My body is humming as I step back into my apartment. My mind is buzzing, too, and it feels as though it might overflow.

I want to address the fact that Isaac loves me but I’m not ready to unpack that yet. I can give in to my emotions when this case is closed and solved. Besides, at the moment, Isaac is proving to be a barrier to me, and that’s the last thing I need. I’m going to that meeting whether he wants me to or not, so given his opinion, it’s probably best if I avoid the conversation for a while.

Regardless of what he thinks, the people who are after me aren’t just going to stop what they’re doing of their own accord. I pull out the slip of paper Chantel gave me with the address on it, trying my best to decipher her sloppy handwriting. I’ll be able to better see this in my own script, and I don’t want to risk any mistakes tonight. I grab a pen and a piece of notebook paper and write the address carefully on it, tearing the half off with the address on it and folding it neatly before putting it back into my purse.

It’s time to get to work. I head to the bathroom to wash up a little bit. I want to carry a little bit of Isaac with me when I go. Having his scent on my skin makes me feel safer than I would otherwise, even if that is completely irrational.

I’m in love with you. Please don’t do this.

His deep voice resonates through my head, and I give it a gentle shake as I close my apartment door behind me, ready to get some research done. I consider walking to the Tribune just to burn some energy off but I don’t want to waste time dwelling on my own thoughts. I need to busy my mind with things that matter, and at the moment nothing takes higher priority than this. I pull out my phone and call for a car, the cab pulling up a minute later to take me to work.

I step out of the cab, staring up at the decaying building, the glass doors opening and closing as people make their way in and out, living their lives as usual. I envy them. I wish I could live my life as I once did, unafraid and willing to take risks. Then again, I’m still that person. I just can’t feel safe in my own home anymore. Not until I take these assholes down.

My chest surges with determination as I step forward, making my way into the building and over to my cube. My eyes dart around for any sign of Gareth but to my relief he is nowhere to be found.

Preston bellows at someone down the hall, and a mousy brunette slinks from his office with her eyes lowered, heading straight for the door.

I want to grin but I don’t. I remember being a green reporter trying to get my foot in the door. If you can’t handle Preston, you don’t make it in this business. There are a million other assholes out there just like him. I want to comfort the girl, to tell her not to give up, but I imagine she’ll find out what she’s made of in good time.

I know I certainly have.

I sit at my desk and turn my computer on, that familiar wave of anxiety hitting me as I enter in my password to reach the desktop. When I do I pull out the address and begin researching the place, typing it into a search engine to see some basic results. I’m not rushing into this blind. I want to know what’s going on. I want to be prepared. The results page opens, and I’m able to see an image of the house.

It’s a stunning home. A classic Victorian just on the other side of town. A rounded turret towers above on the left, hovering over a curved whitewashed porch. The walkway to the house is made of sleek gray brick, giving it a classical, old money kind of feel. I look up the source of the image and find an article from Grand Homes magazine, a local Boston chapter that likes to celebrate the lifestyles of the rich and regionally famous. I click on the article and begin reading, searching for any relevant information I can find.

The house belongs to a wealthy businessman, Kevin Holmes. I scan through description of the house until I get to more information about the owner.

Kevin Holmes, father of Chantel and husband of Sophia, spends his time at home when he’s not working with his business partner, Richie Briggs.

My head spins with memories, and a headache forms at the base of my neck.

I can understand the connection between him and Chantel, that’s spelled out neatly enough, but who is Richie Briggs, and why does that name sound so familiar? My heart goes cold. Richie must be some kind of relative of Gareth’s. It can’t be true, can it?

I remember the tinny sound of Gareth’s voice through the bug recording, and a sadness sweeps over me. I almost don’t want to keep digging. I don’t want to know what I could find. How bad it is.

I have to, though.

I start a search for Richie Briggs, digging around the web until I finally get a hit on his name. When I click on the link, the screen opens up to a page full of mugshots. I skim through, noting the older dates of the images in the public record. As I scroll, an imagine pops up and I lift my finger, my eyes wide as I stare at the image.

It’s Gareth. A much younger Gareth, to be sure, but I recognize him all the same. Two red links on the side give me the option to either see his arrest records or get criminal and arrest records. I don’t know what to click on first. Seeing the arrest record link on the top, I decide to pick that option, closing my eyes when I click as though that is going to somehow make any of this any better.

When the new screen pops up, there is a white page with one sentence of text.

Cleared of all charges, curtesy of RB.

I click back to the mugshot and try the other link but it provides the same message. There is no other record of this, not even what the crime was. The only thing that saved was the mugshot. How did they miss that little detail? They strike me as the kind of people who would Google themselves every so often to see what’s out there on them.

I’m clicking back when footsteps approach my cube, and I click out of my browser, opening up a clean search page.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

My back stiffens as I turn to face Gareth. His words are jovial enough but his body is tense, his posture tight as he does his best to look casual, leaning his forearm against my lower cube wall. When he looks down at me, his gray eyes are dark, like the eye of a hurricane.

“I don’t see why that would be that big of a surprise. I do technically work here.”

“That you do, that you do.” He continues to linger at my desk, not looking at me as his fingers twitch. His eyes lock onto his hand as it drapes over mine.

“You know, there are some things that reporters shouldn’t mess with,” he says, his tone casual.

I stare up at him. Should I stand to meet him at his level? I feel small as I sit below him, even though he still refuses to look at me.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

He shrugs, removing his hand from mine and taking a step back. “All I’m saying is you got yourself locked in a burning building once already. Do you want to risk that again?”

“I’ll risk everything if it means getting to the truth,” I breathe, trying not to sound as scared as I feel. He’s threatening me. He’s doing it in the subtlest way possible but he’s doing it, and that freaks me out more than anything.

How could I have trusted him?

“Just a small word of advice,” he says, finally looking me in the eye. “Sometimes your life isn’t worth the risk. You can take that or leave it but it’s the best advice you’ll get all day.”

“Thanks,” I spit back, and he shrugs again, as though my life is nothing to him, but he thought a nice veiled threat would be a gesture of goodwill.

What a gentleman.

He walks away, and as he disappears into the crowd of busy reporters, my stomach grows cold with terror. I’m officially legitimately scared. Did Gareth try to kill me, and is he threatening to do it again? If he did, why would he warn me not to dig deeper? A part of him must still care about me. After all, he’s been trying to kiss me since I woke up. We were dating. Didn’t that mean anything?

My brain is on fire as questions shoot off like fireworks in my mind, only branching into more complicated questions, things that I don’t want to answer. I shut down my computer and grab my purse, stringing it over my shoulder and rushing out into the street. I think about Gareth’s warning, and the fact that whoever he may be working with was able to commandeer Isaac’s truck just because it had a computer inside. My desire to use any kind of technology dims, and I dig into my purse until I find my phone, turning it off.

I doubt that will stop them but I have to at least try. Instead of hailing a cab, I start walking, knowing that it will take an hour or more before I get back to my apartment. I’m safer the less I depend on technology at this point, so instead I keep a wary eye out as I pound the pavement, walking past a myriad of tourists and city dwellers laughing and enjoying their day together.

I don’t remember what that feels like anymore, and it makes me even sadder. Worse, it makes me furious. The joy I had for life has been taken from me, replaced only by fear and regret and confusion. The only steady thing I have is Isaac, and even he comes with his own set of complicated emotions.

Visions of Gareth’s mugshot and his dark expression as he looked down at me swirl through my mind’s eye as I walk on, my gaze darting all around me the entire way. A headache threatens just from having to focus so damn hard on not getting attacked in broad daylight.

I know what these people are capable of… at least, I think I do.

I turn onto my street and walk up the porch steps, letting myself in. In the hallway, I stand in front of my door at a loss.

I cross my arms around my middle and stare at the wall. Recently this is the last place on Earth I want to be. I look up at the stairwell, then climb the steps one at a time.