Chapter 27: Threat Assessment
The Detection hit before I even reached Peach's block.
Cold. Focused. Patient. The particular flavor of Joe's hunting attention, unmistakable after weeks of surveillance. He was in predator mode, evaluating a target, running calculations about timing and opportunity.
I slowed my approach, staying on the opposite side of the street, Social Invisibility pulled tight around me like armor. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my pace casual. Just another New Yorker walking home.
Joe stood in the shadow of a townhouse three doors down from Peach's building. His attention was fixed on her entrance—the ornate door, the uniformed doorman, the security cameras positioned above the awning.
He was casing the location.
My stomach dropped.
I found a position at a corner café that gave me sightlines without direct exposure. The barista was closing up, but I bought a coffee I didn't want and took the last outdoor seat.
Joe stayed in his shadow for two hours.
During that time, he noted every detail I could have predicted: the doorman's shift change at 10 PM, the pattern of residents coming and going, which apartments had lights on versus dark. His phone came out occasionally—photographs, probably, or notes in some app.
The Detection never wavered. Cold and calculating, the evaluation phase before action.
Peach had graduated from annoyance to threat.
Her PI investigation had pushed too hard, asked too many questions, gotten too close to Joe's real history. The confrontation with Beck might have failed to turn Beck against Joe, but it had succeeded in one way: it had proven to Joe that Peach would keep digging.
Keep digging meant keep threatening.
And Joe eliminated threats.
Around 11 PM, a light came on in what I assumed was Peach's apartment—fifth floor, corner unit, the kind of real estate that cost more than most people made in years.
Joe's attention sharpened. He watched the window for fifteen minutes, tracking movement behind the curtains. Then he pulled out his phone, typed something, and slipped it back in his pocket.
Research, probably. Peach's routine. Her schedule. When she was alone, when she had visitors, when she was vulnerable.
The playbook I'd watched him run on Beck was starting again. Different target, different endgame, but the same methodical approach.
Observe. Learn. Wait. Strike.
I needed to disrupt the pattern before it reached its conclusion.
Joe finally left around midnight.
He walked toward the subway with the satisfied pace of someone who'd accomplished what they set out to do. First reconnaissance complete. He'd be back—tomorrow, or the day after, or whenever he needed more data—until he had enough to act.
I stayed on my bench for another twenty minutes, making sure he was truly gone, then started walking in the opposite direction.
My legs felt heavy. I'd been awake for nearly twenty hours—the morning spent on Candace research, the afternoon dealing with Greta's messages, the evening tracking Joe across the city. The energy drink I'd bought somewhere around hour fifteen was wearing off, leaving nothing but jittery exhaustion.
The city felt hostile in a way it hadn't before. Every shadow could hide Joe. Every stranger could be a complication. Every decision I made could be the one that cost someone their life.
This is what you signed up for.
The thought didn't help.
I found an all-night diner and ordered breakfast at 1 AM. Eggs, toast, coffee. The waitress didn't blink at my haggard appearance—she'd seen worse at this hour.
The food hit my empty stomach like a gift. I ate mechanically, mind racing through contingencies.
LA was off the table. I couldn't leave New York with Peach in Joe's crosshairs. Even a few days away could be enough time for him to act—and if Peach died while I was on a bus to California, I'd weaken. Possibly critically.
But Candace was still the key. Candace had evidence, testimony, firsthand experience of what Joe was capable of. If I could reach her, convince her to come forward, get her story in front of people who could act on it...
The math didn't work.
I needed to be in two places at once, and I only had one body.
The solution hit me somewhere between my third cup of coffee and the waitress's pitying look at my fourth refill.
I couldn't go to Candace. But I could accelerate Peach's investigation instead.
Peach's PI was still digging. They'd found gaps in Joe's history, suspicious patterns, smoke that suggested fire. If I fed them information—anonymously, carefully—they might find Candace on their own.
Better yet, if Peach found evidence and went public with it, Joe couldn't kill her quietly. Visibility was protection. A dead investigator looked like murder; a living investigator with documented suspicions looked like proof.
I needed to make Peach's work undeniable before Joe decided she was deniable.
Back at my apartment, I pulled up my files on Peach's PI firm.
Blackwell & Associates. Mid-tier private investigation, mostly corporate work, but with a sideline in personal cases for wealthy clients. Their email security was decent but not impenetrable—the same vulnerability I'd exploited to read Peach's correspondence still existed.
I composed a message carefully.
Re: Joseph Goldberg Investigation
You might want to look into a woman named Candace Stone. Previous relationship with subject, approximately 2 years ago. She disappeared from New York suddenly—social media went dark, friends lost contact. Rumored to have relocated to LA. Her story might be relevant to your current case.
A friend
Unsigned. Untraceable. Just enough information to point them in the right direction.
I scheduled the email to send from a VPN-routed temporary address, timing it for the PI's normal business hours. They'd receive it in the morning, think it was from someone with inside knowledge, and hopefully start digging.
If they found Candace, everything changed.
If they didn't, at least I'd tried.
The second email went to Peach directly.
This one was riskier. Peach was already paranoid, already convinced that something was wrong with Joe. An anonymous message might spook her into action—or might make her think Joe was trying to trap her somehow.
I wrote and rewrote the text six times before settling on something simple.
Your instincts about JG are correct. Look into his history before Mooney's. Look into a woman named Candace Stone. Be careful—he knows you're investigating. Don't be alone with him.
Direct. Urgent. The kind of message that would either accelerate Peach's investigation or make her double down on security.
Either outcome helped.
I scheduled this one for a different time, different routing, different everything. Nothing that could connect the two messages or trace back to me.
Then I sat in the dark of my apartment and tried to calculate how many plates I could keep spinning before one shattered.
The exhaustion finally won around 3 AM.
I collapsed on my bed without undressing, mind still churning through scenarios. Joe casing Peach's building. Candace somewhere in LA, possibly receiving Greta's message about an old friend trying to reconnect. Beck sleeping peacefully in Joe's arms, believing his lies.
The workshop was in two days. I needed to maintain that cover, keep building Beck's trust, stay visible in her life as a safe alternative. But the investigation was accelerating too fast, and my body had limits that my mission didn't care about.
Sleep came in fragments—disturbed by dreams of Peach's building, of Joe's cold focus, of Candace's face from those old photos. I woke twice, sweating, heart racing, certain I'd missed something crucial.
The third time I woke, dawn light was creeping through the windows.
Morning brought clarity.
I showered, changed clothes, made coffee strong enough to restart my brain. Then I sat at my laptop and reviewed the previous day's decisions.
The emails would send in a few hours. Peach's PI would get the Candace lead. Peach herself would get the warning. Either they'd act on the information or they wouldn't—I couldn't control their choices, only provide the tools.
Meanwhile, Joe would continue his reconnaissance. He'd return to Peach's building today or tomorrow, gathering more data, refining his plan. I needed to track that, document it, prepare countermeasures.
And Beck was still the primary target. Whatever happened with Peach, whatever happened with Candace, breaking Joe's obsession with Beck remained the mission. Everything else was just tactics.
I opened my notebook and started a new list.
Priority actions: 1. Monitor PI response to Candace tip 2. Track Joe's movements (especially UES) 3. Workshop Thursday — maintain Beck cover 4. Watch for Greta follow-up re: Candace 5. Prepare emergency intervention if Joe moves on Peach
Five threads. Maybe more than I could handle. Definitely more than any sane person would attempt.
But I wasn't exactly sane anymore. Sanity was for people who hadn't woken up in dead men's bodies with cosmic missions burned into their consciousness.
I finished my coffee and grabbed my jacket.
Time to get back to work.
The surveillance that day confirmed my worst fears.
Joe returned to Peach's neighborhood at 2 PM, using a different approach route, wearing clothes I hadn't seen before. He was varying his pattern, making himself harder to track—the behavior of someone who knew what he was doing.
He watched from a coffee shop this time, laptop open, the perfect image of someone working remotely while conveniently having a sightline to Peach's building entrance.
The Detection radiated the same cold calculation as before. No hesitation, no doubt. Joe had decided Peach needed to be eliminated, and now he was just working out the logistics.
I sat in a park across the street, pretending to read, watching Joe watch Peach's building.
Two killers. Two obsessions. One city.
And me in the middle, trying to keep everyone alive long enough to find a solution that might not exist.
The anonymous emails had sent by now. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, the PI would start looking into Candace Stone. Peach would receive her warning.
Whether any of it would be enough remained to be seen.
But the clock was ticking.
And Joe Goldberg didn't like waiting.
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