****
Chelsea had once more fallen into a doze, with nothing better to do to pass the time waiting—she had told herself that the caller was probably a prank in the first place—when she heard, at her door, the knocking pattern that the man on the phone had performed for her. Opening her eyes, Chelsea groaned, sitting up in her bed. “No one wants me to get any sleep today, that has to be it. The whole world is in on it.” She flung the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, getting to her feet unsteadily. How do you even know you can trust this guy? He’s probably here to abduct you, and you’re playing right into his game plan. Chelsea frowned and grabbed at her phone. She heard her mystery guest repeat the coded knock at her door and stirred herself to pad out of the bedroom.
Considering, she opened up her recent calls and checked for the unfamiliar number; she didn’t know for certain if the caller and the person on her doorstep were the same individual, but it was worth making the phone call anyway, wasn’t it? She hit ‘recall’ and stood, a few yards away from her door, waiting as it rang. “I’m here,” the voice said the moment the call connected.
“I assumed as much from the knock-knock-knocking at my door,” Chelsea said wryly. “What I don’t know is whether I should let you in.”
“You should,” the man said. Now that she was more awake, she could detect a faint accent in the man’s deep, almost rasping voice, though she couldn’t identify where the accent came from. “I promise you, Chelsea, that I’m not here to abduct you. You are actually in some danger right now. If you let me in I can explain it to you.” Chelsea glided her tongue along the front of her teeth, hesitating only a moment longer.
She took the last few steps to the door and unlocked first the deadbolt, then the chain, and finally the twist lock on the knob, before opening the door. For a long moment, Chelsea stared. The man on the other side of the door was more than tall; he dwarfed her, easily a foot taller than she was, over six feet. He had dark blond hair, cut short with razor-precision, parted to the side, and bright blue-green eyes that shone intently as he looked down at her. Chelsea’s gaze took in the slightly darker stubble that roughened the man’s cheeks and jawline, contrasting sharply with the soft look of his Cupid’s bow mouth. He wasn’t just tall; the man filled up the frame of her door: broad shoulders and chest, tapering to a narrow waist and hips, and long legs. He wore fitted jeans, and a black tee shirt that clung to the lines and ridges of his torso, with a dark leather jacket over it. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked her, raising one wheat-colored eyebrow. Chelsea took a step backwards, blinking and shaking off her confusion; she felt disastrously underdressed in her pajamas, next to the man who strode quickly through her door, closing and locking it behind him.
“This is the part where you explain what the hell is going on, right?” Chelsea threw herself onto the couch, feeling irritated at her own reaction to the man.
“We have some time now, but not very much,” the mystery guest said, sitting down in the wingback chair nearest to her. Chelsea frowned.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. She was acutely aware of the effect of the slight chill in the air when her guest had come in, of the fact that underneath the thin fabric of her top and the pajama bottoms she’d managed to pull on before she’d gone to bed the night before, she was bare.
“Someone wants to kill you.” Chelsea stared at the man in disbelief. “They think you know something that they’d rather keep hidden.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Chelsea protested. “I don’t know anything—I can’t even think of something I know that might make someone want me dead.” The man shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter at the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that you do, because you have the information.”
“What are you talking about? I’m nobody. No one’s handed me some mysterious parcel or anything, I haven’t even gotten anything in the mail.” The man’s lips twitched in a smile. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” The man’s smile deepened.
“My name is Johan Lindstrom,” he said. “Tell me, Chelsea; what comes to mind when I say the name Aaron Rosen?” Chelsea stared at the man blankly.
“The CEO of the company?” Chelsea frowned. “What does he have to do with anything?” Johan raised an eyebrow, the smile not quite leaving his lips.
“Are those really the first words that come to mind?” he asked her.
“The first words that come to mind are ‘the scumbag I work for,’ ” Chelsea retorted, feeling the heat rising into her cheeks. Johan inclined his head slightly, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“The scumbag you work for, that’s much more accurate. I’m sure you’re aware he’s engaged in some…less than savory practices.” Johan made the statement an almost-question and Chelsea shrugged.
“Everyone in the office knows that,” she pointed out. “If he didn’t want that getting out he’d have to kill us all, not just me.” Johan’s lips twisted into a wry expression.
“Drug running, profiteering…those are the common-knowledge things,” he said slowly. “But you know what happens to people who think they’re untouchable. They start taking bigger and bigger risks.” Johan shrugged. “The CEO of your company has had—dealings—with someone who’s now decided that it suits him better to roll over, give himself up—basically, to out Aaron Rosen for some very dire crimes indeed.” Chelsea swallowed at the tightness she felt in her throat. “And that man is one of the clients you’re working with right now.”
“Why would he give that information to me?” Chelsea shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not like…I’m not anyone with any authority. I’m not even a project manager.” Johan watched her intently for a moment.
“Have you noticed a few people going missing at the office?” he asked her. “Just…dropping off the radar? No explanation, they just aren’t there anymore?” Chelsea felt her mouth go dry as she tried to rack her tired brain for the answer to that question. Johan held his silence for a moment before speaking again. “Perhaps Sarah Johns, Micah Paxton…Cary Knowles?” Chelsea felt as if her stomach had fallen to her knees. Sarah Johns was the project manager for one of the clients that Chelsea was assigned; Micah Paxton was the account manager. Cary Knowles was one of the salesmen. “They were all involved in this particular client’s business dealings with your company, and they’re all deceased.”
“No,” Chelsea said, shaking her head in denial. “You’re lying to me. Whatever kind of sick prank this is, it isn’t funny.” Johan exhaled, reaching into one of the many pockets on his jacket. He withdrew a folded-up bundle of papers.
“I have proof,” he told her, almost sympathetically. Reluctantly, Chelsea took the papers from him and unfolded them, staring down at the pages. The first several she flipped through were obituaries—featuring each of the names he had mentioned, listing unknown causes of death, presumed accidents. As she continued through the stack, Chelsea’s blood began to run cooler and cooler as she saw emails, text messages. Target has been handled, one read. No information found. Confiscate their work computer.
At the bottom of the pile, there was a picture of her—the one she had taken in the office, that was used for her email signature; it was attached to an email that read like a macabre dating profile, listing her address and phone number, the hours she worked, the fact that she typically went out to happy hour with her department on Fridays. “No,” Chelsea said, her voice little more than a breath. “This…I don’t even know anything!” She looked at Johan as her heart began beating faster in her chest, her eyes stinging.
“We need to do a few things, and we need to do them quickly,” Johan told her, his tone level. “Can you access your work computer from home?” Chelsea nodded absently, glancing down at the papers in her hands. She felt her fingers trembling, almost unable to hold the surprisingly slippery sheets of paper. “You need to download the information the client sent to you, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
“Where are we going?” She looked up again, meeting Johan’s level gaze.
“Away. That’s all you need to know for right now.” He paused. “Away for several days.”
“Do I have time to pack? Change clothes?” Johan shrugged.
“We should be out of here in an hour; by then your boss will have probably reported you phoning in sick.” His gaze trailed over her slowly. “Pack whatever you feel you can’t live without.” There was something so final in the statement; as if to underscore the point, Johan added, “I can’t guarantee anything you leave behind will still be here at the end of the day.” Chelsea stood unsteadily, letting the papers fall from her hands and onto the coffee table. She wished—fleetingly—that she had made coffee, instead of using the time she spent waiting for Johan’s arrival to get sleep; she had the feeling that it was going to be a very, very long day.