I hate it. I hate even more that I’m already starting to get used to it. And the morning keeps getting worse.
The first suspicious call comes shortly after ten. A man with a smooth voice asks whether I personally oversee weekend adoptions, and as I start explaining our process, his questions move entirely away from animals.
“What time do you usually leave?”
“Do you work late often?”
“Are evenings busy there?”
I hang up without answering the rest of his questions, then stare at the receiver uneasily.
The second call arrives less than an hour later—different voice, different number, same questions. By lunchtime, my patience has worn paper-thin.
“This is insane,” I mutter while dropping paperwork onto the desk.
Jules glances up from the volunteer schedule. “You know what really concerns me?”
“The stalkin’?”
“The lack of creativity.” He waves his pen in the air. “At least pretend to ask about a Labrador before investigatin’ your schedule. Lord have mercy.”
I almost smile, but then another volunteer hurries into the office, looking so nervous that anxiety gets a hold of me.
Carrie twists her hands together. “Maggie?”
Every muscle in my body braces automatically. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened exactly.” She swallows hard. “I just thought it felt weird.”
I exchange a look with Jules. That sentence has become the theme of my life lately.
“What felt weird?” I ask carefully.
“There was a man outside earlier asking questions about the adoption event.” Carrie hesitates. “Then he asked which nights you usually stay here alone.”
Jules straightens beside me, all traces of humor disappearing from his face. “What did he look like?”
“Tall. Dark hair. Expensive clothes maybe?” She shakes her head uncertainly. “Honestly, he looked normal except for the questions.”
That almost makes it worse. Predators rarely look dangerous at first glance.
“Did you tell him anythin’ specific?” I ask gently.
“Oh, absolutely not.” Carrie looks horrified. “I just said schedules change.”
“Good.”
She leaves a minute later, but the tension in the office doesn’t go away. I lean back against the desk and run a hand through my hair as the anxiety builds. Things are getting worse fast.
Jules watches me before speaking. “Have you told Alexei about the calls?”
“He won’t tell me anythin’ useful even when I ask directly.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I exhale hard. “Kind of. I told him about one of them.”
“You probably should tell him aboutallof them,” Jules urges.
