Page 49 of Archer

“What about travel arrangements?” Colton asked. “Do you book your own hotels? Use a credit card?”

“Alexis books travel plans related to my career. Sometimes the venues provide accommodations.”

Nash looked up. “That’s your manager?”

Harper chewed her lip and nodded.

“So either someone’s sharing that information,” I said, “or this guy is following you physically from the venues to wherever you’re staying.” My hands curled into fists at the possibility. I imagined some faceless man attending her shows, then waiting for her to leave, following her to afterparties and dinners, then home. Watching her go inside and pass by the windows, probably building some twisted fantasy in his head.

“So he saw me perform at the Bluebird,” Harper said quietly, circling back. “Just as things began to pick up with my career.”

“Which could make him feel possessive,” Nash said.

I rubbed my forehead. All the late-night research I’d done on stalking mentalities and mindsets returned in a rush. The patterns referenced online were present in the situation before me. “He might think he discovered you. That you’re somehow his friend, his responsibility, or even his property.”

Nash met my eyes, and I saw the deepening concern there.

If this wasn’t about her fame, if this was personal to him, that kind of delusion could make him all the more dangerous.

The sheriff stood and passed Harper his card. “I think I have everything I need. Call me directly if anything else happens, or if you think of anything else I should know.”

He looked to Colton. “Send me those schedules.”

“On it. I’ll reach out to the venue about ticket purchases, see how many people attended every show, then look into their profiles. Maybe he’s leaving a trail, and we can get a name.”

Nash pointed at Colton. “Send me that info too.”

Harper rose and walked to the porch railing as Nash climbed into his cruiser. Distress rolled off her in waves.

I wanted to comfort her. Put my hand on her shoulder. Remind her she wasn’t alone.

Instead, I stayed where I was and maintained a professional distance.

Knox caught my eye and jerked his head toward the cottage. I followed him inside.

“What’s wrong?” he asked once we were out of earshot.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit.” Knox crossed his arms. “You’re getting in your own head about this. I can see it.”

“Nope.”

“Archer.” His voice dropped. “You’re the first to comfort anyone in distress, at least with words of reassurance. Occasionally blunt and abrupt words, but you always make an effort. Now, you’re being weird. Stoic. That’s not you. You’re behaving as if…” He looked at me until I looked away. “Did something happen between you two?”

My instinct was to dodge the question, redirect him, or storm off. Any of those things would give him a far worse idea than what really transpired, so I glared and fessed up. “She was very emotional after the roses arrived.”

“And?”

“I held her. I comforted her. I did all the things I shouldn’t have done when a few encouraging words would’ve sufficed.”

Knox stared. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t that enough?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. “She’s vulnerable and scared. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not behaving as if she’s my—” I bit off the rest of the sentence, and his eyes narrowed.

He set his hands on his hips, and I looked away while he tried to hear what I wasn’t saying, or otherwise discern what the hell my problem was.

If he figured it out, I’d love to know.