She flew into action, going straight to his office. Pulling out the leather chair, she sat down and clicked the mouse. The screen lit up, but his computer was password-protected. She’d figured as much. She began opening drawers, but they were filled with the usual—pens, pencils, paper clips, stationery, household folders. She got up and went to the large bookcase on the opposite wall, scanning the shelves. Just books, pictures, and pieces of art. She knelt down and opened the cabinet doors beneath the shelves. Rows and rows of camera equipment with lenses of all sizes and shapes. In one corner was a stack of folders. She grabbed all of them, stood up, and plopped them on the desk, flipping through the notated tabs. Nothing to raise alarm bells. Until she reached the bottom of the pile. To the one marked “My Katie.”

She gasped when she opened the folder. Photo after photo of Kate. She went through them as fast as she could: Kate in a coffee shop, sitting alone; Kate coming out of a yoga studio; Kate loading groceries in her car. There were hundreds of them—all of Kate, all candid.

He was still a stalker.

Was he a killer too?

She pulled out her phone to take some shots of the pictures but fumbled with her code. She heard the front door close. Damn it, open! Swiping to the right, she opened the camera. She quickly pressed the button and got a few shots.

“Blaire?” she heard him call from the hallway.

She quickly returned the files to their place and shut the cabinet door, her heart beating like a jackhammer. She turned away from the bookcase just as Gordon reached the doorway.

He frowned. “What are you doing in here?” He took a few steps closer, scanned the desk, and then looked back at her.

She smiled, trying to put him at ease. “I was just looking at your desk. It’s exquisite. Where did you get it?”

He stared at her, his pupils narrowing into tiny pinpoints. Blaire stood still, trying to conceal her nervousness. He continued to stare at her as he ran a hand over the dark wood and said, “I had it custom-made.”

“Well, it’s just beautiful. I’d love to get the name of your designer.” Her words sounded flat to her. “What happened with your car?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Looks like some punk threw paint on my Jag. The police are on their way, so I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule this.”

“Not a problem. I’ll check in with you next week,” she answered, anxious to get away from him. She wanted out of there now. Sweat dotted her upper lip, and she grabbed her bag, hurrying to the door. What if he was dangerous?

11