Someone dangerous to his carefully controlled life.
“You’re someone I don’t want to see hurt,” Carson said finally, turning and handing her a mug. “Someone I’m going to make sure stays safe. That’s all that matters right now.”
It wasn’t the whole truth. But it was all he could give her.
***
They ate dinner at Carson’s small dining table—Chinese takeout he ordered from a place that didn’t deliver, that required him to pick it up himself so there’d be no record of his address.
Paranoid? Maybe. But someone had tipped off Eugene. Someone knew more than they should. And until Carson figured out who, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Tell me about the other women,” Nora said, picking at her lo mein. “You said three others in my building reported feeling watched.”
Carson had been hoping to avoid this conversation until he had more information. But she deserved to know.
“I talked to them this afternoon before I picked you up,” he said. “Two were willing to talk. The third moved out of state last month—her friend said she was ‘spooked’ but wouldn’t say why.”
Nora set down her fork. “What did the other two say?”
“Same story as yours. Feeling watched. Things moved in their apartments. Reporting it to building security and being told it was nothing.” Carson pulled out his phone and opened his notes. “Avery Shone, 27, apartment 3B. She lived there for eight months before she broke her lease and moved. Said Eugene gave her ‘creepy vibes’ but couldn’t articulate why.”
“And the second woman?”
“Jessica Brown, 31, apartment 5D. Still lives there. She filed three reports with building security about someone being in her apartment while she was at work. Eugene investigated each time, found nothing, told her she must have forgotten locking up.”
Nora had gone pale. “How many women?”
“That I found? Three besides you. But I’m betting there are more who didn’t report it. Who convinced themselves they were being paranoid.”
“Oh God.” Nora pressed her hands to her face. “This isn’t just about me. He’s been doing this to multiple women.”
“That’s what it looks like.” Carson’s voice hardened. “Which means Eugene has a pattern. A system. And that makes him even more dangerous.”
“But you can’t prove it’s him.”
“Not yet. His lawyer blocked the search warrant. Without physical evidence—the cameras, proof he was in the apartments—I can’t touch him.” Frustration burnedin Carson’s chest. “But I’m working on it. Finn’s pulling every piece of data he can find. Phone records, financial records, anything that might give us leverage.”
Nora dropped her hands, and Carson saw the fear in her eyes. “What if you can’t prove it? What if he just keeps doing this?”
“I’ll prove it.” Carson leaned forward, holding her gaze. “I promise you, Nora. I’m going to get this bastard. One way or another.”
There was that word again.Promise.The one Holloway had warned him not to use.
But looking at Nora—scared and brave and trusting him despite every reason not to—Carson couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
***
After dinner, Carson set up his laptop at the dining table and dove into the case files while Nora curled up on his couch with her own laptop, working on something for her job.
It felt strangely domestic. Comfortable. As if they’d done this a hundred times before.
Which was exactly the problem.
Carson forced himself to focus on Eugene’s background check. There had to be something he’d missed. Some connection that would prove Eugene was the stalker.
Francis Whitmore, 34. Real name on his driver’s license, but he’d been using “EugeneMorrison” at the apartment building. Why the alias?
Carson pulled up Eugene’s family history. Father: Robert Whitmore, deceased. Died by suicide ten years ago. Mother: Linda Whitmore, living in Portland. No siblings.
