," he said. His voice was scratchy. "I know how to blend. Wait for the pattern. People always have a pattern."
"You mean establishing a baseline?"
"Sure. Whatever." He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. "And tracking. I can find where they sleep. If you know where they sleep, you got 'em."
He knew the work. He just didn't know the words. It was like talking to a mechanic who called a carburetor "the air-sucky thing" but could still rebuild an engine blindfolded. I was skeptical, but the bar was currently buried underground.
Then he stiffened. "Do you have a red room?"
"A darkroom?" I blinked. "Yeah, in the back. But nobody's used it since—"
He was already up. He didn't ask permission. He walked past me, straight toward the heavy door at the end of the hallway labeled STORAGE.
"Hey!" I spun around in my swivel chair. "That's restricted—"
"I need fifteen minutes," he said, not looking back. "I work better with film. Digital lies."
The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.
I should have called the cops. Or at least kicked him out. But honestly? The audacity was refreshing. Plus, finding someone under forty who knew how to mix developer fluid was rare. I checked my watch. I'd give him fifteen.
Exactly fourteen minutes later, he came out. He smelled like acetic acid and fear.
He didn't come back to the chair. He went straight to the venetian blinds covering the front window. He peeled back a single slat, peering down into the chaotic Mumbai street traffic.
His face went gray. Not pale. Gray.
Ding.
The brass bell above the office door chimed.
The guy didn't hesitate. He didn't look for a closet. He scrambled over my desk, scattering a pile of invoices, and curled into a ball in the footwell, right between my legs.
"Don't," he hissed from under the wood. "Please. Don't tell her."
I was about to kick him in the teeth when the door opened.
She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that makes you check your own reflection to make sure you haven't turned into a goblin. Silk saree, perfect hair, skin that looked like it had been airbrushed in real life. She floated more than she walked.
"Good afternoon," she said. Her voice was like honey poured over ice. "I am looking for a man. Disheveled. Carrying a camera?"
I leaned back, trying to look casual while a grown man hyperventilated against my ankles.
"I've got a lot of men coming in and out today," I said. "Hiring season."
"He took something from me," the woman said. She stepped closer. No perfume. She smelled like... ozone. Like the air before a thunderstorm. "Photographs. Very private. I just want them deleted."
"Revenge porn?" I raised an eyebrow. "Typical. Men are trash."
"Yes," she smiled. It was a wide smile. Too wide. It showed too many teeth. "He is a pervert. If you see him, tell me?"
My gut did a somersault. I've interviewed liars, cheats, and murderers. I know the rhythm of a lie. This woman wasn't lying. She was reciting. But the panic radiating from the guy under my desk was real heat.
I decided to push.
"Honey, look at this place," I gestured to the empty chairs. "I wish a man would enter me right now. I mean—enter for an interview. All I get are girls who are afraid to break a nail."
It was a crude joke. A slip of the tongue on purpose.
Most women would cringe. Some would laugh politely. A prude would look offended.
The woman didn't blink. Her smile didn't twitch. Her eyes didn't widen. She just stared at me, dead-eyed, waiting for the sentence to be finished so she could resume her query.
"I see," she said flatly. "If he comes, you call me."
She placed a card on the desk. Her fingers were long. Abnormally long.
"Right," I said, my hand inching toward the drawer where I kept the pepper spray. "I'll keep an eye out."
She turned and left. The bell didn't ding on her way out.
I waited five seconds. Then I looked down.
"Okay, creep," I said. "You can come out. But you better start explaining why the hell you're hiding from a supermodel, or I'm throwing you out the window."