Chapter 10: Breakup
Beck's face told the whole story through the window.
Confusion first—the slight tilt of her head, the smile that expected something different. Then the smile fading as Benji kept talking. Her hand reaching for her wine glass, stopping halfway, returning to her lap.
Hurt came next. The micro-expressions of someone absorbing a blow they didn't see coming. Her eyes dropped to the table, then back to Benji's face, searching for something that wasn't there.
Benji talked with his hands. Explaining, probably. Justifying. The LA opportunity, the fresh start, the timing that "just made sense." I couldn't hear the words, but I knew the script. I'd helped write it.
Beck didn't cry. That was the worst part. She went still instead—the dangerous quiet of someone processing too much to speak. Her wine sat untouched. Her posture shifted from open to closed, arms crossing, shoulders turning slightly away.
When she finally spoke, it was brief. A few sentences at most. Benji nodded, looking relieved that she wasn't making a scene. He reached for the check.
Beck stood before he could pay. Grabbed her purse, said something short, walked toward the door without looking back.
She passed my bench without seeing me. Phone already in hand, probably texting Peach or one of the others. Her heels clicked against the sidewalk, fast and angry, disappearing around the corner.
Inside the bar, Benji sat alone with his drink, staring at nothing. He didn't look guilty. He looked lighter. The weight of a dying relationship lifted, replaced by the excitement of what came next.
You're welcome, I thought. You'll never know how close you came.
Movement across the street.
Joe emerged from the shadow of an awning, watching Benji through the window. The Detection pulsed cold—but different than before. Not the hunting-focus of the past weeks. Something else.
Satisfaction.
Joe watched Benji finish his drink, pay the tab, leave the bar. He didn't follow. Didn't need to. The obstacle had removed itself.
Instead, Joe turned and walked in the direction Beck had gone.
Not chasing—just orienting. Recalculating. His body language read like someone adjusting a plan, not abandoning one.
My stomach dropped.
I'd removed the obstacle. Cleared Joe's path. Made everything easier for him.
Shit.
I followed Joe for another hour. He didn't approach Beck—too soon, too obvious. Instead, he circled her neighborhood, checking her window, confirming she was home. Then he walked to his own apartment, whistling softly.
The Detection never spiked toward violence. Joe wasn't frustrated. He was pleased.
Beck was single now. Vulnerable. Freshly wounded and looking for comfort.
Joe could be that comfort.
I found a bench in a small park and sat until my legs stopped shaking.
The math was wrong. I'd prevented Benji's murder, but I hadn't broken anything. Joe's obsession with Beck remained intact—stronger now, probably, with nothing standing between them.
Break his obsessions, grow stronger.
The cosmic message had been specific. Breaking obsession meant power. Stopping kills didn't.
I'd won a battle and lost ground in the war.
The apartment was dark when I got home. I didn't bother with lights.
The beer in my fridge was the same six-pack I'd bought a week ago. I cracked one open and drank it standing at the window, watching the city lights.
Benji would live. That was something. A man who didn't know my name would see another birthday, start a new life in California, maybe even find someone who deserved his half-assed attention.
But Beck was more exposed than ever. Joe would make his move soon—probably already planning the "coincidental" meeting, the thoughtful gesture, the slow seduction that would trap her.
And I still hadn't spoken to her once.
The beer was flat. Probably sat in the bodega cooler too long. I drank it anyway, cataloging failures and half-victories.
Benji alive: win. Beck safer: unclear. Power boost: none. Joe stopped: no.
One out of four. Barely passing.
I finished the beer and crushed the can. Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to actually break the obsession. Tonight, I needed to accept that saving one life wasn't the same as winning.
The war had barely started.
Three days later, Benji texted.
LA deal closing. Flying out Tuesday to sign papers. Moving by end of month. Thanks for the push man—you changed my life.
I read it twice. Didn't respond.
The words should have felt like victory. Instead, they felt like a receipt for services rendered. Transaction complete. One human life preserved through manipulation and misdirection.
Is this what it's going to be like? Moving pieces around a board, never knowing if the game was actually winnable?
I deleted the text and opened my browser.
Joe's social media was sparse but useful. He'd posted a photo of a book display—subtle, curated, the kind of thing that signaled taste without demanding attention. The comments were generic: nice, great selection, love that title.
Beck had liked the post.
She was already in his orbit. Already responding to signals he'd carefully planted.
I scrolled through Beck's recent activity. Instagram stories about writing, coffee, her "complicated week." A cryptic post about "endings and beginnings" that probably referenced the breakup.
And—there. Three hours ago.
A photo of a book. The specific edition Joe had "saved" at Mooney's. Caption: New favorite, courtesy of a bookstore recommendation.
She'd already been to Mooney's. Already met Joe.
I was behind.
The next morning, I stationed myself outside Mooney's by eight. Joe arrived at nine-fifteen, earlier than usual. His walk had a purpose to it—excited energy barely contained.
He was expecting something. Or someone.
Beck appeared at ten-forty-two.
She walked into the bookstore with the tentative confidence of someone returning to a place they'd enjoyed. The Detection flared cold the moment Joe spotted her through the window. He moved toward the door with casual precision, timing his approach perfectly.
I couldn't hear them from outside. But I could read the choreography.
Joe offered help. Beck smiled, mentioned something that made him laugh. He led her toward a shelf, close but not crowding, attentive but not aggressive.
They talked for twenty minutes.
I counted every one, watching through gaps in the window display. Joe's body language was a masterclass in manufactured intimacy. The slight lean forward. The eye contact held just long enough. The way he touched his own face when she spoke, mirroring her gestures unconsciously.
Beck didn't stand a chance. Nobody would. Joe had practiced this routine for years—decades, maybe. Every move calibrated to build trust, to create the illusion of connection.
When Beck pulled out her phone and handed it to Joe—letting him type in his number—my hands tightened on the bench armrest.
Too late. He had her number. Had her attention. Had everything he needed to begin the slow construction of a relationship she'd never escape.
Beck left the store smiling, phone clutched like something precious.
Joe watched her go. The customer-service warmth drained from his face the moment she turned the corner, replaced by something colder. Calculating.
He'd won this round. And I'd watched it happen.
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