Other than being creepy? “No.”
“Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“No.”
His head tilted to the side and held them up towards the lights in the ceiling. “It looks like it was printed, then scanned and copied.”
“Okay.”
“And the text at the party, do you feel that it is related?”
“I do.”
“Officer McNolty had cyber track the number it’s untraceable so I would have to agree with you, even though it was less threatening.”
“I feel like he just wanted me to know he saw me.”
He lowered the papers. “Other than the guys you mentioned to Officer McNolty you met on the apps, which we will follow up on, is there anyone you can think of who might have motive? Any exes, maybe?”
“No.” The word came out too fast, a little too flat. And that, fundamentally, was the problem.
If I’d spent my formative years racking up messy breakups and collecting lovers like mismatched cutlery, maybe I’d have someone to finger for the job. Instead, I’d been drafted once again into custodial adulthood right out of college. When I finally dared to hope for a life of my own, my twenties were spent burying Grandma Betty and Grandpa Bill and salvaging what they’d built out of tradition and pride, continuing to raise my sisters, patching the family business with duct tape and legal pads, and making sure we didn’t lose their house. There was no parade of ex-boyfriends, no trail of wounded suitors with axes to grind.
For years I made myself a fortress, mortared with duty and avoidance. My idea of a wild night was going over fourth quarter projections with a glass of pink Moscato. “Love,” when it showed up, was more like a gas leak than a bonfire, invisible, gradual, and suddenly everywhere at once. Then one tiny crack in a window, and it disappeared. I had one serious relationship, if you could call a caffeinated, semester-long courtship “serious,” and it ended with a Post-it left on my laptop. I didn’t even have a rebound.
Now, when it was finally supposed to be just my time to discover what was left of Billie Bliss after a decade of hiding her in the back office, the universe decided I needed a stalker. And to make it a proper rom-com complication, my first and only love was back in the picture, looking better than ever and carrying exactly the emotional baggage I’d always pretended I didn’t want. Kids. Oh, and he had a hot model girlfriend of threeyears who he was going to move to the UK for, who I was sure at any moment would be showing up on his doorstep.
“What about your business? This might not be connected to your personal life at all.”
I searched my memory for any vendors or customers I may have upset. “I doubt it. I handle the accounts for our family bridal business. My sister Bailey had to take over client relationships because, as she says, I’m genetically incapable of distinguishing between being rude and being honest.”
Ramos’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You’d be surprised how often that comes up in this line of work.”
I blinked. “People being honest?”
“People being honest about being rude.” He checked his notes. “So there’s no one you’ve even casually dated? Someone who might have misunderstood casual for committed?”
“No. I tend to keep things clear. If I don’t want to see someone again, I say so. Some guys haven’t taken it well, but nothing’s ever gone past one date, so I doubt it would trigger this kind of response.”
He gave a noncommittal hum. “What about an admirer? Anyone who showed you attention, even if you weren’t interested, who could have gotten the wrong idea?”
My mind returned a blank report. “No. I’m not particularly approachable.”
“If you say so.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, and jotted something, maybe a private joke, then sat back. “Well, if you think of someone, or if you get anything else, call me. I’ll give you my card.” He fished a business card out of the drawer and slid it across the desk. His thumb lingered on mine a moment longer than necessary. I wondered if this was a calculated move or just a byproduct of confidence bred from years of handing out business cards to scared women.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. He had a kind face, the sort that made you want to confess, and he wore his fatigue openly, not weaponized into cynicism like other cops I’d met.
“It’s got my cell. Call any time. Even if you just get a weird feeling.”
I dropped his card into my purse and stood.
As he walked me out, he instructed, “These things can escalate, so I’d suggest varying your route to work and home. Maybe have a friend walk you to your car. Just until we have more to go on.”
I nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He stopped at the station’s exit, making a show of security protocol, and held the door as I passed. He extended his hand, and I slipped mine into his, this time he didn’t let go right away. It was large. Warm. Strong. “Seriously, day or night. If you need anything, just call.”
“I will, thanks.” I slid my hand away and headed through the exit as a tiny thrill rushed through me. Detective Ramos was attractive. He had a very calming, safe energy. He might even be interested in me. But he didn’t even come close to holding a candle to Adam Knight.
