“Okay. Thanks for letting me know anyway. I’ve got to go, but text me if she leaves.”

“You got it.” I ended the call and pocketed the phone, hoping Willow would open up to me about what was going on before it was too late.

Willow

I trembled as I stared at the envelope protruding from my bag. My name was written on the front in block letters. I’d discovered it beneath my door and opened it enough to get a glimpse of its contents, but before I’d had a chance to check properly, I’d felt the creepy sensation of being watched, and I’d had to leave. To get somewhere secure before I uncovered its contents. Where could be more secure than a security firm?

I grabbed the envelope and, with fumbling fingers, tore it the rest of the way open. Instead of emptying it onto my desk, I peered inside. Glossy photographs stared back at me. I lifted one out and felt myself go cold. It was of me, and based on the surroundings, it must have been taken during my morning walk from my apartment to work. Someone had captured that photograph without me noticing. They had been watching, exactly as I’d feared. Not that I had any idea who “they” were.

I snatched up another photo. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but when I did, my stomach rolled. I was silhouetted against our apartment window, wearing my favorite tank top and yoga pants. I shoved the picture back into the envelope and leafed through the other photos. They were all of me. Walking down the street, buying coffee, at a gala with Tom and our respective dates, standing outside my apartment building with Sage.

Oh my God.

Someone had been following me. No. Worse than that. They’d been stalking me. Exactly as Ronan had guessed.

I searched for a letter, a note, anything to explain what this was about, but there was nothing. Desperation growing, I flicked through the photos again, scanning the backs in case anything had been written onto them directly.

Empty, empty, empty—oh, wait.

Finally, I spotted block lettering that matched the writing on the envelope. When I skimmed the text, I gagged. “My favorite” was all it said.

I flipped the photo over.

It was one of me in my flimsy summer pajamas, lying on my bed. From the angle of the image, it must have been taken through the window. But how? There were no buildings that looked directly into my room. A drone, perhaps? But why would anyone do that? Was it possible the eyes I’d felt on me had nothing to do with Tom, Ronan, or Lennox Securities? Maybe it was a garden-variety stalker, and I’d read too much into the stuff with my brother.

I turned the photo over and read those hideous words again.

My favorite.

Had some sick bastard done this for a thrill?