Page 64 of Archer

“You identified him?” Archer asked.

“I did. His name is Jeremy Webb. He’s a thirty-seven-year-old freelance sound engineer out of Nashville. Works primarily for SoundWave Solutions. That’s the company whose logo Harper identified for us in the venue footage.”

A fresh ripple of hope swept over me. “Jeremy Webb. I don’t recognize the name.”

“I think he’s typically part of the behind-the-scenes crew. The guys who run the soundboards and manage all the equipment. He’d be practically invisible unless something went wrong.”

Archer’s expression hardened. “What else do we know about him?”

“He’s worked eight of Harper’s shows in the past six months. Started with the Bluebird Café, that first gig where everything took off for her. He was on the sound crew that night.”

Eight shows. He’d been right there. Setting up microphones, adjusting levels, watching me perform.

An idea occurred to me. “That’s why you weren’t able to find anyone who purchased tickets to all those shows. It wasn’t because he paid cash or used a prepaid card or something.”

“He was working,” Colton said. “No ticket needed.”

“Criminal record?” Archer asked.

“Not even a parking ticket. But I dug deeper into his social media and found some interesting stuff. Eleven years ago, a college girlfriend posted about him not accepting their breakup. Said he kept showing up at her apartment and calling her constantly. She threatened a restraining order and he finally backed off.”

“He has a history of this kind of behavior,” I said.

My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

Archer’s eyes slid my way. “At least she knew who he was.”

“There’s nothing formal on his record,” Colton said. “So it didn’t raise any red flags when background checks were run for venue work.”

Archer rose and paced the kitchen, phone in hand. “Where’s he from? What’s his story?”

“Looks like he’s originally from Knoxville, Tennessee. He attended the local high school, went to community college when he was nineteen. Got his audio engineering certification and relocated to Nashville about nine years ago, chasing work in the music industry.”

Archer met my eyes across the kitchen.

We finally knew things about the ghost who’d been haunting me.

“I’m sending his photo to your phone now,” Colton said. “I was able to get his most current employee photo from SoundWave Solutions’ website.”

Archer’s phone buzzed. He pulled up the image, then held it out to me.

The face staring back was unremarkable. Brown hair, average build, forgettable features. The kind of person who could blend into any crowd. Except his eyes. Even in the photograph, they were intense. Hyper-focused.

I recognized him immediately. “That’s the guy from the hardware store. I’ll look for him in my personal photos and screenshots,” I said. “Can you send me that image too?”

“Yeah. Good idea.” Colton sent the image, and it appeared on my screen with a buzz. “Nash is coordinating with Nashville PD. They’re checking Webb’s last known address, talking to his neighbors and employer. We should have more intel soon.”

I got my laptop and scrolled through the months of images I’d pulled last night—stage shots, backstage candids, dinners with Alexis and the team, late-night writing sessions.

Archer disconnected his call a few minutes later and set his phone on the table, the photo of my stalker still on screen.

My energy felt frantic as I scrolled, searching for my stalker in the background of my life.

“Hey.” Archer’s hand covered mine. “You’re shaking.”

“I know. I just—” I swallowed hard. “He was so close. All this time, he was right there working my shows and I never saw him.” I’d imagined him as a deranged fan who got hooked. A stranger who couldn’t discern the line between real and fantasy. Not someone who was a part of my life in any manner.

“Predators like to hide in plain sight.” Archer pulled his laptop from his bag and set it on the table beside mine. “But now we see him. And that means we can stop him.”