Chapter 30: Breakthrough
The email arrived three days after the party.
I was monitoring Peach's inbox when it appeared—another update from Blackwell & Associates, this one marked urgent.
Ms. Salinger,
We have located the subject.
Candace Stone is currently residing in the Los Angeles area, using a different name for most purposes. Our investigator was able to confirm her identity through visual comparison with archived photos. She appears to be alive and well, though our contact indicates she remains wary of connections to her previous life.
We have contact information for the subject. Given the sensitive nature of this case, we recommend a careful approach. The subject may be reluctant to discuss events involving your person of interest.
How would you like to proceed?
Regards, Blackwell & Associates
My heart rate spiked. They'd found her. Candace Stone, Joe's ghost, the woman who'd escaped and rebuilt herself three thousand miles away.
Peach's reply came within minutes.
Arrange a meeting. I'll fly out this week. Whatever it takes to make her comfortable. This is exactly what I've been looking for.
P.S.
The timeline was accelerating. Peach would fly to LA, meet Candace, get the story directly from someone who'd survived Joe's obsession. If Candace talked—and according to Greta, she wanted revenge—Peach would have testimony. Real evidence. Not just gaps in Joe's history, but a firsthand account of what he was capable of.
This could end him.
But only if Peach survived long enough to make the trip.
I pulled up my Joe surveillance feed and felt my stomach drop.
He was on the Upper East Side again. Third time this week. And this time, he was being bolder—standing on the sidewalk directly across from Peach's building, barely pretending to be anything other than what he was.
Surveillance photos visible on his phone. Notes being typed. The methodical documentation of a predator preparing to strike.
The Detection screamed cold focus even through the digital feed.
Joe knew Peach was a threat. He didn't know about Candace—couldn't know, unless he was somehow monitoring Peach's communications—but he knew Peach was dangerous to him. That was enough.
He was planning her elimination. And his timeline was accelerating too.
Two races now. Peach to LA, Joe to Peach. The question was which one reached the finish line first.
I spent the afternoon running scenarios.
If Peach flew to LA tomorrow, she'd be safe for at least a few days. Joe couldn't follow without raising suspicions, and he'd need to explain his absence to Beck. The trip itself was protection.
But before the trip, Peach was vulnerable. Tonight, tomorrow morning—any window of opportunity Joe identified could be his moment.
I needed to make sure there were no windows.
My phone showed Peach's number from the party. I'd planned to use it eventually—build a relationship slowly, become a trusted voice. But slowly wasn't an option anymore.
I typed and deleted three different messages before settling on something that felt right.
Hey, it's Fin from the party. Hope you don't mind me reaching out. I've been thinking about what you said on the balcony. About instincts. Would you want to grab coffee sometime? I think you're onto something.
Vague enough to not seem suspicious. Direct enough to open a channel.
Her reply came an hour later: Saturday work for you? I could use someone to talk to who actually listens.
Saturday. The same day she might be flying to LA, depending on when the PI arranged the meeting.
Saturday works. Let me know where.
I'd find out more then. And in the meantime, I'd make sure she wasn't alone.
The next morning, I positioned myself outside Peach's building by seven AM.
Joe arrived at eight-fifteen.
He didn't see me—I was two blocks away, using binoculars from a parked car I'd borrowed from the street. The Social Invisibility wasn't physical, but distance and mundanity worked almost as well.
He photographed the building entrance. The doorman's position. The schedule of a delivery truck that arrived at the same time each day. Building his file, identifying weaknesses, looking for the perfect moment to act.
The Detection showed that cold hunting focus, sharper now than before. He was getting closer to a decision.
I needed to disrupt his data collection. Make him uncertain. Create complications that would delay his timeline long enough for Peach to escape.
The morning passed in tense observation. Joe left around eleven, heading back downtown—to Mooney's, probably, to maintain his cover as a normal person with a normal life.
As soon as he was gone, I approached Peach's building.
The doorman was an older man, professionally friendly. "Can I help you?"
"I'm a friend of Ms. Salinger's," I said. "Is she in?"
"I can call up. Name?"
"Fin Coulson."
He picked up the phone, dialed, waited. "Ms. Salinger? A Fin Coulson here to see you." Pause. "Yes, ma'am. I'll send him up."
He pointed toward the elevator. "Fifth floor."
Peach opened the door in expensive loungewear, looking surprised but not unhappy to see me.
"Fin. I thought we were doing Saturday."
"We are. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. Hope that's not too weird."
She studied me for a moment, then stepped back. "Come in. I could use the distraction."
Her apartment was exactly what I'd expected—old money elegance, careful curation, the kind of space that spoke of generations of accumulated wealth. Art on the walls, antique furniture, views of Central Park that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries.
"Coffee?" she offered.
"Please."
While she prepared it, I cataloged the apartment's layout. The windows facing the street—Joe's surveillance angle. The fire escape access—potential entry point. The doorman building—first line of defense.
Peach had good security. But Joe was patient. If he wanted to get to her, he'd find a way.
"So," she said, handing me a cup. "What brings you to my neighborhood?"
"Honestly? I've been thinking about what you said at the party. About Joe."
"And?"
"And I think you should be careful."
Her eyes sharpened. "Why?"
I chose my words carefully. "I've been around Beck's orbit for a few months now. I've seen how Joe operates. The charm, the perfect answers, the way everyone loves him." I paused. "It's too smooth. Real people have rough edges."
Peach set down her cup. "You've noticed too."
"Hard not to, once you start looking."
"Beck doesn't see it. None of them do."
"Beck's in love. Love makes people blind to what they don't want to see."
Peach nodded slowly. "I'm flying to LA tomorrow. There's someone I need to meet. Someone who might have answers."
Candace.
"Be careful," I said. "If Joe is what we think he is, he won't take kindly to being exposed."
"I can handle myself."
"I'm sure you can. But watch your back anyway. And maybe vary your routine until you leave. Don't be predictable."
She studied me with new intensity. "You know something."
"I know the type. I've seen what they're capable of." Not a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth.
"Thank you for the warning."
"That's what friends are for."
I finished my coffee and stood. "I should go. But text me if you need anything. I mean it."
Peach walked me to the door. "Saturday still?"
"If you're back."
"I'll be back. With answers."
I stepped into the hallway, heard the door close behind me, and exhaled slowly.
One day until Peach flew to LA. One day of vulnerability.
I'd spend every hour of it watching Joe, making sure he didn't get his window.
The elevator carried me back to the lobby. The doorman nodded as I passed. Outside, the city continued its indifferent bustle—people moving, cars honking, the endless energy of New York oblivious to the drama playing out in its wealthy corners.
Tomorrow, Peach would fly to Los Angeles. Tomorrow, she'd meet the ghost who knew all of Joe's secrets.
Tonight, I'd make sure she lived long enough to get there.
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