Chapter 18 THE SEDAN
\[ETHAN POV\]
I noticed someone has been tracking my steps.
I spotted it three days back.
A vehicle. Black four-door. The exact model I spotted at my building. Close to the café. By the library.
Still far away. Not at all.
But always there.
I'm not worried.
Just curious.
I’m working out right now. The time is early - seven on the dot. A bunch of folks haven’t even woken up yet.
I enjoy mornings - there’s more peace. Not so many folks around. Plus, everything feels quieter.
I’m walking on the machine. Moving slowly. Glancing at the exit in the glass.
The car’s sitting on the other side of the road. Noticed it right away when I walked up.
Whoever this person might be, they don't rush. They stay calm while waiting.
That's good.
That shows they’ve got sense.
I finish my run - then wipe down the machine. After that, I grab my bag.
Walk out.
The car’s just sitting there.
I ignore it. Then hop into my ride. Fire up the motor.
Drive.
I head home the slow route - quiet roads, instead of the main ones. Through neighborhoods where people live. Not rushing, just moving.
The sedan comes next, staying behind a couple of vehicles - calm, focused.
I go left. After that, a turn to the right. Next up - left one more time.
Still there.
I smile.
This is interesting.
I swing into a parking garage, then head up to the third floor. I find a spot there but don't stay put - just shut off the engine. Wheels stop rolling once it's parked.
Shut down the motor.
Wait.
Two minutes pass, then the car shows up. It stops a few spaces off.
Stays running instead of shutting down.
I stay put. Just sitting. No motion at all.
They just stay put. Without shifting at all.
We wait.
Five minutes pass.
After that, I step outside.
Head over to the four-door car.
The engine fires up. But the tires scream loudly. So they back off quick. Then vanish down the road.
Gone.
I stay put. Just looking.
Few bites left on the dish.
That's enough.
I reach home about nine o’clock.
Aria’s gone now - left earlier than usual.
She’s doing it these days - out the door before I open my eyes. By the time I’m up, she’s already gone. Shows up way after dark.
Avoids me.
She’s searching. That much I get.
Good.
Let her look.
I head into my room. Then plop down by the table.
Pull up the DMV records. Use the partial plate to search.
Three games. Each one is a black four-door car.
I pick the first option.
James Reynolds lives at 1247 Ashford Street.
The journalist.
I lean back.
That’s the one trailing behind me.
Interesting.
I check his details. Then head to the address. His phone number’s next. Meanwhile, I scroll through his socials.
He’s put out plenty of true crime stuff, tales about serial killers, and cold cases now and then.
I tap one of his pieces - The Oregon Killer: A Look Inside.
Read it.
He’s solid - really thorough. Gets how people think, so that helps. Also sharp when it comes to motives.
Too much.
I scroll down to the bottom. Then I spot something odd - it makes me pause.
The murderer probably keeps working under another name. Not that these habits end - no, they shift instead.
I shut the lid.
Stand up.
Head over to the window.
He knows.
Some things - just not all. Still, plenty.
Michael Cordero caught on - same reason he’s gone. One clue led him too far, so they stopped him cold.
Yet James isn't like the rest.
He isn’t aiming to block my way.
He's studying me.
I notice it in how he moves behind. Not too close, never rushing. Like he’s waiting for a sign.
He isn't chasing after me.
He's watching me.
Why?
I brew coffee. Then I take a seat by the window. While it cools, I check my notes. After that, I sip slowly.
Consider your next move.
I could quit. Vanish overnight. Begin fresh - somewhere nobody knows my name.
But I really don’t feel like it.
I enjoy this place. Besides that, Aria’s cool. Also, the tale I’m putting together feels right.
James Reynolds? Just one more piece of the puzzle.
Factors might be managed.
Or eliminated.
I grab my phone. Then message Aria.
Grabbing a bite with my agent this afternoon. Should return by three-ish. How about I grab some food while out?
Three dots appear.
Sure. Thanks.
Short. Cold.
She's pulling away.
That's fine.
That’s just one piece of how things went down.
I sip the last of my coffee. Then head back to the room where I work.
Open my notebook.
Write:
New issue. James Reynolds - reporter. He’s been tracking my moves lately. Uses different cars, watches from a distance. Says things he couldn’t possibly know unless someone tipped him off.
Options:
1\. Let it go. Watch his next move.
2\. Face him. Then see what he's after - maybe through asking, maybe by watching.
3\. Eliminate. Clean. Simple.
I look at the paper.
Choice number three? Way simpler.
But too obvious.
If he vanishes right now, folks might wonder - Aria especially.
Second choice? It’s dicey. He could save it - maybe even keep a copy somewhere.
Choice number one makes the most sense.
Let him look. Or maybe let him believe he’s running things.
Once the moment comes, I’ll act.
I shut the book.
Pick up a sheet of paper.
Start folding.
This one feels new. Not just darker - way more intense.
Black paper - crisp folds. Rigid edges shape the form.
A crow.
Not a crane.
Crows think better. Also, they’re tougher.
Like James.
I placed it by my side.
Look at it.
After that, I get on my feet.
Head over to the closet.
Take out my black jacket - then grab the cap.
Put them on.
Check yourself out.
Dark. Anonymous.
Just a single person among many.
I pull them off - then slide them on again.
James’s been tailing me while wearing that outfit. I’ve come across the pictures.
He believes he’s fitting right in.
He's not.
I notice everything.
I head out of the apartment around midday. Then I take the car to see my agent.
Look behind using the mirror inside your car.
No sedan.
He isn't keeping up right now.
Interesting.
Perhaps he’s keeping an eye on the place now.
Perhaps he’s up to something different.
I park near the center. Then head straight to the place.
My agent’s already up there, just beside the glass. Grinning now. She’s been waiting a while, yet didn’t say much.
"Ethan! Good to see you."
"You too."
We take a seat. Then we place our order. After that, we chat about the latest draft.
"How's it coming?" she asks.
"Almost done."
"Same timeline? Two months?"
"Less. Three weeks maybe."
"That's fast."
"I'm motivated."
She laughs.
"Well, your readers will be happy. They've been asking for the next one."
"Good."
We eat, then she brings up a book event coming up next month - talk turns to work stuff along the way.
"Lighthouse Books again?" I ask.
"No. Different venue. West End Gallery. Bigger space. We're expecting two hundred people."
"Sounds good."
"And there's interest in a film adaptation. For The Ninth Sin."
I stop eating.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Small production company. Independent. They want to meet next week."
"Alright."
"You don't sound excited."
"I am. Just surprised."
She smiles.
"You deserve it. Your work is incredible."
"Thanks."
We’re done eating. Then she covers the bill. After that, we head outside.
"Take care, Ethan. Let me know when the manuscript's done."
"I will."
She leaves.
I'm standing by the road. Checking what's nearby.
Still no sedan.
I head toward my vehicle. Then climb inside.
Drive home.
Aria hasn't returned just now.
I head to my room. Then I take a seat.
Open my laptop.
Look up James Reynolds one more time.
Track down his sibling’s page. She’s the younger one. It's about an hour's drive off. Her job? Teaching kids.
She keeps her profile open. Loads of pictures show up. Mostly family moments. Then there are pals hanging around.
James shows up in some. Usually hanging back. Not grinning at all.
I tap a random one.
Last Christmas. The family got together. James stayed near the window, arms folded. He just looked on while others moved around. Instead of joining in, he kept quiet, watching it all unfold.
He looks uncomfortable.
As if he’s out of place.
I shut the lid.
Think about that.
James Reynolds - reporter by trade. He’s fixated on murderers, truth be told. One might say it consumes him.
Cold. Detached.
Chasing after me nonstop for days on end.
He's not normal.
Regular folks wouldn't act like that.
Folks usually ring up cops. They speak out about what they think. Keep their distance instead.
James keeps an eye out. He’s jotting things down. Picking up patterns.
Why?
What's on his mind?
I flip back to my notebook.
Write:
James Reynolds isn’t out to block me - he wants to get where I’m coming from. Instead of shutting me down, he’s listening really closely.
He's risky because of that.
But also useful.
I shut the book.
Stand up.
Go on over to the window.
Check what's happening outside on the road.
The sedan’s here again. It’s sitting three streets over.
I smile.
Welcome back, James.
Guess we'll find out just how tough you really are.