Safe In His Sight. Regan Black

her bad day wouldn’t get worse with some pseudoemergency request from her mother, she checked her inbox.

      The emails appeared to be from the notifications address of her favorite cosmetics store, but instead of a graphic or coupon, the attachments were pictures of her. Julia’s breath backed up in her lungs as she examined the numerous images from the past week. It took a moment for her to realize the pictures were labeled Day 1, Day 2, etc., matching the time line precisely to how long she’d been on the Falk case.

      Her stomach clenched. How had she missed this jerk following her to and from work, out to lunch and to the gym in the evenings? Pulse skittering, she clamped her lips together, biting back the scream building in her throat. Thank God she didn’t have an exterior office with a view. She was safe in here, two rows of cubicles between her and the windows.

      Still, it required a significant effort to stay in her chair when she wanted to cower under the desk and hide from the man on the street below. She flexed and stretched her hands, bunching up the fabric of her slacks in her fists and smoothing it out over and over again, until the anxiety subsided. She was strong, capable. When she regained a measure of calm, she downloaded and saved each photo attachment from her email account, adding them to the file she’d created less than an hour ago.

      She enlarged the single picture she’d caught of the man in the ball cap, searching out any details in the shadows of his face for possible identification against Falk’s known associates. There just wasn’t enough to go on with the shadows from the bill of the cap and the dark sunglasses that blocked his eyes. Although he seemed of average height compared with the nearest passersby on the sidewalk, the blue windbreaker hid his real build.

      Julia swore when yet another email arrived. No picture this time, just one sentence: You will keep me informed.

      Her temper quickened and she fought the urge to send back a scathing reply. He might not realize it, but she would never jeopardize her career or the safety of a client over a random stranger’s overblown sense of power. Having learned the hard way that pride and temper could negate strength and capability in a challenging situation, she carefully considered her options.

      She couldn’t go to the police without talking to her bosses first. Discussing this with one of the investigators on staff would have the same result. Both options would likely get her dumped from the case. While leaving the case might make her less valuable to the stalker, opportunities like the Falk case didn’t come along every day. There were fifty other associates ready to snap up her spot if she was removed. And what was there to say? A man found my personal number, followed me and took pictures of me around the city. So what? It was an inconvenience, a nuisance, not a crime.

      She could wait him out. He’d proved he had access and he was sneaky, but she was aware of him now. Other than more creepy attempts to frighten her, there wasn’t much else he could do to intimidate her. The firm knew everything about her—all the way back to the unhappy life she’d mostly escaped—having done their due diligence before hiring her. There weren’t any skeletons in a forgotten closet to shake loose and use against her.

      Her phone hummed with yet another personal email. Damn it. She reached to turn off the device and noticed this time the email appeared to be from her bank.

      She swore again, her stomach knotted with dread as she opened the email. A screen shot showing a mobile deposit and immediate transfer of nine thousand dollars filled her phone screen. Another email hit her inbox, this one an alert from her credit card showing she’d purchased a twenty-thousand-dollar entertainment system.

      “Dear God.” She closed her eyes, knowing how that sort of thing would look to her bosses, as well as an outside auditor. As if defense attorneys weren’t typically considered corrupt to start with, now her finances actually reflected bad practices.

      She picked up her desk phone to report the credit card fraud, determined to keep her cool until she knew why she’d been targeted this way.

      A text popped up on her phone screen, the words raising the hair on the back of her neck. Reporting it is useless. I control your accounts now. I control YOU now.

      She struggled for a calm breath, to think her way through this choking fear. He had her money? No. No! Panic lanced through her with razor-tipped claws. Switching to her bank’s website, she discovered he was serious. Even her password recovery email address bounced back as incorrect.

      If you want your life back you will cooperate.

      Mitch Galway grabbed longneck bottles of beer three at a time from the coolers under the bar. At just past ten, the Escape Club was packed to capacity and the crowd was working up a profit-turning thirst as they danced and screamed and sang along with the bands on tonight’s schedule. His next customers ordered the everyday special and Mitch popped open canned beer with one hand while pouring bourbon into shot glasses with the other.

      He glanced up at the stage when the last notes of the current song faded away. In the momentary lull, the lead singer introduced the owner of the club as guest drummer for the next set. Grant Sullivan knew drums, the Philly music scene and how to keep men like Mitch from going stir-crazy when they fell on tough times.

      This was Mitch’s second week at the Escape and the only thing keeping him sane since the Philadelphia Fire Department had placed him on administrative leave. More than anything he wanted to stay connected with the action at his firehouse on the west side of town, but he didn’t dare. Getting impatient would only drag out his case and keep him off the job longer. He owed Grant big-time for giving him all the shifts he could handle between now and whenever the PFD reinstated him.

      Another customer served, he moved on to the next. The bustling crowd kept his mind off the troubling thought of how long it might be before he worked a fire. He took an order, admiring the approach of a striking redhead. Chin up, it was as if she dared the whole world to try to take a shot or give her a kiss. He imagined those rosy lips could level a man with a technical knockout.

      She squeezed close to the bar. No wedding band. He wondered where her boyfriend was. Maybe it was a girl’s night out. “What can I get for you?” He leaned over the bar so she wouldn’t have to shout her answer.

      “I need to speak with Alexander.”

      Huh. That phrase meant the lady was in some sort of trouble. “All right.” Following Escape Club protocol, Mitch scooped ice into a glass and filled it with water. Anyone who came into the bar and asked for Alexander needed to speak privately with Grant. Usually it was a matter of protection, or an assist getting out of a tough situation. Mitch dropped a straw into the glass and pushed it across the bar toward her. Giving a nod toward the stage, he said, “He’s on the drums. I’ll take you back as soon as he’s done.”

      She gave a quick nod, her hands closing around the water glass, but she didn’t drink.

      He continued to work the crowd, keeping an eye on her, noting the way she repeatedly peered over her shoulder and took careful stock of the people ebbing and flowing around her. He interrupted his service rhythm just long enough to send Grant a text message.

      Shortly after Grant exited the stage to cheers and applause, Mitch’s cell phone hummed.

      “Alexander’s waiting for you,” he said to the redhead.

      Her lips compressed to a thin, stern line, she slid off the stool and joined him at the end of the bar. He led her to Grant’s office and stepped aside for her to enter. Intending to give them privacy, he didn’t follow.

      “Join us,” Grant said, waving him inside.

      With a nod, Mitch entered the office, closed the door and leaned back against it.

      His boss extended a hand to the woman for a brisk handshake. “Grant Sullivan. You’ve met my bartender, Mitch Galway.”

      “Julia Cooper.” She slid a wary glance at Mitch but didn’t shake his hand. “Yes.”

      “Have a seat, please.” Grant’s chair creaked as he landed in it. The man was built like a boxer, stocky and solid, yet light on his feet with an energy that frequently