“I requested the guest registry the instant he entered the apartment. I have it here somewhere.” Just as I am about to rip the papers out of Brandon’s hands to search them myself, he murmurs, “Here it is.”
Paper shredding booms over his whiny voice when I snatch the document from his grasp. My jaw ticks as I scan the extensive guest registry. Unease invades my gut when I reach 9 PM. There are only four names jotted down between then and now. None of them are for an electrical company.
“Are you sure it was an electrician you saw?” I ask Brandon, my voice picking up with unconcealed suspicion. It has the same cocky edge it held when I interrogated Regan about her supposed after dinner date.
Brandon’s throat works hard to swallow. “Yeah. I’m fairly sure—”
“Fairly sure? Or one hundred percent sure?” My tone advises I will not accept a pansy-ass reply. We don’t run on assumptions here. We work with facts—stern, unapologetic facts.
“I’m confident.” His voice doesn’t relay this. “He had an electrician logo on the back of his overalls.”
Leaning over my body, he taps on the keyboard three times. It brings up the image responsible for my panic. At precisely 9:16 PM a man approximately five foot eight with light sandy hair and a dark cap glides down the corridor separating Regan’s apartment from Isaac’s. As Brandon advised, there is an electric company logo emblazoned on the back of his overalls.
Although he is carrying a large metal toolbox, the veins in his hand aren’t showing the exertion you’d expect if it were brimming with tools. Come to think of it, his hands are dainty and smooth—unlike any tradesmen I’ve seen.
“Run his company through the system. We can track his movements from there,” I suggest to Brandon, hoping his knowledge of the FBI database is more extensive than mine.
It doesn’t even take Brandon thirty seconds to run the electrician’s details through our system. It isn’t because he’s brilliant at what he does. It is because the search comes up empty. There is no company of that name in the world database, much less the state of Florida.
I swallow away a bitter taste in the back of my throat. “Are you sure you didn’t miss his exit?”
You can hear desperation in my voice. Regan entered her apartment twenty minutes ago. Isaac knocked and didn’t get an answer. That hasn’t happened once the past four months I’ve been tailing them. This can only mean one thing: Regan is being stalked as she presumed months ago.
When Brandon remains quiet, I growl, “Did you take a break? A piss? Fall asleep? At any time tonight were you away from these monitors?”
When Brandon shakes his head at each of my suggestions, I leap to my feet. “Where is your service weapon?” I throw open compartments surrounding his computer station before half my sentence leaves my mouth. I need to get to Regan, and I need to get to her now.
Brandon shocks me by removing his gun from a holster on his waist. Standard technicians don't carry their guns like normal agents. Some don't even have government-assigned weapons. Realizing now isn’t the time to discuss semantics, I check that Brandon’s weapon is loaded before hightailing it out of his van.
“What do you want me to do?!” Brandon shouts, slowing my steps down the still-bustling sidewalk.
A few of my fancy-dressed sidewalk companions balk when I reply, “Maintain surveillance. If you hear gunfire, call in back up.”
I should be advising him to summon back up now, but since I don’t want Regan to discover my secret life with a circus act in tow, I’ll go in alone. I’m armed and confused—a lethal combination in itself. The electrician better hope Brandon failed to notice his departure, or he is in for one hell of a fright.
I thought fleeing Regan’s apartment building would be the only record I’d smash tonight. My return is just as dramatic. I’m sprinting down the corridor of Regan’s floor with forty seconds still under my belt.
“Rae!?” I bang on the gleaming white door of Regan’s apartment. “I know you’re pissed, and I’m more than happy to take an ear bashing, but you need to open the door first.”
Whoever said “silence is a good answer” is a moron. I’d give anything to hear Regan’s voice right now. I’d even hand in my badge.
I press my ear against her door, praying she’s just being stubborn.
I can’t hear a fucking thing.
“Rae?! If you don’t open the door, I’ll kick it down.” My low tone indicates the honesty in my threat.
Silence—I get nothing but heart-clenching silence.
Recalling the cautionary countdown Regan did on me months ago, I growl, “Five. . . Four. . . Three . . .”
I don’t make it to two. I’m too fucking impatient.
After taking a step back, I rear up my leg and kick at the lock on her door. The thick white material is sturdy, but it has nothing on my determination. It pops open nicely under my boot, the safety latch coming away just as easily.
“Rae.” I enter her apartment with my gun held high and my heart rate out of control.
It marginally settles when I fail to spot any ruckus upon entry. Usually, if you are attacked unaware, it happens during entry. Regan’s keys and purse are resting on an antique table on my right, and her shoes are kicked off halfway down the elongated foyer.
