Page 43 of Show Me

“At least he probably doesn’t come up behind you and squeeze your shoulder.”

My head shoots up. Her boss touched her? What in the fuck? “What?”

“My boss did that the other night while I was closing.” She exhales loudly. “Stood behind me and squeezed my shoulder like he was proud of a dog that learned to sit.”

Heat flashes hot and immediate in my chest.

“That wasn’t the worst thing this week,” she adds, too casual.

Son of a bitch. I knew I should’ve stopped by sooner. “What was?”

She hesitates as if she regrets saying anything. “There was another note. On my windshield. It looked like the others. Mostly.”

My grip tightens on the level. She left her goddamned door wide open after another note. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I told Emily and Jake.”

“And not me.” The words are out before I can stop them.

She straightens. “You’re not my emergency contact.”

“No. I’m not.” I force my jaw to unclench. At least she told someone and didn’t keep it to herself. “Show me.”

“What?”

“The notes. All of them.”

She hesitates, then disappears down the hall while I clear a space on the counter.

After the tools and construction dust are cleared away, she sets down the notes. Our fingers touch as she pulls back, causing the hair on my forearms to rise.

I ignore it and unfold the poem, smoothing the creases.

“They’re different. The handwriting.” I tap the poem. “This one’s cursive. The others were block letters.”

“Do you think it’s more than one person?” The color in her face has drained away as if, when she looks at them, she has to admit they’re real instead of shoving them in the corner and pretending nothing is going on.

“Or one person trying to hide their handwriting.” One stalker is bad enough. Two different people seems improbable, but not impossible.

It’s Ruby that we’re dealing with. She’s gorgeous, fun, loyal; what guy wouldn’t be interested in dating her? I shove those thoughts aside.

“That’s not better.”

“No. It’s not, and I don’t like it.” Block letters. The change to cursive. Someone is watching her, tracking her schedule, close enough to know when she leaves work and where she lives.

Who in the fuck is doing this? “You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”

“I’m not,” she replies. “I have friends. Jake is a cop.”

“And you still walk to your car in the dark.” She doesn’t answer. Because she knows I’m right. “And leave your back door wide fucking open.” I set the papers down. “Come work for us.”

Her brows lift. “I thought you were informing.”

“I was.” I don’t look away. “Now I’m serious.”

She crosses her arms. “This isn’t about your office.”

“It is, and it isn’t. It’s mostly about access. Your boss knows your schedule. Your desk is out in the open. Anyone can walk in, watch you, leave things. At our office, you’re behind a door. People go through us first.”