“Sydney Rose?”

A deep voice, winded but firm, came from behind her, along with a hand on her arm.

She whirled. Him. Where . . . how had he . . . ? He must’ve cut through the lawn in front of the Victorian, hidden by the willow, the grass quieting his steps.

Why—why?—had she stopped running? She should’ve raced to her building’s front door, flung herself inside, and refused to slow down until she’d reached her cramped apartment, turned both locks, and slid the tiny chain into place.

“Get away from me.” She fumbled with her purse. “I’ve got mace.”

He dropped his hand, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Thanks for the warning, but you won’t need it.”

She backed toward the building until her heels knocked into the first of three concrete steps leading to the front door. When she stumbled, the man reached out for her arm again.

With a flinch, she jerked away, heart hammering. “I said get—”

“I’m not here to hurt you. If you just would’ve stopped the first time I called your name—”

She wrenched away, instinct pulsing through her as she booted her foot toward the man’s knee, his oomph letting her know the kick had done at least a little good. She whacked him with her purse, then scrambled up the steps.

“Please, I just want to talk—”

She yanked the door open and raced inside. For possibly the first time since she’d moved into this building, she didn’t wrinkle her nose at the faint, ever-present scent of the cloves her landlord smoked or wince at the thumping bass coming from 1B. She barreled up the carpeted staircase and reached her door in seconds, jutting the key into the lock with shaky hands.

Finally, pulse still skittering, she barricaded herself in her apartment—turned both locks and slipped the chain into place. Breathe, Syd. Just breathe.

Should she call the police? Or simply wait and hope the man went away? If only she kept a baseball bat by the front door. Should’ve kicked him harder. Or better yet, kneed him in the groin. Francie at the restaurant kept trying to get her to join her for a self-defense class. She really ought to take the chef up on it, especially if Micah couldn’t get his act together—

The knock bellowed, shoving her heart into a tailspin all over again. Her groan was lost in the sound of a second knock and the man’s frustrated voice.

“Sydney, please, I’m not here to harm you. I just need to talk to you for a few minutes. I’m sorry I alarmed you.”

“Would you just go away? I don’t know who you are. If you think I’m going to open my door—”

“My name’s Wilder Monroe. I’m a private investigator. Here, I’ve got my badge and my license. I’m going to slide them under the door, okay?”

A moment later, the items brushed over the faded hardwood floor and appeared at her feet. She ran her clammy palms over the front of her work uniform—white collared shirt, black tie, black pants—and forced an exhale as she bent. The glint of the brass badge drew her focus first, the words private investigator in blue above an emblem.