Page 3 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

T he paper is sitting out in the open on the small table at the end of the couch in the living room. How did I miss that?

I should have noticed it immediately but I was so focused on unpacking and putting Dubai and Jonathan behind me that I didn’t thoroughly look around when I first walked in.

I approach the thing that terrifies me most at the moment. It’s sloppily written but each letter is big enough to be clear.

You should have stayed gone.

Now I have to make you go away.

Forever.

I’ve never called anyone back as quickly as the police. “We’re sending an officer,” he relents.

“Great. I’ll wait downstairs with security.”

True to his word, an officer arrives within ten minutes to take my statement and walks with me through my condo, gathering evidence.

I’m there while they interview security and the doormen, valets, bellhops, and desk staff.

Members of the maid service and maintenance are called in for a quick round of questioning, too.

The staff ignores the cops’ suggestions and they flutter around me, voices high with worry, asking me questions to assure themselves that I’m okay.

The building’s manager cuts past them all, taking my hands in his sweaty ones and guaranteeing that they’ll get to the bottom of this—the tenants’ safety and happiness is more than his duty, it’s his calling.

I believe him as much as I believe the report from the attending officer—a man named Lonnie Newbuck—that no one’s seen anything or acted in any way that’s suspicious.

I’m not surprised: I’ve lived in this condo for three years now. The staff has earned my trust.

Could my stalker be one of the other residents? We don’t really interact... I’m new money—if you could truly call my earnings “money,” in comparison to theirs. Where I grew up, I’d be considered rich, but here? I’m doing “tolerably.”

Even though I’m not close with any of my neighbors, I haven’t given anyone a reason to break in and leave a letter like that.

And the wine glass? Out of all the other glasses and mugs, that seems too specific to be random.

Officer Newbuck again checks my condo along with security, and declaring it safe, asks if I want to stay there or with a family member.

My throat tightens as I admit, “I don’t have any.”

“A friend, then?”

I run through the short list of people I know. Before the breakup, I’d have gone to Jonathan’s place immediately. That’s out of the question now. Other options are slim, I have more acquaintances than friends and Laryssa’s in London. “I…” I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “I’ll stay.”

Newbuck nods. “We’ll station someone outside your door tonight so you get some rest. I might suggest hiring a private security detail, though, if I were you.”

“If you have any recommendations…”

He slips me a business card. “This guy’s good.”

“Andrei?”

“Yep.”

“What’s that last name? Russian or…something?”

“Or something.” He shrugs. “He’s guarded some pretty high-profile people. If you want to stay in the city and keep working, he can keep you safe. ”

I give one of the chunky gold bracelets I wear a twist. “I’ll consider it.

” If it takes hiring some bodyguard to keep me safe enough to stay here, I’ll do it.

My job’s here; my life’s here. Three minutes later, he’s gone, the strange letter and my wine glass in-hand as potential evidence.

Condo security takes their place outside my door, waiting to be replaced by someone more official.

I turn every lock on my door and make sure each window is secure, then retreat to my bedroom, telling myself I’m as safe as I can be.

The next morning I can almost imagine nothing happened until I spot the police officer standing right outside my door. “No news,” he announces gruffly. He gives me a polite nod, makes sure my door is locked behind me, and puts me in a yellow cab.

I take my time, drawing out the process of paying for my ride until a group of people I know are approaching my place of employment on the sidewalk. I dart out the door and into their midst, only realizing then how stupid a move it is.

What if one of them is my stalker?

They exchange glances and offer cooler-than-usual greetings, dividing up as we enter the building’s lobby. My heels click the whole way across the marble-tiled floor on my way to the bank of elevators.

“Hey, Dex,” I say as the elevator operator presses the buttons for my floor.

“Miss Jenkins,” he replies without even looking at me.

That’s odd. Usually Dex asks me questions, pays me compliments… Acts happy to see me…

“Everything okay, Dex?”

Instead of answering me, he announces my floor early and keeps his focus tight on the buttons directly before him.

The doors open and Dex remains still as a rabbit as I stride past him.

I greet my coworkers quickly on the way to my office, but the dread I had since returning last night to my condo threads its way through the air around me.

I sense eyes on me, yet none hold the normal, jovial it’s-Monday-but-at-least-we’re-together looks I’m used to.

There’s something cooler—more aloof—about everyone.

Beyond the occasionally muttered greeting—given only after I’ve offered mine first—everyone is nearly as quiet as Dex was.

I peruse the morning’s selection of fruit and pastries, choosing something pretty and holding the promise of nothing substantial about it beyond its calorie count and tug out my keycard as I head toward my office and its skyline view of the city.

“Best office in the place,” my boss Patrick once assured me.

“Best view, best desk, new chair.” I’ve made it my home away from home.

Classy decor, even a high-end air freshener that gives my environment a signature scent, making it truly my own.

I stop short to stare, distantly aware of chairs squeaking as they turn, of the way the nearly ever-present soft-spoken running commentary so standard in an office of our size has grown nearly nonexistent, as everyone realizes what is just now registering with me.

The door to my office stands wide open, the scent of my air freshener edging tentatively into the earthier-smelling realm of the cubicles.

My fingers hook into the bracelets on my left wrist, giving one a slow spin as questions spiral through my brain. I lurch forward and enter a room that feels distinctly alien to me. The air has gone nearly stale.

My special touches? The carefully curated art, the pen set from Italy, my diploma and certificates?

They all fit—not so neatly—into a large white copier paper box sitting in the center of my desk.

I clutch wildly at the top of the desk to steady myself as the bottom drops out of my world and the room spins.

I don’t understand…

On the top of the box rests a hastily scrawled note.

See me.

I know immediately from the handwriting who it belongs to. It’s the same self-assured script of the man who has signed my checks for the past four years. Setting my pastry on top of everything else, I heft the box and head to Patrick’s office.

Seated behind his desk, Patrick busily scans through an impressive stack of documents.

I’m briefly reminded of the studious young man I helped ace Statistics in college.

That had been a year before he got accepted into a much different circle of friends than I ever imagined would take an interest in him.

The moment he hears me enter his office, everything about his demeanor changes. He straightens, leans back in his chair and briefly attempts to hide the grin that finally slips free before he can squelch it again. He addresses me coolly. “Marlyn. I see you’ve collected your things.”

I prop the box on the back of one of the overstuffed leather chairs facing him. “They seem to have been collected for me.”

He grimaces. “Nevertheless. I have to let you go.”

“I inferred that from the box. I just don’t understand why.

” Against my every desire, my mouth goes dry and my throat constricts.

“I don’t get it, Patrick,” I admit. “I know last quarter’s numbers were softer than expectations, but we were well above the expectations of the board.

With the Markensim deal coming through… And honestly, we both know all I am is a glorified messenger. ”

He gives a pained groan, like he can’t bear that I’m being so obtuse. That the reason for my firing is obvious—it’s not. I’ve worked my ass off for this company for years and it’s shown in dividends. I’m a model employee. Cream of the crop.

It’s while I’m standing there, the act of balancing the box of my belongings making my arms ache, that it hits me: the degree framed and hanging on the wall over Patrick’s shoulder bears the same insignia as the one Jonathan had in his home office. “I nearly forgot. You guys were frat bros…”

His eyes are cold, distant, and he steeples his fingers before him.

If he answers the wrong way it might give me a reason to push back with an accusation of improper labor practice.

So he ignores my comment. When I’m certain there’s nothing more to be said, I pick the box back up, spin on my heel and head toward the door.

Controlling bastard that he is, he chooses that moment to clear his throat.

I pause. “Hold on, Marlyn,” he comments, his tone teetering between wistful and regretful.

For a moment I cling to the idea that he’s changing his mind.

I turn back to face him and hate the hope I know shines out from my eyes.

“There was something I was supposed to say… Oh, yeah: Let’s call this what it was: fun .

” And then, with a twist of his mouth that some might misconstrue as a smile, he turns his chair to face the broad window normally at his back, making it clear that I’ve been dismissed.