Chapter 14: The Date
The restaurant was called Lavigne. French-Italian fusion, intimate lighting, prices that assumed expense accounts.
I secured a table near the window two hours before Joe's reservation—told the hostess I was waiting for a friend who was running late, ordered appetizers I had no intention of eating, and settled in with a book I wouldn't read.
Joe and Beck arrived at seven forty-five.
He held the door for her. Helped her with her jacket. The perfect gentleman, every gesture calibrated for maximum effect. Beck was wearing something nicer than her usual style—effort had been made, expectations raised.
They took a booth across the restaurant from my position. Close enough to observe, far enough that my presence wouldn't register. The Detection hummed cold against my awareness, steady and patient.
Joe ordered wine without looking at the menu. Beck raised an eyebrow.
"I may have done some research," he admitted, sheepish smile in place. "You mentioned liking Montepulciano on your Instagram. Hope that's okay."
"You stalked my social media?"
"Research," he corrected. "I wanted tonight to be perfect."
She laughed, charmed by what should have been a red flag. Joe had framed invasion as consideration. Every detail of her life he'd stolen became evidence of how much he cared.
The wine arrived. They clinked glasses. Beck took a sip and her expression said the selection was exactly right.
Because Joe knew. Joe always knew. He'd studied her preferences, her history, her weaknesses. Nothing about this date was spontaneous.
I focused my Detection, pushing past the surface read.
Joe's exterior registered warm. Engaged. Interested. The perfect first-date energy—nervous enough to seem human, confident enough to seem desirable. His body language mirrored Beck's unconsciously, building rapport through physical synchronization.
But underneath...
Cold. Patient. Possessive.
The two layers existed simultaneously, like oil and water that refused to mix. Joe wasn't pretending to enjoy himself—he genuinely was. The predator and the romantic occupied the same mind without conflict.
He believed he loved her. The belief was sincere. And it made him more dangerous than any simple monster.
I watched him tell a story about his childhood—something about books saving him from a difficult home life. Beck's expression softened. She reached across the table and touched his hand.
Connection established. Trust being built. The trap closing so gently she couldn't feel the teeth.
The main course arrived. Joe had ordered for both of them—another red flag disguised as thoughtfulness. Beck didn't seem to mind. She laughed at something he said, leaned in closer, her body angling toward his.
I pushed my own food around the plate, appetite gone.
This was what I was fighting against. Not just violence, but seduction. Joe's ability to make captivity feel like love. By the time Beck understood what she'd walked into, the cage would already be built.
My phone buzzed. Text from Lisa: You missed a great night! Derek did karaoke. It was tragic.
I typed back something noncommittal, one eye still on Joe's booth.
They were sharing a dessert now. One spoon, passing back and forth. Intimate. Joe said something that made Beck blush. She covered her face with her hand, laughing.
The Detection never wavered. Cold underneath, warm on top. Two truths that shouldn't coexist but did.
At ten-fifteen, Joe paid the check with cash. Untraceable. No credit card record of the date location.
They walked out arm in arm. I waited three minutes, left enough money on my table to cover the bill and a generous tip, and followed at distance.
Joe's route to Beck's apartment was direct but slow. He wasn't in a hurry. Savoring the night, the proximity, the feeling of ownership beginning to solidify.
They stopped at her building's entrance. Beck turned to face him, backlit by the lobby light.
"I had a really good time," she said.
"Me too."
The kiss was gentle. Respectful. Nothing that would scare her off. Joe's hands stayed appropriately placed—her waist, her shoulder. Not pushing, not demanding.
When they separated, Beck's smile was wide and genuine. She liked him. Really liked him.
"Text me when you get home?" she asked.
"Of course."
She disappeared into the building. Joe stood on the sidewalk, watching the entrance, waiting.
Third floor window lit up. Beck's apartment. She was home safe.
Joe stayed for another twelve minutes.
I counted each one, pressed into the shadow of a parked delivery truck, watching him watch her window. His expression was peaceful. Content. The look of a man who'd found exactly what he was looking for.
Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling something I couldn't identify.
I followed Joe instead of staying at Beck's building.
His route home was inefficient—loops and detours that made no practical sense. He was savoring the night, extending it, letting the feelings settle into memory.
Joe Goldberg was genuinely happy.
The realization sat wrong in my stomach. It would be easier if he was hollow. If the charm was pure performance, the warmth entirely manufactured. But Joe experienced real joy. He loved what he did. The stalking, the seduction, the eventual possession—these brought him satisfaction that seemed indistinguishable from normal human happiness.
Monsters weren't supposed to feel. That was the comforting lie. The idea that evil was alien, recognizable, separate from the emotions that drove ordinary people.
Joe shattered that lie with every satisfied smile.
He arrived at his building around eleven. Checked his phone—probably sending Beck the "home safe" text she'd requested—and disappeared inside. Third floor light came on. Then went off again.
I walked home through streets I was starting to know too well. The same route I'd taken after watching Joe stalk Beck to her apartment weeks ago. The same bodega where I'd bought that first cup of coffee in my new body.
Everything circling back.
In my apartment, I wrote down everything I'd observed. Joe's techniques, his timing, the way he balanced pressure and retreat. The cold underneath the warm. The genuine belief in his own love story.
Breaking his obsession wouldn't be as simple as exposing him. Joe would find ways to explain, to justify, to frame any evidence as misunderstanding.
I needed Beck to see him clearly. Not because someone told her, but because she figured it out herself.
That meant building her trust. Giving her someone to compare Joe against. Showing her what genuine connection looked like so she'd recognize the counterfeit.
The workshop was the venue. Slow, careful work over weeks or months. Time I might not have.
My phone showed midnight. I needed sleep.
But first—Peach Salinger.
I'd seen the way she watched Beck at that lunch weeks ago. Possessive. Jealous. She'd already hate Joe on principle, just for existing in Beck's orbit.
Maybe that hatred could be useful.
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