THIRTY-FOUR
Kate Breckenridge slowedher steps as a chill slid down her spine.
She paused on the sidewalk outside her office building, one hand tightening around her phone.
Los Angeles mornings were usually congested—rideshare cars idling at the curb, commuters weaving through crosswalks, the hum of early traffic echoing between buildings. The sky was already a hard, cloudless blue, promising warmth later in the day.
November brought cooler mornings, but the heat always returned by afternoon. Being from Texas, Kate was used to far worse.
Still, something felt wrong.
She stood there in a soft ivory blouse, black slacks pressed sharp, and low but stylish heels. Professional. Put together. The kind of outfit that made her feel competent before she even stepped into a meeting.
She needed that today.
Kate worked as a commercial real estate analyst, specializing in redevelopment projects—vacant lots, aging properties, complicated zoning deals. It was detail-heavy, high-stakes work,and she was good at it. She liked order. Structure. Numbers that made sense when people didn’t.
Right now, none of that helped.
She had the unmistakable sensation that someone was watching her.
The skin at the back of her neck prickled. Her shoulders tightened as she turned slowly, scanning the street behind her.
A man crossed at the intersection, coffee balanced precariously in one hand. A woman jogged past with earbuds in, ponytail swinging. A delivery truck idled at the curb, engine rattling as the driver checked his phone.
Normal. Ordinary.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass facade of the building—alert eyes, jaw set a little too tight.
Breathe, Kate. Breathe. You’re fine.
She’d felt this once before.
A few days ago, walking to her car after work, she’d had the same creeping awareness. The same certainty that she wasn’t alone. She’d stopped then too, heart pounding as she scanned the parking lot.
She’d seen nothing.
The feeling had faded quickly, leaving her embarrassed. Lack of sleep, she’d decided. Stress. Too many true crime podcasts playing in the background while she worked late.
Miles had teased her about it over dinner that night.Maybe this is a hazard of listening to murder stories for fun.
She’d laughed. Promised herself she’d unplug more. True crime was her newest obsession.
But this morning, the sensation felt sharper. Closer.
Kate glanced down at her phone, thumb hovering over Miles’s name. He’d texted her earlier—Good luck today. Call me later?—and she’d smiled at the message.
She didn’t call him now.
Not yet.
Instead, she straightened her shoulders and started walking again, heels clicking against the concrete as she crossed toward the entrance. The glass doors reflected the street back at her, warped and shimmering in the early light.
She didn’t know what she expected to see behind her.
She only knew she didn’t like that the feeling hadn’t faded.
CHAPTER
