The Prosecutor. Adrienne Giordano

gathered her apron and shoved the car door open. Her feet hit the pavement and she nearly groaned. Hauling trays all night had left her arms and back aching and, combined with her beat-up feet, she longed for her bed.

      Nothing about waitressing was easy, but the money was good. Better than good since she’d gotten lucky and landed a job in an upscale steak place. Still, she craved the day when she’d go back to an office job, sit behind a desk and leave the body aches behind.

      Soon, Emma. If her plan worked and Brian came home, she’d have her life and a chance at a normal schedule back. She could attend law school at night, allowing her to take a nine-to-five job. Heck, maybe Penny would hire her as an assistant.

      Emma hip-checked her car door shut and hit the LOCK button. A loud beep-beep sounded. Out of habit, she glanced behind her. Nothing there. Their neighborhood had always been safe, but she’d learned to be cautious wherever she went. Criminals didn’t necessarily care what neighborhood they were in if the target appeared easy.

      Humming to herself for a distraction until she reached the front door, she tossed her apron over her shoulder. She’d throw it and her uniform in the washer before bed so she’d have it for tomorrow.

      “Ms. Sinclair?”

      Emma froze, her body literally halting in place, unable to move. Deep—male—voice behind her. He knows my name. An onslaught of blood shot to her temples. Car key pointed out, she spun around. A man wearing an unzipped brown leather jacket, dark shirt—no buttons—and jeans stood in the tiny driveway directly under the garage light. He wasn’t tall, but he appeared fit. Muscular. Tough.

      Get a description.

      Short, darkish hair that was almost black. No gray. She guessed he was in his late forties. His nose was wide and crooked, broken a few times maybe.

      He stepped toward her. Don’t let him get too close. She backed away, key still in hand, ready to poke an eye, if necessary. He grinned. A disgusting I’ve-got-you grin that pinched Emma’s throat. She swallowed once, gripped the key harder.

      “Ms. Sinclair, relax. I’m Detective Ben Leeks, Chicago P.D.”

      Emma let out a long breath, but paralyzing tension racked her shoulders. No straight-up detective would be visiting her house at this hour, particularly the father of a guy whose girlfriend had been murdered. With her free hand, she reached into her jacket pocket for her phone. Worst case, she’d hold the panic button on her key ring to trigger the car’s horn and then dial 9-1-1.

      “Detective, it’s late. This is inappropriate.”

      Slowly, she backed toward the porch. A car drove by. Scream. That’s what she should do. Except she might wind up looking like a lunatic and lunatics never got their brother’s convictions overturned.

      The detective didn’t move. Simply stood there, arms loose at his sides, posture erect, but casual, completely nonthreatening. “No judge in Cook County will overturn that conviction. Get comfortable with your brother in prison and stop making trouble. Troublemakers in this city get dealt with. Sometimes the hard way.”

      Emma stood in a sort of detached shock. Tremors erupted over her body, that nasty prickling, digging into her limbs and making her itch. He strolled out of the driveway, just a man enjoying an early spring night. Get in the house. She ran toward the door, shoved the key at the lock with trembling hands and missed. She glanced over her shoulder again, saw no one and breathed in. Get inside. On the second try, the key connected and she stormed into the house, throwing the dead bolt then falling against the door.

      He’d just threatened her.

      Maybe it wasn’t an overt threat. Without a doubt he’d deny it if she flung an accusation his way, but they both knew he’d just delivered a message.

      All that was left now was to decide what she’d do about that message.