Slater
I stood behind a tall shelf in the library, pretending to browse through old texts on werewolf genealogy while my attention was completely focused on the woman across the aisle.
She was impossible to miss. Dressed in a way that screamed expensive taste and newfound wealth.
Her designer blazer was tailored perfectly to fit her slight frame, the fabric was a rich emerald green that probably cost more than most people's monthly allowance.
Her shoes were Italian leather, her handbag bore the unmistakable logo of a luxury brand, and even her perfectly blonde hair spoke of regular visits to high-end salons.
This was Trisha Canary, and everything about her current lifestyle was wrong.
I maintained my position cautiously, ensuring I stayed in the area where the security cameras couldn't capture me. I'd mapped out the library's surveillance system weeks ago, noting every blind spot and motion sensor placement.
