The mess on her office floor mocked her. Even without Joel making an appearance, the mere thought of him returning had her losing control.

Annique couldn’t afford to do that. Couldn’t make any mistakes.

I wish I knew if it was him or not.

The flowers could be a nasty prank. After all, before she’d learned of the futility, she’d tried to get help and gone to the cops. Filed her reports. Got told an ardent ex-boyfriend wasn’t against the law.

Nope, he had to actually hurt her before they’d step in.

Assholes.

Maybe it’s Jasmine screwing with me. Her younger sister hadn’t been around much the past few years. Only visiting once since her move to Boston.

Jazzy wouldn’t do that to me. Annique liked to think her little sister had a bit of a conscience and wouldn’t take sadistic pleasure in dredging up old nightmares. But, other than Jazzy and the cops, no one else knew of the terror Joel had put her through.

It can’t be him. I saw him die. That much blood…

She shut her eyes and took deep breaths.

I have to get out of here.

Snaring a sweater from her closet, better than no coat at all, she left her office, telling Mitzy as she marched past, “I’ve got a headache. I’ll see you in the morning.”

A headache actually did pound behind Annique’s eyes, her jaw clenched as her stress built.

It’s not him.

Maybe if she kept repeating it, she’d believe it.

The drive home proved nerve-wracking, her head whipping to take in all the occupants of the cars on the road.

Is that blond hair I see?

Oops, almost took out the Honda Civic.

She kept glancing in her rearview mirror, convinced someone followed.

Oh my God, is that car gonna ram me?

Negative. He honked at her and cut her off. Probably because she kept dropping below the speed limit.

Paranoia had her taking lefts and rights, often with no signal, horns blaring as she made rapid moves in traffic. It took her four times as long to get home, but she finally made it to her apartment, not the most high-tech building in the world.

When she came here years ago, funds limited, she’d thought herself lucky to find this place. A one-bedroom with a renovated kitchen and great water pressure? She’d snatched it and made it her own with second-hand buys and flea market treasures.

When the money got better, she was too comfortable to leave. Joel was dead. No one knew her in this city. She’d redefined herself. Recreated a past.

Fooled herself into thinking she’d be okay.

Looking at her building, she could see all its faults. No security to guard as people came in. A locked front door that wasn’t all that hard to bypass. At least her apartment offered security. She’d had the best locks installed, not only on her door but also on the windows.

Would it be enough?

He’s dead.

Her phone buzzed, and she almost peed herself. Hands clammy, she pulled it off the dash where she’d had it charging and peeked at the screen.

Her breath whooshed out as she saw a text from Montgomery.

I have your coat.

Did it bear asking how he’d managed that feat?

Then again, according to the news on the radio, despite the shots fired at the restaurant and the damage, no one had been seriously injured. Just cuts and bruises from a random act of violence.

No dead or hospitalized bodies meant no need to hold on to patrons’ coats. It was feasible that he’d gotten his hands on it.

She paused before texting back.

Drop it off at my office tomorrow. Because no way was she going through that nerve-wracking drive again. She needed the comfort of her apartment.

How about I bring it to you now? It’s supposed to get chilly.

It was Boston. It was always cold around Christmas.

She fired back. I have a spare. I’ll be fine. Pause. Thank you.

The reply came immediately. Are you okay?

No. Far from it. But not because of the shooting. If that had been Joel at the window, he wouldn’t have missed.

Unless he toyed with her. How long since he’d fallen off that boat? Almost eight years? Ten since the terror first started.

It wasn’t him. She’d seen him die. Ghosts couldn’t hurt the living. Just give them nightmares.

Annie, answer me or else.

She snorted. Such a demanding man. Or else what?

Her fingers flew over her tiny keyboard. I’m fine. Just tired. Don’t be so bossy. Women don’t like it. Look at her giving him dating advice. If he knew what a failure her love life was, if any of her clients did, they’d ditch her in a heartbeat. Annique was a fraud when it came to love.

The next message came as she entered the building and checked her mailbox. Just junk.

It’s not being bossy. It’s called being assertive.

At that, she snorted. Okay, Bossy Pants.

The exchange did a lot to ease her angst. The elevator must have blocked her signal because, as she opened the door to her apartment, a flurry of buzzes let her know a bunch of new texts arrived.

That’s Mr. Bossy Pants. And I will add there is nothing wrong with checking on you. The events at noon today were disturbing.

Annie…?

Don’t make me hunt you down.

She sighed and managed a small laugh before replying. Calm down. I was in the elevator. And I said I was fine.

Which was almost true now that she stood in the relative safety of her apartment.

A lie that was shattered by the brisk knock on her door.

Oh, God. He found me!