CHAPTER 150 - THE SURVEILLANCE

CHAPTER 150 - THE SURVEILLANCE

Bella's POV

I had been trying to breathe like a normal person. It did not take.

"Are you almost outside?" Alex asked when I picked up.

"I am," I said. My hands were still wet from wiping a plate. "Roberto is telling me a story about the oven."

"Leave now," he said. Short. Not angry. Sharp. "Do not walk down the front. Take the back. Drive straight home."

"I will," I lied. I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to tell him I would not listen to orders that made my father worry. I wanted everything and none of it. My voice came out small. "Okay."

I grabbed my coat. The kitchen smelled like garlic and fried onions. Roberto was humming. Diego was in the corner on his phone. Victoria was a word that tasted like metal in my mouth. I told myself I was being careful. I told myself that was enough.

Outside, the night air hit my face and it felt like someone had opened a window inside my chest. Two steps and I saw the van. At first I thought it was delivery. Then I saw the lens poking from the passenger window like a black eye.

My mouth went dry.

"Sir?" a voice said behind me. Cal. He had been sent, like a shadow. He looked big and tired and very serious. "We were told to meet you here."

"I told you to stay," I said. "What are you doing outside a restaurant at midnight?"

"No questions," he said. "Get in the car."

"I can walk," I said. I tried to be brave. I failed.

"Not tonight." He reached for my arm. His fingers were firm, not soft. "Now."

I did not offer resistance. My key was in my hand. The van was idling two cars down. The lens followed me like a hungry thing. I could feel it even when I could not see it. My phone beeped with Alex's name. He said, "Where are you."

"Outside Martinez," I said. "There is a van."

"Do not get in your car," he said. "Drive to the florist. Wait there."

"The florist?" I said. "Why the florist?"

"Because you will be easy to find at home," he said. "The florist is a safer public place for now."

"Okay," I said. My brain had stopped and then started again. "I will go."

The man in the van laughed. Not a big laugh. A small one. It stung. He said, "Hey, lady, this is public property. I am on a job."

"What job?" I asked. My voice sounded like a child.

He said, "Street photography. People, life, moments."

"Not mine," I said.

He shrugged and clicked the shutter. Click. The sound cut like a small knife.

Cal stepped in front of me. "Hands off the camera," he said. "You are filming a private citizen. Back up and leave."

The man in the van showed a card. Frayed edges. Freelance. No agency. He said, "I have a right to be here."

"You are interfering," Cal said. "Step out. Put the camera down."

"Who are you to tell me that?" the man said. He sounded like a man who was used to arguing. He looked young enough to have nothing left to lose.

I felt suddenly very small and very old. "Please," I said. "Just stop."

He tilted the lens and for the first time I saw his face. Narrow nose. Tiny scar near the eyebrow. He looked like a man who had learned to go invisible.

"I am not doing anything wrong," he said.

Cal moved so fast my stomach jolted. He was beside the van in a second, his hand firm on the camera strap. "Memory card," he said. "Turn it over."

"Get your hands off," the man said. He tried to pull the camera back.

"Police will be called," Cal said, like a statement not a threat.

The man hesitated. His fingers shook. A radio crackled from the van and I heard someone I could not see say a name. The tiny light on the lens blinked like an eye.

Alex was on the phone again. "Did they detain him?" he asked.

"Not yet," Cal said. "He handed the card. He says he is freelance."

"Copy it," Alex said. "Copy everything. Send it to legal."

The man handed the card to Cal. He watched us like he might run. He tried to say something about public property and art and the rights of creators. My head pounded. I thought of pigment tests and spectrometers and the kind of men who made a job out of watching.

"Do you have anyone paying you?" I asked the man before I could stop myself.

He looked at me. "Not a name," he said. "Just someone with an app. Someone who pays for images."

There was silence like an animal. "Do you know who?" I pushed.

He shook his head. "No. I just take pictures and they move on."

"Then you are small," I said. "Like a pebble."

He blinked. He had not expected me to speak like that. He said, "You look like you are part of a story."

"Not a story I want told," I said.

Cal moved me to the town car. He closed the door and I watched the van drive away, slow and deliberate. The lens was dark, like a pupil closing. My hands trembled even with the seatbelt tight. My phone buzzed. Sandra sent a message. There had been another upload. A second photographer had been sighted near the penthouse. Near Alex.

My breath stopped for a second that felt like forever. "What now?" I asked.

"Now," Cal said, "we change the script. Different routes. Different times. No patterns."

"That is harder than it sounds," I said. I thought of the schedule I had with Roberto, the dinners and the smallness of our life. Patterns were how we survived.

"Do it," Alex said over the phone. He had been listening. "I will have surveillance sweep the block. Go home. Stay inside."

"Home," I repeated. The idea felt dangerous and safe all at once. "Okay."

When the car pulled up outside our street I saw a shape on the curb. It was dark and still. It looked like a car. It looked like a rock.

Cal turned off the engine. "Stay inside until I knock."

I looked at the house and at the dark car. My chest crumpled into something sharp. My keys waited in my hand like a question.

Someone stepped out of the dark car and I thought I recognized the way they moved. But the night swallowed shapes easy. I felt small and loud.

My phone screen flashed with one last message. No name. One line.

We are watching both of you.