Page 28 of No Headlines Please

But soon, the knocking came again – three short raps delivered with enough persistence to suggest they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Setting aside the laptop, I reluctantly got up and peered through the tall frosted window beside the front door.

Through the cloudy glass, I could just barely make out the silhouette of a beefy man in a dark business suit.

I frowned in confusion. Was he lost?

My apartment was located in a narrow Victorian house that had been converted to two cozy apartments. Unlike the upper unit, the door to my apartment was located directly off the front porch, which meant I had the distinct pleasure of dealing with a multitude of people who didn't quite know where they were going.

And don't get me started on the deliveries. The girl who lived upstairs shopped a lot, and ever since she'd moved in, not a single week had gone by where I didn't receive at least two deliveries addressed to her name along with a shocking amount of takeout.

But I couldn't really complain. She and I were nearly the same age, and to her credit, she'd been a terrific sport that one time I'd gotten locked out at midnight while taking out the trash – without my phone, no less.

Unsure what else to do, I'd climbed the rear staircase and begged to borrow her phone in spite of the late hour. She'd handed it over without a single complaint.

And then, during the thirty minutes it took for our landlord to arrive and unlock my door, Lacy had served me chocolate martinis along with tales of her worst dating disasters.

She was hilarious – even if her taste in men was genuinely alarming.

Still, I smiled at the memory as I opened the door and said, "Let me guess. You're looking for—"

"You." He wasn't smiling.

The guy looked to be in his late thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and the kind of blocky build that made the narrow porch feel suddenly smaller.

I stared in confusion. "Me? Why?"

His gaze flicked briefly over my shoulder, scanning the apartment behind me before returning to my face. "We need to talk."

A prickle of unease crept down my spine. "About what?"

"You know what."

I blinked. "I do?"

"Pretend all you want," he said. "But we both know we're talking about the court case."

Wait, what? "I'm not pretending anything," I protested. "I honestly don't know what you mean."

For a long moment, he simply studied me, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed. "Listen, this doesn't need to be difficult. We're just looking for discretion, that's all."

His words were calm, professional even. And yet, my heart hammered as my brain began cycling through every bizarre client interaction I'd witnessed during my final months at Lenny's office.

There was that judge who always skulked in wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. And then, there was that cosmetic surgeon who'd left that panicked voicemail involving hotel security footage. And then there was that banker whose naked vacation photos had somehow ended up in a divorce filing.

I was still thinking. Maybe this was related to that Chicago developer who'd been crying in Lenny's office? Something about somebody threatening to release screenshots?

Of what, I had no idea.

I just knew that none of this was my concern. Not anymore.

I crossed my arms. "Look, I don't know what you're thinking, but I've always been discreet, and just because I've moved on, that doesn't mean I'll get all blabby."

He crossed his arms, too. "But it doesn't mean you won't."

Was this a joke? "Okay, now you're officially making me nervous."

"Good," he said. "It means you're taking this seriously."

By now, irritation was winning out over nerves. "I don't even know what 'this' is."