“I need an emergency trace on a phone number. Texted a victim in an active stalking case.” He read off the number from Nora’s phone. “Get me a name and location ASAP.”
“On it.”
He ended the call and focused on Nora. She’d wrapped both hands around her teacup as if she needed something to hold onto. The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced than they’d been at lunch yesterday. She looked exhausted. Terrified.
And she was wearing the blue sweater the stalker had complimented.
“Tell me about your day,” Carson said. “Everywhere you went. Everyone who might have seen you.”
She took a shaky breath and started talking. Work. The weird interaction with her coworkerDan. Lunch with her friend Lila. Therapy appointment. Straight home.
“Your therapist’s office,” Carson said. “Where is it?”
“Downtown. The Harrison Building.”
“Security cameras?”
“I...I don’t know. Maybe?”
He made a note. Someone could have followed her from work to lunch to therapy to home. Could have been watching all day, waiting for the right moment to send that message.
“The photo in your apartment,” he continued. “You’re sure it was moved?”
“Positive.” Her voice was stronger now, more certain. “I never touch that frame. Ever. It’s the last photo of my parents before they died. I keep it exactly the same way, always.”
The conviction in her voice told Carson everything he needed to know. This wasn’t paranoia or anxiety. Someone had been in her apartment.
Which should have been impossible. Her door had been locked. No signs of forced entry.
Unless someone had a key.
“I need to check your apartment,” he said. “Look for signs of entry, dust for prints, see if anything else was disturbed. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes. Please.”
“And I need you to think about who might have access to your apartment. Building staff, maintenance, anyone you’ve given a spare key to.”
“I’ve never given anyone a key. I don’t...” She trailed off, her expression crumpling slightly. “I don’t really have anyone to give keys to.”
The loneliness in those words cut deeper than it should have. Carson pushed away the instinct to reach across the table, to offer comfort that would cross professional lines he couldn’t afford to cross.
“Building staff then,” he said. “Who has master keys?”
Her shoulders lifted slightly. “Maintenance, I guess. The security guards. Eugene works nights—he’s always friendly. And there’s a daytime guard, Albert something.”
Eugene. The security guard who’d been too interested in the security footage. The one Carson’s instincts had flagged yesterday.
“I looked into Eugene,” Carson said carefully. “Ran his background. He’s using an alias. Real name isn’t Eugene Morrison. It’s Francis Whitmore.”
Nora’s face paled. “Why would he use a fake name?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. But until I do, I want you to avoid him. Don’t engage in conversation, don’t let him corner you alone. He has access to your apartment, Nora. He could be our guy.”
She presseda hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. “He sees me every day. He—oh God, he knows my schedule. He knows when I leave for work, when I come home...”
“Hey.” Carson kept his voice steady, authoritative. “We’re going to figure this out. But I need you to stay calm and stay smart. Can you do that?”
She nodded, dropping her hand. “What do I do?”
