She nodded, pulling out her phone. “I can do that.”
Carson gave her his card. “Text me that list tonight. And, Nora? Vary your routine. Don’t leave work at the same time every day. Take different routes home. Keep your doors and windows locked. If you see or hear anything suspicious, call 911 first, then call me.”
“Okay.” She stood, clutching his card like a lifeline. “Thank you. For believing me.”
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
Carson watched her leave the coffee shop, noting the way she checked over her shoulder twice before she even reached the door. The way she walked quickly, purposefully, like she was trying not to be noticed.
Something was definitely wrong.
He pulled out his phone and texted Patterson:Need you to pull all reports from the past six months. Anything involving a Nora Bell, 29, worksdowntown. Also run a background check on her—work history, addresses, known associates. I want everything.
Then he opened a new file in his case management app and titled it: BELL, NORA - STALKING INVESTIGATION.
Carson’s gut said this was going to be bad. The question was how bad, and how fast he could stop it.
He’d failed to protect his sister.
He wouldn’t fail to protect Nora Bell.
Chapter 3
Nora stared at her computer screen, her stomach churning with a familiar sense of wrongness.
The Morrison file was different.
Not obviously different. Not in a way she could point to and saythere, that’s wrong. But the formatting was slightly off. Sections she’d carefully organized yesterday were now out of order. And the notes she’d made in the margins? Gone.
She scrolled through the document, pulse picking up speed with each page. Everything was there. All the data, all the audit findings, all the conclusions. But the structure she’d spent three hours perfecting had been...rearranged.
You’re imagining things.
Except she wasn’t. She knew her own work. Knew exactly how she’d left this file when she’d closed her laptop last night.
Nora glanced around the open office space. Cubicles stretched in neat rows, punctuated by the soft clicking of keyboards and low murmur of phone conversations. Normal. Everything looked completely normal.
Dan Morrison sat three cubicles down, hunched over his desk. He’d been with the firm for two years—quiet, competent, kept to himself. She’d maybe had a dozen conversations with him total.
But last week, he’d approached her in the break room with an odd intensity in his eyes. “You used to smile at me,” he’d said. “In the mornings. You don’t anymore.”
The accusation in his tone had made her skin crawl. She’d mumbled something about being busy and practically fled back to her desk.
Now she watched him work, wondering if he’d somehow accessed her files. But that didn’t make sense. Everything was password protected. IT had assured her the system was secure.
Unless IT was wrong.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Detective Black:Checking building security footage today. Will contact you with updates.
Relief flooded through her. He was actually investigating. Actually taking her seriously.
She typed back:Thank you. Something else happened—work files were changed. Not sure if it’s related.
His response came quickly:Save everything. Don’t delete anything. Document what was changed if you can.
Nora opened a new document and started typing out exactly what she remembered about the Morrison file’s original structure. Her hands shook slightly as she worked. Even this small action—documenting, reporting, trusting that someone would believe her—felt foreign.
In seven different foster homes, she’d learned that speaking up about problems only made things worse. The squeaky wheel didn’t get the grease. It got moved to a new home.
