Page 8 of Dirty Sweet Cop

The surveillance system arrives on a Tuesday. Three exterior cameras, motion-activated, night vision. Professional grade. The kind I’d recommend to a domestic violence victim or a witness in protection. Not the kind a thirty-six-year-old detective installs because he can’t stand the thought of his eighteen-year-old girlfriend walking to the mailbox alone.

I mount them myself. Drill into the siding. Run the wiring through the attic. Test each feed on my phone until the yard is a grid of overlapping sightlines, no blind spots, no angles where someone could approach without me knowing.

It’s not enough.

The fourth camera goes inside. Just one. Pointed at the front door. I tell myself it’s redundant security. I’m lying. I want to see her come home. I want to watch her walk through that door and into my house, into my life, and know she’s where she belongs.

She catches me checking the feed on my phone while she’s eating cereal at the kitchen island. Her spoon pauses halfway to her mouth.

“Clayton.”

“Mm.”

“Are you watching the front door camera right now?”

I don’t look up. “Maybe.”

“We’re in the same room.”

“I know.”

She sets down her spoon. “This is getting a little...”

“Necessary,” I finish for her, and finally meet her eyes. “You’re eighteen. You’re grieving. You’re beautiful. And I’m a possessive bastard who’s seen what happens to people who aren’t protected. So yeah. I’m watching the door. Deal with it.”

She doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, and goes back to her cereal. Like my insanity is something she’s decided to accommodate. Like it’s charming instead of pathological.

It’s not charming. It’s fucking terrifying how much I need her in my sight.

The grocery store is worse.

I follow her at a distance. Ten feet back. Close enough to intercept, far enough to give her space. She pushes the cart. I scan the aisles. Every man gets assessed, categorized, dismissed or monitored based on a threat calculus that lives in my hindbrain and has nothing to do with police training.

The bagger is maybe twenty. College kid. Messy hair, quick smile. He helps her load her groceries and says something that makes her laugh—a real laugh, the kind that lights up her whole face—and my chest goes tight. My jaw clenches so hard I feel it in my temples.

He touches her hand passing her the receipt. His fingers brush hers.

I’m across the parking lot before I decide to move. My hand finds his shoulder. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough pressure to make him turn.

“She’s with me,” I say. Quiet. Calm. The voice I use right before things get ugly.

The kid blinks. Looks at Winny. Looks at me. Does the math—my size, my age, the way I’m standing between them like territory—and goes pale.

“Sorry, man. Didn’t know.”

“You know now.”

I take the cart. Winny doesn’t say anything until we’re loading the bags into my truck. Then she slides her hand into mine, squeezes, and says, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thorough.”

“You growled at him.”

“I did not growl.”

“You absolutely growled. It was like watching a bear claim a picnic basket.”

I shut the tailgate harder than necessary. “He touched you.”