Felix looked from me to Cal. Finally he sighed and shook his head. By the way all the fight drained out of his shoulders, I could tell before he even spoke that I’d won.

“Alright.”

“Thank you!” Despite myself, I threw my arms around his neck.

“But if Cal feels there’s even the slightest hint of danger to you, or anyone else on my staff, all bets are off.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” I said, giving him a mock salute as I backpedaled out the door.

As soon as I sat back down at my desk, I booted up my computer and opened my archives folder.

I could do this. So what if my reporter skills were a little rusty? I had skills. Mad skills. I would find this creep. And I knew just where to start looking.

The unlucky celebrities I’d written about.

I pulled up my columns from the past month. Monday through Thursday I put out a short daily, with a longer, detailed version on Fridays. Five days a week times four weeks, and I had twenty articles to work with.

Going on Allie’s assumption that our Mystery Caller had multiple mentions, I scanned through the columns, making note of any name that appeared more than once.

“Who did you write about yesterday?”

I jumped in my seat and spun around to find Cal reading over my shoulder.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“A little jumpy?”

“No, death threats make me feel perfectly secure, thanks,” I said. Then I swiveled back to my screen, taking a deep breath to rein in my heart rate.

Unfortunately, Cal didn’t take my sarcasm as a hint, instead leaning his butt against my desk and making himself comfortable. “The email said you hadn’t taken his warning. Which means that he didn’t like something you printed between the time he called and last night,” Cal persisted.

“I was getting to that,” I said.

I pulled up the file containing yesterday’s column and checked it against my list. Four names came up.

Cal pulled out a notebook and pen and wrote them down.

Katie Briggs, an actress whose volatile love life had single-handedly paid my rent last summer.

Jennifer Wood, the teen idol who unwittingly ended up holding the doobie.

Blain Hall, rehab-bound rocker.

And, of course, Edward Pines, pedophile director.

“Any of these characters stand out? Any have a history of erratic behavior?” Cal asked, his pen hovering.

I snorted. “They’re celebrities. Everything they do is erratic.”

“Who’s this girl?” Cal stabbed his finger at Katie’s name.

“Katie Briggs,” I said.

He shrugged. “Should I know her?”

I blinked at him. “Seriously? Katie Briggs?”

“You keep repeating her name like that will help. Look, I don’t know who she is. Wanna clue me in?”