Last One Standing

Excerpt

The man had chosen the table three days ago. Not this exact one, but the section, the angle, the line of sight to the corner booth by the window. He’d come in twice before, ordered coffee, watched the rhythm of the place. Noted who sat where, how long people stayed. Clocked which server drifted, which moved with purpose.

Because patterns mattered.

His time and effort had paid off. Tonight, the table was exactly what he needed.

He sat alone, a glass of red wine untouched in front of him, a folded menu resting neatly beside his hand. To anyone looking, he was waiting for someone who was late.

But he wasn’t.

Across the room, Damon Jones laughed at something his wife Ariana said.

The man didn’t look at them directly. The reflection in the window behind the bar gave him everything he needed.

Ariana leaned forward slightly when she spoke, one hand wrapped loosely around her glass. Damon watched her the way people did when they forgot the rest of the room existed.

Unstructured attention. Unprotected.

The server approached their table.

Damon ordered first. Ariana added something, then changed her mind halfway through and laughed at herself. It was a small, unguarded moment most people wouldn’t think twice about.

The man did. He noticed it the same way he did everything else. Speech patterns, body language, and the timing of reactions.

He took a long, slow sip of wine.

Damon reached across the table to brush his thumb lightly against Ariana’s wrist as he spoke with her, a look of pure adoration on his face.

She returned a nearly identical expression.

It would be sweet if he believed in romance.

The man counted the exits. Front, side hallway to the restrooms, kitchen door swinging open and closed at irregular intervals.

He’d walked the perimeter earlier. Considered the blind spots, confirmed how long it took for a car to move from the curb to the intersection at this time of night. His focus returned to the couple’s reflection.

Damon was speaking now. More seriously than before.

Ariana listened.

There it was. A shift. Subtle, but present.

He leaned back slightly in his chair and studied Damon’s posture.

The way his shoulders held tension just beneath the surface. His gaze moved around, not erratic, not anxious, but aware.

Damon Jones was someone who paid attention to his surroundings. Not a natural instinct. He’d learned that vigilance.

Interesting.

The man let that settle. Then he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. Not to use. Just to hold.

Another “habit” he’d copied, indicative of most others in the room. Helped him blend in, provided an additional layer of normalcy.

Ariana said something that made Damon smile again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

He noticed that too.

The duality. The performance and the fracture beneath it.

He’d read the reports. Watched the interviews. Read their books and listened to the podcast episodes late at night, headphones on, eyes closed, mapping the cadence of Damon’s voice against older recordings that existed in much quieter, more restricted archives.

The son of Cal Jones, notorious serial killer.

A fact neither of them had mentioned. Not once.

Another interesting fact to note as they sat in a booth, eating dinner, pretending to be an ordinary couple.

The man’s mouth curved slightly. Not mocking, but appreciative. There was something elegant about their attempt. The creation of a self.

How much of the careful construct did Damon believe?

Ariana reached for Damon’s hand. Held it for just a second. Let it go.

He watched the empty space where their fingers had intertwined.

Connection and leverage.

Not yet. But soon.

He set down his glass with care.

The decision had already been made before he walked in tonight.

This wasn’t about whether. It was about when.

And how.

Damon leaned back in his chair, glancing briefly toward the bar.

For a fraction of a second, his gaze passed over the room.

No recognition or hesitation. Just another stranger in a public space.

The man held still anyway. A practiced stillness. He was practically invisible.

Just the way he wanted it.

Damon and Ariana’s conversation resumed.

The man exhaled slowly. Satisfied.

He reached for the check. No need to linger.

Not tonight.

As he rose, he allowed himself one direct look.

For just a moment.

Damon mid-sentence.

Ariana smiling.

A life in motion.

He adjusted his jacket, turned, then walked into the night, already several figurative steps ahead of them both.

(Haven’t started the series? Read the first book, Watch Your Back, for FREE.)