She did. I wrote it down.
"Let me make some calls. I'll get back to you as soon as I know anything."
After we hung up, I contacted Dallas PD. They ran Boyd Newsome's information. Current address in North Dallas, employed as a construction superintendent for a commercial developer. No recent travel, no time off work in the past two months. His supervisor confirmed he'd been on-site every day for the past six weeks, including yesterday.
I called Lacey back. "It's not Boyd. He's in Dallas, hasn't left the job site in weeks. His employer verified it."
The relief in her voice was immediate. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Then who—"
"I'm working on it. Going through incident reports now, looking for patterns. I'll figure out who this is."
That evening, I drove past the studio during her Tuesday class. The motion light triggered as I approached, illuminating the entrance. A handful of cars in the gravel lot. Through the second-floor window, I could see movement—Lacey teaching, students following her lead.
The building looked more secure than it had. But secure wasn't the same as safe.
At home, I pulled up our incident reports from the past six months. Filtered by location—that corridor of Highway 81. Peeping Tom complaints. Loitering. Trespassing. Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct. Probation violations.
Started cross-referencing names.
Multiple names appeared across the reports. Transients, vagrants, repeat offenders in that area—all with similar charges. Peeping Tom complaints, loitering, trespassing. Some with probation violations, some with mandatory counseling they weren't attending.
The camera footage was too grainy to identify which one. Could be any of them. Could be someone not in the system at all.
I needed better information. A clearer look at whoever was doing this.
Until then, I'd keep watching.
Chapter Five
Lacey
By noon Wednesday, I was climbing the walls.
I couldn't focus on anything at the clinic. My mind kept circling back to Monday night—someone at my studio door, trying to break in.
When my lunch break finally came, I grabbed my keys and drove to the studio instead of eating. I needed to move. Needed to do something other than replay Gage's phone call in my head.
The building looked normal in afternoon light—just another tired structure on Highway 81. I let myself in through the main entrance and climbed the interior stairs.
The lock clicked into place behind me, solid and reassuring.
I changed into my practice clothes and approached my usual pole. The moment my hands wrapped around the chrome, something in my chest loosened. This was my space. My business. I wasn't going to let some stranger take that from me.
I climbed, inverted, and worked through the combination I'd been developing. The burn in my core and shoulders grounded me. Up here, I had control.
Then I heard wood creak below.
Probably nothing. The building settled all the time.
But I came down anyway and pulled up the camera feed on my phone.
My breath caught.
A man stood at the bottom of the interior stairs. Disheveled—layers of jackets, jeans that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. He swayed slightly, one hand on the wall for balance, then started climbing.
