I spent the night in my car across from Damian Grey's building.
Not my brightest moment, but I couldn't leave. Not when Mark's spirit was so close I could almost touch him. I'd bought coffee from a 24-hour gas station and parked under a broken streetlight, watching the third-floor windows for any sign of movement.
Around six AM, a light came on in what I assumed was his apartment. I sat up straighter, my neck stiff from sleeping against the headrest. The coffee had gone cold hours ago, but I sipped it anyway.
At 7:30, the building's front door opened.
Damian Grey stepped out into the gray Seattle morning, and I got my first real look at the man who'd killed my husband.
He wasn't what I'd expected.
In the courtroom, he'd been just a figure in an ill-fitting suit, hunched over the defendant's table. But now, walking down the sidewalk in jeans and a navy jacket, he looked... normal. Tired, maybe. His dark hair was messy, like he'd run his fingers through it. He kept rubbing his left temple, the same spot over and over.
Not a monster. Just a guy who looked like he hadn't slept well in months.
I started my car and followed him at a distance. He walked six blocks to a small coffee shop called "Grind," one of those indie places with chalkboard menus and mismatched furniture. Through the window, I watched him order something at the counter.
The barista—a girl with purple hair and too many piercings—smiled at him like they knew each other. Damian tried to smile back, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked like someone going through the motions of being human.
I parked across the street and waited five minutes before going in.
The shop smelled like espresso and baked goods. A few early commuters sat at small tables, typing on laptops or scrolling through their phones. Indie rock played softly from speakers hidden somewhere in the ceiling.
Damian sat in the corner, staring into a cup of black coffee. His hands were wrapped around the mug like he was trying to warm them, even though the shop was perfectly comfortable.
I ordered a latte and found a table with a clear view of his corner. He hadn't noticed me come in. His attention was focused on something I couldn't see—maybe his own reflection in the coffee's surface.
Up close, the resemblance to Mark was unsettling. Not physically—Mark had been shorter, broader, with lighter hair. But something about the way Damian held his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head when he was thinking. Gestures that felt familiar in a way that made my chest tight.
I pulled out my phone and pretended to scroll through emails while watching him. Every few minutes, he'd stop mid-sip and look around the shop like he'd heard someone call his name. But when he didn't see anything, he'd go back to staring at his coffee.
The third time it happened, I saw him mouth a word. Just barely, like he was talking to himself.
"Stop."
My blood chilled. Was he hearing Mark's voice? Was my husband trying to communicate through this man's mind?
Damian pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, the same spot he'd been rubbing outside. His face twisted like he was in pain.
Then his phone rang.
He pulled it out with shaking hands, glanced at the screen, and answered. "Hello?"
Even across the shop, I could hear the voice on the other end. Loud, agitated. A man's voice, though I couldn't make out the words.
"No, I understand," Damian said quietly. "But I've been having those episodes again. The doctor said—"
More shouting from the phone. Damian held it away from his ear slightly, wincing.
"I know it's been three months. I know you're losing patience. But something's not right, Mr. Weber. I keep hearing—"
Weber? As in Richard Weber, Mark's business partner?
My hand tightened around my coffee cup. What was Damian doing talking to Weber? And what did he mean by "episodes"?
"Yes, sir," Damian said. "I'll be there at nine. But if this keeps happening, I might need to see someone. A specialist, or—"
The phone went quiet. Whoever had been yelling had hung up.
Damian sat there for a long moment, staring at the dark screen. Then he stood up, left his half-finished coffee on the table, and headed for the door.
I gave him a ten-second head start, then followed.
He walked faster now, with purpose. I had to work to keep up without getting too close. Two blocks, three. We were heading back toward the business district, toward the gleaming office towers where Mark used to work.
Where Weber's law firm was located.
My mind raced. Why would Damian Grey be meeting with Richard Weber? They'd never mentioned knowing each other during the trial. Weber had testified as a character witness for Mark, talking about his integrity and dedication to justice. He'd never said a word about the man who'd killed him.
Unless they'd met after the accident. Unless Weber was somehow helping Damian with... what? Legal issues? Medical bills?
Or unless there was something else going on. Something that connected Damian to the investigation Mark had been working on before he died.
D.G. DANGEROUS.
Damian stopped at a crosswalk, and I ducked into a doorway to avoid being seen. When the light changed, he continued toward the financial district. I followed, staying half a block behind.
But something felt wrong. Like I was being watched.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw nothing unusual. Morning commuters, delivery trucks, the normal rhythm of the city waking up. Still, the feeling persisted. Like invisible eyes tracking my every move.
When I looked forward again, Damian had stopped.
He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, twenty feet ahead of me. Not moving, not looking around. Just standing there like he'd forgotten where he was going.
People flowed around him, annoyed by the obstacle. But he didn't seem to notice them. His head was tilted slightly, like he was listening to something.
I stopped too, pretending to check my phone. But I kept watching him from the corner of my eye.
Slowly, as if someone was guiding him, Damian turned around.
His eyes found mine immediately. Not searching, not scanning the crowd. He looked right at me like he'd known exactly where I was.
For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other across the busy sidewalk. His face was pale, confused. But there was something else in his expression. Recognition. Like he was seeing someone he'd been expecting.
Then his mouth opened, and he said the words that made my blood turn to ice:
"You finally came."
Not a question. Not surprise. A statement, like he'd been waiting for me.
"I—" I started to speak, but he was already moving. Not toward me, but away. Fast, like someone running from a fire.
I pushed through the crowd, trying to follow, but he was quicker. More desperate. He ducked into the entrance of a parking garage, and by the time I reached it, he was gone.
I stood there breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. The parking garage attendant gave me a curious look, but I ignored him.
"You finally came."
How had he known I was following him? How had he known to look for me at all?
And why did those words sound like something Mark might have said?
I walked back toward my car, my mind spinning with questions I couldn't answer. Damian Grey wasn't what I'd expected. He wasn't a cold-blooded killer or a reckless drunk. He was scared, confused, possibly sick.
But he was also connected to Richard Weber in ways that didn't make sense. And somehow, impossibly, he'd known I was there.
Like someone had told him to expect me.
Like Mark had been whispering in his ear.
The thought should have been comforting. The idea that my husband's spirit was conscious enough to communicate, to guide events from whatever place he was trapped.
But instead, it terrified me.
Because if Mark was influencing Damian's actions, if he was aware of everything happening around his killer, then he knew I was investigating. He knew I was putting myself in danger.
And he was letting me do it anyway.
The question was: why?
I got back to my car and sat there for a long time, watching the city move around me. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that the dead sometimes spoke to the living. Unaware that love could transcend death and bind souls together in ways that defied explanation.
But as I started the engine and pulled into traffic, one thought kept echoing in my mind:
What if Mark wasn't trying to communicate with me?
What if he was trying to warn me away?
And what if I was too stubborn—or too desperate—to listen?