Chapter 3 The Third Player

I woke late, stiff and unshowered, the smell of stale cigarette smoke clinging to my robe like guilt. The photo still lay on the kitchen table where I'd left it, silent and smug, daring me to pretend it meant nothing. I didn't touch it again.

By noon I was dressed in beige slacks and a cream blouse buttoned high enough to seem respectable but low enough to be remembered. I pinned my curls back, added sunglasses too big for the sun, and walked ten blocks to Melrose.

The place was called Pixel's. A photo lab wedged between a barber shop and a store that sold nothing but wigs and rhinestones. The kind of place most people walked past without seeing. Inside, it smelt like film chemicals and linoleum. A ceiling fan ticked overhead, useless against the stillness.

A kid stood behind the counter, barely twenty, lanky and pale, with a cigarette behind one ear and a roll of film in his fingers like it might combust.

"Afternoon," I said sweetly.

He nodded. "What can I do for you?"

I pulled a manila envelope from my purse, this one real. It held three headshots I kept for when producers got drunk enough to think I looked like Rita Hayworth. I handed it to him like it mattered.

"I need ten copies. Matte finish. And I have a question."

He slid the photos out and gave them a bored glance. "Shoot."

I pulled out the other photo, the one I shouldn't have. Flashed it like a badge, just long enough.

"You see the grain on this? The quality? I'm looking for whoever took it. The framing's good. And I don't like being caught at a bad angle."

He froze.

Not a blink. Not a cough. Just a long pause like he was running options in his head.

"I wouldn't know," he said finally.

I gave him a look that stripped away politeness. "I think you would."

He looked toward the back room. "We don't keep customer logs. It's all walk-in."

I leaned on the counter. "I didn't say anything about customers."

The kid didn't flinch, but something in his eyes shuddered.

"Sorry, lady. Can't help you."

I smiled then. Not because I believed him. But because I didn't.

Someone had paid for silence.

And silence always has a price tag.

I stepped out of the shop and into the dry heat of mid-afternoon. The kind of heat that sticks to your skin like guilt, that makes the streets smell like radiator breath and old perfume.

Traffic crawled. A dog barked behind a rusted gate. Somewhere, a delivery boy whistled off-key.

Then I saw him.

Across the street, just past a laundromat that hadn't changed its signage since the Depression, stood a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a grey suit far too clean for this neighbourhood. One hand in his pocket. The other is holding an umbrella.

Not open. Just... held.

No clouds above. Not even a hint of wind.

The umbrella was black. Polished handle. Crook bent like a question mark. It didn't belong here. Neither did he.

He wasn't looking at me. That would've been too direct. He was looking just past me, like I was part of the scenery he'd memorised already.

I turned left. Walked two blocks. Ducked into a bakery. Bought something I didn't need-lemon squares, crumbling and sweet. When I came back out, the man was gone.

I didn't breathe easier.

That night, I walked home from the club. It was nearly two in the morning. I wore a long coat over my stage dress and carried my shoes in one hand, the pavement cooling my feet like ice cubes in a bathtub.

I turned onto my street, heart already ticking faster. The kind of fast you pretend not to notice.

And there he was again.

Across the street.

Same suit. Same umbrella. Still not open.

Still not raining.

I didn't stop. Didn't look twice.

Just kept walking. Steady, measured steps. If I ran, he won. If I stared, I invited.

But I felt it, his presence. Like the heat of a stovetop you hadn't touched yet. And the certainty that the third player in this game wasn't just watching me.

He was waiting.

The next night at The Canary, the air felt wrong. Thick in the throat. Like the whole place was underwater and didn't know it yet.

I was halfway through my second set, singing something breathy and blue, when I saw him again.

Frank Caruso.

Same table. Same stillness. No drink this time. No movement. Just his eyes on me, tracking each word like I was reciting scripture only he could interpret.

There was no smile. No nod. But he didn't blink, and that was worse.

I kept my voice low and slow. Let it drip like molasses over the room. Let it find him. If I were a web, he was the one thread pulling everything too tight.

After the set, I took my time backstage. Powdered my nose, changed my earrings. Stalled. Not out of fear. Not exactly.

Just... tension. A string drawn too tight for too long.

When I finally slid into the booth across from him, he was still watching the stage like I was still there.

"Three nights in a row," I said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you liked me."

"I don't like anyone," Frank replied softly. "It's inefficient."

I smirked, even as a chill danced across my neck. "You're a romantic."

He didn't answer.

Just looked at me. Long enough to make the table feel smaller.

"I have a question," he said finally.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

His eyes narrowed, not unkindly. "Do you feel safe?"

I blinked. That was the last thing I expected him to ask.

"Safe?" I echoed.

"Yes. Here. On your walk home. When you're not performing. When the lights are off."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lower. "Because someone's been watching you. And not just in this room."

I stared at him. The silence between us grew heavier.

"Do you know who?" I asked.

Frank didn't move.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he said.

Then he stood and offered his hand.

"Let me walk you out."

I hesitated for a beat too long. That kind of pause says everything a sentence doesn't. But I took his hand anyway, letting him guide me through the haze of perfume and low conversation, past the sax player, past the card sharks and velvet drapes, out into the open night.

His car was parked half a block away. A black Packard, polished to a jealous shine. He opened the passenger door without a word.

"You planning to kill me?" I asked lightly, sliding in.

"If I were", he said, shutting the door behind me, "I wouldn't bother with valet."

The drive started slow. He didn't turn on the radio. Didn't make small talk. Just one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, silent as prayer.

The city blurred past in neon slices: liquor signs, diner booths glowing like altars, and the deep hum of power lines overhead.

"You always drive women home?" I asked.

"Only the ones who don't ask questions."

I glanced at him. "Funny. I thought you liked questions."

"I like the answers better."

We passed a man sleeping on a bus bench, arms folded like a corpse. Somewhere a train clanged, distant and metallic, like memory.

"You have enemies, Mr Caruso?" I asked, soft.

"I have company," he replied.

"And you think someone's watching me because of you?"

"I think someone's watching you because you matter to someone."

I looked away. "That's generous of you."

He didn't argue.

When he pulled up in front of my building, the street was empty. The same shadows. The same flickering lamp.

I reached for the handle.

Then he said, "Vivian."

I turned.

He didn't look at me. Just stared ahead, voice lower now.

"Do you know who's following you?"

I didn't answer.

Because I didn't.

Not really.

And that scared me more than anything.

His voice stayed with me all the way up the stairs, even after the Packard's engine faded into the night. I didn't look back. Looking back invites more than answers; it invites company.

The building was quiet. A low hum from Mrs Gerstein's TV three doors down, a cat crying somewhere in the courtyard, but nothing out of place.

Until I opened my apartment door.

Nothing was broken. Nothing moved. Nothing was stolen.

Except the photo.

The envelope still lay on the counter where I left it. Slightly off-centre now, like someone had touched it without care. I picked it up.

Empty.

I checked the floor. The table. Under the couch. Behind the fridge. Nothing.

I hadn't taken it out. I hadn't touched it since yesterday.

But someone had.

And they hadn't bothered to leave a note this time.

The door had been locked. Deadbolt secure. No sign of a forced entry, no splinters, no scratches.

Which meant either they had a key.

Or they didn't need one.

I stood in the middle of the room, coat still on, hands clenched.

There were too many players now. Malone pulling strings with old threats. Frank circling closer, offering rides and riddles. And now this-whoever knew where I lived, what I looked like in shadow, and how to get in without making a sound.

Whoever they were, they didn't want to scare me.

Not yet.

They just wanted me to know they'd been here.

That I wasn't imagining it.

That I wasn't alone.

The night pressed against the window like a held breath.

I didn't sleep.

I sat up until dawn, lights on, one hand curled around a cigarette I never lit.

Waiting for something to knock.

Or worse.

To step quietly through the door.