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Alone.
Not that I can sleep much. The photos are burning into my brain, even after I lit them on fire in my bathtub, burning them to ashes so they can never be found.
I thought I’d solved this problem.
I run over the possibilities all night, and by the time morning comes, I still have way too much pent-up nervous energy. So, I pull on my workout clothes and comfy tennis shoes, and head out for a jog. Maybe the physical activity and fresh air will help to clear my mind.
The morning air is foggy, which makes me feel more secure. It’ll be hard to get good pictures of me with that going on, not that I’m doing anything worth photographing.
Are they tracking my every move?
I shiver, moving faster through the winding paths in the nearby park. I’ve led such a sheltered life here in London that I’m running light on suspects, and I can’t think of anyone who would want to threaten me like this.
At first, I was convinced my mystery stalker was Sebastian’s old co-worker, Becca. Or at least that she was the one hiring someone to keep tabs on me. She even used the same phrases as the ones in my notes: Warning that she knew I wasn’t as innocent as I seemed.
So I dealt with her, setting it up to look like she was embezzling from Wolfe Capital. As soon as Sebastian found out, he hit the roof, and fired her—plus threatened to unleash all kinds of legal trouble for her, too.
She was collateral damage, but I told myself it was worth it to save myself from being revealed. But now…
Now I realize, I got things very wrong. The photos aren’t from Becca, she has no reason to still be coming after me.
Someone else must be doing it. Which means I have a whole new enemy out there.
What do they want from me?
I try to think logically. The fact I don’t know many people here in town has to be a clue, in and of itself. The photographer must have staked me out for days before even catching me talking another man—
Wait a second.
I pause, catching my breath. I’ve been worried about the fact they photographed me at the library—proof that I’m not just shopping my days away like Sebastian believes. But somehow, they managed to catch me in conversation with James, too?
Literally the only time I’ve had a friendly conversation with a strange man, my entire time in London.
Make thattimes, plural. They photographed me with James again, the other day.
That can’t be a coincidence.
I felt a jolt of excitement. This is my clue; it has to be.
I think back to when I first met James. He’s the one that struck up a conversation with me initially, coming after me outside the library. He said I’d dropped a pen, and then suggested getting coffee. He asked me out that day, too, but I didn’t think anything of it—he seemed so bashful and sweet.
And he’s the one who reached over to pick some lint from my hair—at least, that’s what he said he was doing. It just so happened to look from a distance like we were more intimate, comfortable with him touching me.
At the exact moment the photographer took their shots.
No, itcan’ta coincidence. How did I not see it before now?
James was a setup, from the start.
So what do I do now?
Impulsively, I pull out my phone. The slip of paper with his number is still tucked in a notebook in my pocket, so I dial it, my heart racing.
“Yeah?” The voice that answers sounds different, gruffer.
“James? This is Avery.”
“Oh, hello. I’m glad you called, I was just thinking about you. Well, the mountains of research I have to do at the library, but that made me think of you.”
