Stolen Secrets. Sherri Shackelford

to her house, and he’d certainly never put away her dishes.

      He held his index finger before his lips, then tapped his ear. Her breath caught. He thought someone was listening to them. Why hadn’t the possibility occurred to her sooner? Because I was a normal person before this morning, that’s why, she mentally reassured herself.

      Jordan hoisted an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to tell me why your system of organization makes perfect sense?”

      He appeared to be running the conversation on autopilot, his attention clearly distracted.

      “As a matter of fact, I do.” Her heart pounded against her ribs. “You’re supposed to organize by categories.”

      Backing away, he tilted his head. Though the ceilings were tall, he easily reached the smoke detector.

      Using his fingertips, he gently unscrewed the cover. “How do you organize by categories?”

      “It’s really s-simple,” she squeaked. Not only was Jordan searching for listening devices—he was finding them. “You start by putting everything from your kitchen into one big pile. Then you hold each item and decide if it makes you happy.”

      He tugged on a few wires and stepped back. “How do you know if something makes you happy?”

      A tiny, round disk dangled from the plastic case. Her mouth went dry and she swayed, clutching the counter for balance. She was being monitored.

      The past few weeks came into sharp focus, and nausea rose in the back of her throat. All the days and evenings she’d thought she was alone, someone had been with her. Someone had been shadowing her every move in the house.

      What had she said? What had they heard?

      Though she wanted to shout into the tiny microphone, she held herself in check. “You just know if something makes you happy, I guess.”

      As she recalled snippets of her inane chatter and off-key singing, hysterical laughter bubbled in the back of her throat. She sincerely hoped they’d been tortured by her screeching renditions of show tunes.

      Jordan snatched a piece of paper from the kitchen island, and she scrambled to locate a pen.

      “That sounds like quite a project,” he said, then scribbled, Just go along with whatever I say.

      The laughter died in the back of her throat. This was serious. Someone had followed her this morning. Shot at her. They knew where she lived. What else did they know about her?

      Gazing in revulsion at the listening device, Lucy nodded her understanding of his instructions.

      Jordan crossed into the living room and studied her bookshelf, then did a half circle. The walls were teal blue and plastered with colorful paintings she’d purchased at local art fairs over the years. Oriental rugs in deep shades of garnet and orange covered scratches in the ancient wood flooring. An original ornate chandelier dangled its crystal beads, and the sofa was covered in bright floral throws.

      Her mom loathed this room. She claimed the mix of patterns exacerbated her migraines, and she was forever nudging the furniture into right angles.

      Lucy squared her shoulders and studied Jordan’s expression for any signs of judgment, then caught herself. She didn’t care what he thought of her decorating. He didn’t live here—she did.

      Running his fingers along the top of her bookcase, he asked, “What happens if something doesn’t make you happy?”

      Her mind went blank. What on earth was he talking about? Organizing. They were talking about organizing. She’d make a terrible spy. Even as her perceptions of her safe, monotonous world were fragmenting around her, her thoughts drifted to the mundane.

      Jordan dusted his hand against his pant leg, and Lucy cringed. “If something doesn’t make you happy, then you get rid of it.”

      He moved several knickknacks, frowning at each one in turn. Why hadn’t she curated her collection of bedazzled elephant figurines when she was organizing the kitchen? No, she was proud of her flamboyant style. It wasn’t for everyone, sure, and maybe she wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, but she wasn’t a hoarder or anything awful like that.

      Jordan removed and replaced each book. “What about me? Do I make you happy? Because you’re going to be seeing a lot of me. Especially after what happened today.”

      He splayed his arms, urging her to agree.

      “Absolutely you make me happy.” This time she didn’t hesitate. “You may stay.”

      If only putting the rest of her life in order was as simple as organizing the linen closet. What else might she excise that didn’t make her happy? She’d start with traffic jams and finish with the person who was impersonating her.

      “Excellent.” Jordan stepped closer and spoke close to her ear. “Almost done. You’re doing great.” He raised his voice. “As usual, there’s nothing to eat here. Why don’t we go out?”

      “Sounds good,” she agreed, her stomach churning.

      Food was the last thing on her mind. Momentarily at a loss, she took a few halting steps. The events of the day were starting to catch up with her, and she was having trouble focusing. A list of tasks bounced through her head. She needed to find someone to water her plants. She needed to check the locks. She needed…to feel safe again.

      As though sensing her distress, Jordan’s expression softened.

      “Sit,” he ordered gently. “Rest your ankle.”

      “It’s better already.” Her nerves were raw, and the pain was the furthest thing from her mind. “Hardly a twinge.”

      “I know you’ve had a long day, but I think it’s better if we go out to eat. You could use a change of scenery.”

      “That would be nice,” she replied with a nod to their invisible audience. She felt as though she was a marionette being coaxed into speaking. “I can walk as long as you go slow.”

      “Don’t forget to grab your things. You shouldn’t be here alone tonight.”

      Lucy widened her eyes. “Do we want people to know I’m leaving?”

      If someone was listening, how much should they give away?

      “You’ll only be gone a few days.” Jordan shrugged. “Just until the excitement dies down.”

      Her pulse hadn’t returned to normal since she’d learned someone was listening to them. Even gathering an overnight bag seemed like an overwhelming task.

      Lucy knotted her index finger in the hair at the nape of her neck. “Sorry about the mess.”

      Seeing her house through Jordan’s eyes increased the tension. There were always stacks of books on the coffee table, and papers seemed to breed and multiply the moment she turned her back. There were a few dishes in the sink and more set to dry on the counter. Judging by the smudge on Jordan’s pant leg, the whole place needed a good dusting.

      “I like your place.” He tweaked a patchwork throw on the back of a chair. “It’s exotic. Like a Moroccan market.”

      She assumed he was merely being polite. What else was he going to say? It looks like a circus clown threw up in your living room. Then again, if this was how conversations played out when people were listening, she was tempted to tell her mom about the surveillance equipment. Maybe an audience would coax a compliment out of her. Lucy snorted. Not likely.

      Jordan tilted his head. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

      His concern sent melting warmth through her chest before she caught herself. Having him here brought back a torrent of emotion.

      Jordan reminded her of a future she’d finally given up on. She missed Brandt. She missed his larger-than-life personality. She missed his understanding. She even missed his terrible taste in movies.