“You had people watching the shelter?” I ask.
Alexei doesn’t answer right away, which answers plenty. A strange feeling slides down my spine. It’s not fear exactly, more like shock. Because suddenly, the last several days rearrange themselves in my head into an entirely different picture.
Viktor driving me home. Alexei telling me to answer when he calls. The way he’s always aware of where Ivy is.
Beside me, Jules lowers his clipboard slowly. His expression loses every trace of humor.
“Maggie,” he says quietly, “that man thought you were in danger before we even knew there was danger.”
My attention stays locked on Alexei while my pulse pounds unevenly beneath my skin.
“Oh, my heavens.” The words leave me on a whisper.
Alexei studies my face before stepping closer. “Come here.”
His hand brushes lightly against the small of my back, guiding me away from Jules, the two men, and curious eyes. We stop near the side of the building beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. “What exactly is goin’ on?”
Alexei’s jaw tightens once before he answers. “A few days ago, photographs were delivered to me.”
My stomach drops so fast it almost makes me dizzy. “What photographs?”
His eyes hold mine. “Of you.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
“The shelter,” he continues quietly. “Your apartment. The diner. Your mother’s house.”
I genuinely can’t process the words. Warm air clings to my skin, but a chill moves through me anyway.
“What are you sayin’?”
“They were taken over several days.”
I stare at him, my eyes narrowing. A car passes somewhere behind us. One of the volunteers laughs nervously near the parking lot. Dogs are still barking in their kennels. The entire world keeps moving while mine tilts sideways.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, my fingers flying to my lips.
Jules is right. I have a stalker.
Alexei watches me carefully, like he’s gauging whether I’m about to panic. “I increased security around places connected to you while I looked into it.”
“You got photographs of me and didn’t tell me?” My hand pushes through my hair before I realize my fingers are trembling. “Alexei, that’s not a normal sentence.”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
The honesty in the answer rattles me more than excuses would have.
“How did you even get these photos?”
His silence lasts less than three seconds, but it’s still too long. I hold up one hand quickly. “Actually, never mind. Don’t tell me.”
Because standing here looking at him now, I suddenly understand something important. There are parts of Alexei Agapov’s life that exist in rooms I don’t want to walk into.
I glance back toward the shelter instinctively. Luka stands near the police cruiser, typing rapidly, while the other man speaks into an earpiece near the parking lot entrance. Neither looks rushed nor uncertain. They look practiced. Professional. Like this kind of thing happens often enough that everyone already knows their role.
I look back at Alexei. “You’re not just some rich businessman.” It’s not a question.
