As I moved to the door, he fell in step behind me, and for a moment, I flashed back to someone watching, walking behind me so close I could smell the scent of his soap and feel a brush of air as his hand reached out toward me.

Agitated nerves tingled as I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Cool air rushing up the stairwell skimmed my skin.

“Good to know I’m not the only human on the floor now,” I said.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

13 MARISA

13

MARISA

Monday, March 14, 2022

10:00 a.m.

I didn’t see Alan again on Sunday. A few times I thought I heard him leave his apartment, linger near my door as if he might knock, but he never did. The weather on Sunday had been pleasantly cool, but Monday brought cold, drizzling rain and temperatures in the low thirties. Virginia had four seasons, and they were all in March.

After working all day Sunday on website updates, invoicing, and scheduling, I would have been happy to take Monday off and hibernate. But I had a client coming to the studio for a professional headshot. He had heard of my work through Brit, so I’d spent extra time cleaning my place and setting up the blue-gray backdrop that I’d bought secondhand from a photographer who’d retired two years ago. I pulled the long curtain separating my living and work spaces.

At precisely 10:00, the buzzer at the main entrance shouted out an arrival. I hurried downstairs, saw a man dressed in a suit under the awning, and pushed open the door.

“May I help you?” I’d learned not to volunteer information but to let the customer offer his or her name.

“Paul Jones,” he said. His short black hair was slicked back to accent his raw-boned features, tanned skin, and penetrating gray eyes. “Marisa Stockton of MIS Images?”

“You found me. My studio is on the fifth floor.”

He followed me up the stairs, which I opted for instead of the elevator. Never a fan of getting in a soundproof metal box with a stranger. I opened my door, stepped inside, and waited for him to pass by. He paused, studied my photographer’s studio. His expression remained grim and gave no hint of whether he found the space lacking. Ultimately, what mattered would be the photographs, so I didn’t bother to explain.

“How do you know my sister, Brit Stockton?” I asked.

He tugged at the cuff of his coat. “She and I are business associates. We’ve coordinated several real estate transactions before. She raved about you. And I’m now in need of headshots for a new website I’m launching.”

“Great. You mentioned real estate transactions. What business are you in?” Chatting up clients relaxed them and led to better pictures.