The Water Between Us

The cat, a ragged tomcat I'd secretly named Cassius, watched from the fire escape as Julian worked. He was tapping into the building's cable junction box with practiced fingers, the neon sign from the bar below flickering across his face in orange and blue.

"You're going to get caught," I said, not for the first time.

"Sarah, I'm not stealing premium channels." He didn't look up. "I'm rerouting the building's surveillance feed. Your husband's home security system has a backdoor I've been paid to exploit."

The word husband hit me like water in the lungs. Richard had been dead three years, but Julian still used the present tense when discussing the jobs that funded our life together in this crumbling walk-up in Hell's Kitchen. He called himself a private investigator. I called him a fixer for people who could afford to have problems disappear.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and ran my thumb over the callus on my palm—the one from gripping steering wheels of rental cars in cities I couldn't remember visiting. Julian's work required mobility. His wife required discretion.

"Who's the client?" I asked, though I already knew I wouldn't like the answer.

"Woman who thinks her husband's cheating. Wants proof." He stripped a wire with his teeth. "Standard stuff."

"And the cable tap?"

"Building superintendent runs a side business selling resident data. Marketing firms, insurance adjusters. Your husband installed the system, Sarah. It's all connected."

He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather. But my stomach tightened. Richard had been a surveillance contractor before the accident. The official story was a car crash in Jersey. The file Julian had shown me said otherwise.

"You're a spy, Julian. Just admit it."

He finally looked up, his expression unreadable in the ambient glow. "I'm someone who finds things people want hidden. Like what really happened to Richard. Like why his system is still active three years later, collecting data on everyone in this building. Including you."

Outside, thunder cracked open the sky. The cat bolted.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he said, wrapping the cable junction back up, "that your husband didn't just install security systems. He built a network. And someone's been using it ever since he died." He paused. "Someone who knows when you shower. When you sleep. When you meet me for drinks on Tuesdays."

The water streaming down the window blurred the city lights into streaks of gold and red. I thought about the insurance investigator who'd called last month. The woman who'd asked about Richard's "personal projects." The man I'd noticed watching me from the black sedan three times this week.

"Julian?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you take the job to find Richard's secrets, or did you take it because they already know about us?"

He didn't answer. He just packed his tools into the worn leather satchel and kissed my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin like he was memorizing something he knew he'd lose.

"Lock the door behind me," he said, and then he was gone, leaving me alone with the cat's yellow eyes watching from the fire escape, and the sudden terrible understanding that in this city, everyone was watching everyone, and none of us were ever truly unseen.