Surveillance Notes

I caught this one through the blinds—always do. You never see the whole picture that way, just enough to make you uneasy. Hawthorne and Rivera sat close, closer than policy would suggest. The office lights were low, the kind that flatten time and make intentions hard to read. Papers were on the table, sure—but they weren’t the center of gravity. Their posture told the story. Leaned in. Mirrored. Hands resting a little too comfortably in shared space. Conversations like that don’t need to be loud to be intimate. Rivera wore a blouse that meant business on the surface, but the confidence underneath was unmistakable. She held his gaze without blinking. Hawthorne, usually rigid as a courthouse railing, softened. Shoulders dropped. Jaw unclenched. Men don’t do that unless they trust the room—or the person across from them. The blinds shifted once, maybe from air, maybe from nerves. When they did, I caught the pause. That half-second where neither spoke. Where decisions get weighed. Where lines get noticed just before someone decides whether to cross them. Could’ve been strategy. Could’ve been pressure. Could’ve been nothing at all. But I’ve learned this job the hard way: when two people forget the rest of the world exists, it’s never *just* work. I logged it, shut my notebook, and moved on. Some truths don’t announce themselves. They sit quietly behind glass, waiting for the right angle.