Which meant this woman was either desperate or scared.
Or both.
He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit down. What’s your name?”
“Nora Bell.” She sat, perched on the edge of the chair as if she might bolt at any second. “My dad was Daniel Bell. He was a cop here about twenty years ago? He worked with you. I mean, not you, but your father. Before we moved to Seattle.”
Daniel Bell. The name tugged at something in Carson’s memory. “I remember. My dad talked about him. Good cop. I’m sorry for your loss. I heard about the accident.”
“Thank you.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. I called the station and they said to file a report online, but this felt like...I needed to talk to someone who might actually listen.”
Red flag number one. When someone said they needed to be listened to, it usually meant other people hadn’t been listening.
“I’m listening,” Carson said. “What happened?”
She took a breath, and he watched her trying to organize her thoughts. “Someone’s watching me. Following me. I think they’ve been in my apartment. And last night, in the parking garage at my work, someone approached me and I ran, and maybe it was nothing, but it didn’t feel like nothing, and my car wouldn’t start, and—” She stopped, pressing her lips together. “You think I’m crazy. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said carefully. “I think you’re scared. Tell me everything, from the beginning. Take your time.”
Maggie brought Carson’s coffee and sandwich, raised an eyebrow at Nora. “Can I get you anything, sweetie?”
“Just water, please.”
Maggie nodded and disappeared.
Nora took another breath and started talking.
She told Carson about the parking garage—the dead car, the figure approaching, the chase up six flights of stairs. She told him about things in her apartment being moved. Files on her computer being opened when she was sure she’d closed them. A gift appearing at her door that she hadn’t ordered—a crimson scarf with no note.
She told him about the feeling. The persistent, gnawing sense that eyes were on her. That something was wrong, even though she couldn’t prove it.
Carson listened without interrupting, watching her body language. The way her hands shook slightly when she talked about the parking garage. The way her eyes darted to the coffee shop windows as if she expected to see someone watching. The way she kept her purse close, protective.
This wasn’t paranoia. This was fear.
And in his experience, when someone was this scared, there was usually a reason.
“Have you noticed anyone specific?” he asked when she finished. “Anyone at work or in your building who seems too interested in you?”
“No. I mean, there’s a security guard at my building who’s always friendly, but that’s his job, right? And there’s a coworker who got kind of weird last week, but he’s always been a little odd.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. “I sound paranoid. I know I sound paranoid. My therapist thinks it’s anxiety from my childhood—I grew up in foster care after my parents died, and I have trust issues, and—”
“Nora.” Carson waited until she met his eyes. “I don’t think you’re paranoid. I think you’re in danger.”
Her eyes widened. “You believe me?”
“I believe something’s wrong. Whether it’s a stalker, a coworker with bad intentions, or something else, I don’t know yet. But I believe you.”
The relief that washed over her face made something in his chest tighten. How many people had dismissed her fears? How long had she been carrying this alone?
“I want to investigate,” Carson continued. “Starting with your apartment building. I’ll need to check security footage, talk to your neighbors, maybe interview that security guard. And I’ll need a list of anyone you’ve had conflicts with recently—at work, socially, anywhere.”
“I don’t really have conflicts with people,” she said. “I keep my head down. Stay quiet. Don’t make waves.”
Classic behavior from someone who’d grown up in an unstable environment. Don’t be noticed. Don’t cause problems. Stay safe by staying small.
But someone had noticed her anyway.
“I’ll still need the list,” he said. “Anyone you reported for anything, anyone you turned down for a date, anyone who seemed unhappy with you for any reason. Even if it seems minor.”
