Chapter 28: The Push
The emails had sent six hours ago.
I sat at my laptop, refreshing Peach's hacked inbox every fifteen minutes, waiting for the ripple effects to appear. The anonymous tips were out in the world now—one to the PI, one to Peach directly. Either they'd produce results or they'd vanish into the digital noise.
Outside my window, the city moved through its afternoon rhythms. Traffic, pedestrians, the endless churn of people who didn't know a killer walked among them. I'd become one of those people who watched rather than participated—a ghost haunting the edges of other people's lives.
My coffee had gone cold twice. I kept forgetting to drink it.
At 2:47 PM, Peach's inbox showed a new message.
From: Blackwell & Associates Subject: Re: Goldberg Investigation - New Lead
Ms. Salinger,
We received an anonymous tip this morning regarding your ongoing investigation. The tipster mentioned a name: Candace Stone, with dates suggesting a relationship with the subject approximately 2016-2017.
We've begun preliminary research and have already found social media traces matching the description. The trail goes cold around the time your subject's verifiable history begins—suggesting a possible connection.
This appears to be a legitimate lead. Do you wish us to pursue?
Regards, Blackwell & Associates
I exhaled slowly. The tip had landed. The PI was taking it seriously.
Peach's reply came eleven minutes later.
Pay whatever it costs. Find her. I want everything—where she is now, what happened to her, why she disappeared. This is priority one.
P.S.
The investigation was accelerating. Exactly what I'd wanted.
But acceleration cut both ways.
I spent the rest of the afternoon monitoring both feeds—Peach's email and Joe's movements through the location tracker I'd set up.
Joe went to Mooney's at his usual time, worked his usual shift, maintained his usual patterns. Normal enough to be invisible. But the Detection had shown me what he was planning, and normal patterns were just camouflage for a predator waiting to strike.
Peach, meanwhile, was in a flurry of communication. She'd forwarded the PI's update to two other email addresses—her lawyer and someone named "Helena" who appeared to be an old family friend. Building a paper trail, maybe. Making sure someone knew what she was investigating in case something happened to her.
Smart. Not smart enough to save her if Joe decided to move, but smart.
The dominoes were lined up. PI searching for Candace. Peach pushing for results. Joe planning elimination. And me, sitting in the middle, trying to make sure the right domino fell first.
My apartment was a disaster.
I hadn't noticed until I stood up to stretch and nearly tripped over a pile of takeout containers. Thai from three days ago. Pizza from two days ago. Chinese from yesterday. The accumulated debris of someone who'd stopped taking care of themselves.
You can't save anyone if you collapse.
The thought felt like something the original Fin Coulson might have thought. Practical advice from a dead man whose body I was slowly running into the ground.
I spent an hour cleaning. Threw away the containers, wiped down surfaces, opened windows to air out the staleness. The apartment looked almost livable when I finished—still sparse, still temporary, but at least not actively depressing.
Small controls. The mission was chaos, but the apartment could be clean.
That evening, I returned to Joe's neighborhood for surveillance.
He was home, light on in his window, doing whatever Joe did when he wasn't stalking or killing. Reading, probably. He liked books the way other people liked breathing—constantly, automatically, as essential to his existence as food or water.
The Count of Monte Cristo sat on my nightstand at home, still unfinished. I'd been too busy watching Joe to finish reading his gift. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Paco wasn't on the fire escape tonight. The apartment next to Joe's—Ron and Claudia's former space—was dark. They'd moved, probably. Claudia taking her son somewhere safer, somewhere with no memories of violence attached to the walls.
Another small victory. Another life I'd changed without being seen.
The Detection showed Joe's energy as stable. Not hunting-cold, not frustrated-cold. Just... present. He was waiting for something—probably data on Peach's routine, probably the right moment to strike.
Predators were patient. That was what made them dangerous.
But I was patient too.
The next morning brought new developments.
Peach's PI had made progress overnight—the email arrived at 8:15 AM, timestamped from three hours earlier.
Ms. Salinger,
Quick update: We've confirmed Candace Stone is a real person who matches the profile. Found archived social media showing her in photos with your subject during the timeframe mentioned. Her accounts went inactive approximately 23 months ago, coinciding with when your subject's verifiable history begins.
We're currently tracing her whereabouts. Preliminary indications suggest she relocated to the Los Angeles area, though we haven't confirmed current address yet.
Will update as we learn more.
Regards, Blackwell & Associates
Los Angeles. The same city Greta had mentioned, the same direction my own research had pointed. The PI was confirming what I already suspected—Candace had fled across the country to escape whatever Joe had done to her.
Peach's reply was immediate: Keep pushing. I need proof before I can do anything. Find her.
The net was tightening. Slowly, invisibly, but tightening.
Now I just had to keep everyone alive long enough for it to close.
Beck texted around noon.
Hey! Annika's having people over Saturday night. Nothing fancy, just drinks and catching up. Want to come? Would love for you to meet everyone properly.
The invitation was unexpected. I'd been a peripheral presence in Beck's life—workshop friend, occasional confidant, safe ear for relationship drama. Being invited to her actual friend group felt like a step closer to the center.
Closer to Beck meant closer to useful. But it also meant closer to Peach, who would be there, and closer to dynamics I couldn't fully control.
Would love to, I replied. What time?
8ish. I'll text you the address. And thanks—it means a lot that you'll meet my people.
Her people. The friends she'd had since college, the circle Joe was gradually isolating her from. Peach would be there, probably still fighting to warn Beck about Joe. Annika and Lynn would be there, probably wishing everyone would just get along.
I'd be there, wearing a dead man's face, playing a role I'd invented from whole cloth, gathering intelligence on everyone while pretending to be harmless.
The mission required things I wasn't proud of. But it required them nonetheless.
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