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Give us the witness.

I hung up.

They called again.

Then came the photograph of my apartment building. My smashed windshield. The sedan that followed me from the courthouse yesterday.

And now this man.

He stops beside a parked truck and looks up at the buildings.

My blood turns cold.

His gaze moves from one window to the next.

Searching.

I step back, but I can't make myself look away.

He turns his head.

Straight toward my window.

Oh, shit.

I duck so fast my knee bangs against the desk.

Pain shoots up my thigh.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to cry out.

Did he see me?

Please, God, tell me he didn't see me.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

Twenty minutes ago, I called the number Calvin Reed gave me. He'd been a client of mine, and when he heard what was happening, he recommended a private protection service.

I didn't care what they charged. I just wanted someone to keep me alive.

The man who answered asked where I was, whether anyone followed me, and whether I had a weapon.

I told him about the pepper spray.

There was a brief silence.

Then he instructed me to stay inside. Someone was coming.

That was it.

I hadn't expected a lengthy conversation, but a little reassurance would have been appreciated.

Now I'm waiting.

My eyes dart toward the window.

A shadow moves across the blinds.