“I’m not sure I buy your analysis, Gran,” Chloe muttered.

“That’s it! That’s how he’s looking at you in the photo. It’s that Bogart and Bacall thing,” Alexie declared.

Much to Chloe’s relief, the conversation shifted to movie actors and actresses in classic pairings, and away from her and Jake Morrissey. The rest of their visit with Winifred passed with much laughter and friendly arguing over whether Bogart and Bacall led the list of top-ten best couples ever.

Alone in her bedroom later that evening, Winifred sat on the edge of her turned-down bed and picked up Richard’s photo from her nightstand.

“Richard, why can’t the girls find a man like you? Where are all the good men?” She smoothed her fingertips over the glass separating her from his smile. “Jake Morrissey might be the one for our Chloe. I think she might be more attracted to him than she’s willing to admit.”

She pressed a kiss to the photo and returned the silver frame to its place on the white crocheted doily decorating the polished mahogany nightstand.

“Good night, Richard.”

He parked in the shadow of a large elm, across the street and half a block away from Winifred Abbott’s stately Victorian home. Chloe Abbott had been ridiculously easy to follow from her house in Queen Anne to her grandmother’s. She’d arrived alone, but while she was still unloading parcels from her car, another vehicle pulled in and parked behind her in the driveway. A second woman got out. He heard them laughing and talking before doors slammed and the two of them entered the house. The neighborhood subsided into relative quiet once more.

He slumped in the driver’s seat and waited until he was sure Chloe was staying put. Then he left, parking some distance away from the house in the opposite direction. Seattle residents vigorously supported Neighborhood Watch and they were also dog-lovers. The last six weeks he’d spent following Morrissey had taught him that residents walking their dogs tended to notice and grow suspicious if he was parked too long in one place.

Around ten o’clock, the two women drove away. He followed Chloe’s Volvo back to Queen Anne and watched her enter the tidy Craftsman bungalow.

Satisfied, he drove home to neatly enter details of the day’s activities and observations in his log book. Reading his afternoon notes, jotted while slumped in the last seat of the top tier in the far-left corner of the lecture hall, brought a resurgence of the outrage he’d felt as he listened to Chloe’s class voice their opinions. What did any of these late-teens and early twenties students know about the tearing pain felt by the family after a soldier died in combat? He was convinced he was the only person in the lecture hall who’d actually experienced the loss of an American soldier and the devastation that accompanied it.

Only he could write an essay that told the truth. And he would, he decided.

He printed a note in the margin, the block letters precise, the message brief. Deliver essay to Liberty Hall, Chloe Abbott’s office, one week from today.

Then he continued transcribing his personal shorthand into sentences on the page.

Chloe Abbott would make an easy target. She seemed to lead an ordinary life, with set work hours and close family connections.

A predictable schedule and rudimentary surveillance requirements. You’re easy prey, Miss Abbott.

The spacious parking lot surrounding the casino was empty except for Jake, his crew and the building’s owner with his entourage.

Jake stepped away from the small crowd, turning his head to speak into his earpiece.

“You ready over there, Ed?”

“Good to go, Sarge. Ready whenever you are.”

Jake nodded, waved a hand at Ed, visible across the expanse of bare pavement, and turned back to the observers.

“We’re ready, Kyle.” He joined the crowd and lifted the protective plastic guard from the black box. “It’s all yours.”

Normally Jake enjoyed this moment when he was able to indulge the ten-year-old child within an adult client and let him or her trigger the control to blow up a huge building. But today, he had difficulty concealing his impatience. He was booked on a 7:00 p.m. flight home to Seattle. With luck, by nine-thirty or ten o’clock he’d be back in his apartment.

Kyle set off the first round of explosives and the building’s upper stories imploded. Jake listened, counting the subsequent explosions as each charge detonated in sequence, further weakening the structure and allowing it to fold in on itself, collapsing to the ground with slow grace. Clouds of dust rose. Hiding a grin, Jake watched the well-dressed crowd scatter like chickens in a downpour as the wall of dust moved across the parking lot toward them.

He headed for his rented SUV. All he had left to finish in Vegas was a celebration dinner and drinks with the client and he could go home to Seattle.

The next day, Jake decided not to call Chloe after all. Instead, he phoned the florist and arranged to have flowers delivered with a note asking her to lunch—today, tomorrow or whenever she was free. He drove to the University of Washington just before noon and parked the Porsche, then he took a last look at the map he’d printed off the UW Web site and started across campus.

Liberty Hall was easy to find. Built in 1949 and dedicated to World War II veterans, the four-story brick building had majestic Norman arches and a bell tower. It housed faculty offices for the English Department. Jake paused at an information desk to inquire after Professor Abbott’s whereabouts. Then he followed the secretary’s directions down a wide hallway.

Halfway down the hall, a white nameplate with black lettering marked Chloe’s space. The door, its bottom half glossy dark wood with a wide mail slot and the top section opaque glass, stood slightly ajar. He rapped lightly on the doorjamb.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door wide and stepped across the threshold. The small office was neat and tidy, but crowded with a desk, two wooden guest chairs, a bookcase and a corner coatrack. Chloe stood next to the deep window embrasure across the room, where a vase held a lush spring bouquet.

“You got my flowers.”

“Yes, I did. Thank you—they’re beautiful.”

His mouth curved upward in response to the smile that warmed her face and lit her eyes. He’d have to remember she loved flowers, he thought. “Any chance you’re free for lunch? Today would be great, but I’ll come back tomorrow or the next day, if you’re busy.”

“Actually, I was planning on eating yogurt and a banana at my desk while I corrected papers. But the world’s best pizza is just across campus.” She walked to the desk, opened a drawer and took out a straw purse, then looked up at him. “Do you like pizza?”

“Love it.”

“Excellent.” She moved past him, waiting while he followed her and pulled the door closed. Then she locked the door.

They left the building, dodging students seated on the dozen steps outside the front door. A warm breeze carried the scent of water from Lake Washington, where the University’s rowing team practiced on the rippled lake surface, the white racing sculls skimming over the blue. Pink, white and red azaleas and rhododendrons made brilliant splashes of color against the background of green fir trees and the ivy that climbed brick-and-stone buildings.

“Gran said you’ve been working out of town?”

“Yes, in Vegas.” Jake slipped his sunglasses on, shielding his eyes.

“So that’s where you got the tan. I knew you couldn’t have been sunning yourself in Seattle, because until last week, most of our days have been rainy.” Amusement tinged her slightly husky voice. Jake glanced at Chloe to find her smiling.

“The Pacific Northwest’s version of liquid sunshine,” he commented.

“Exactly. Are you a native Northwesterner?”

“Born and raised on the Kitsap Peninsula. You?”

“I was born in Seattle. I’ve lived here all my life, except for a few years while my father taught at UC Berkeley.”

“Your father’s a professor, too?”

“He was—his field of study was mathematics. He passed away when I was six.” Chloe gestured across campus at the math and science buildings. “Abbott Library over there is named after him.”

“So you’re a third-generation UW professor. That makes you a legend here.”

Chloe laughed. “That’s true.” Her smile became a frown and she slowed, looking over her shoulder.

“Something wrong?”

She didn’t answer immediately, but he saw her shiver as she scanned the students on the sidewalk behind them.

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“Nothing. At least, nothing I can see.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had this creepy feeling for the past few days—as if someone’s watching me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I’m being followed.”

Jake stopped, drawing her with him off the sidewalk and onto the grass. The flow of pedestrian traffic continued past them, the walkway crowded with noisy students on their way to lunch.

“You think you’re being stalked?” He searched her face, read the uneasiness on her features and looked back at the busy sidewalk, studying the crowd for any visible threat.

It can’t be a coincidence that she feels she’s being followed so soon after meeting me, Jake thought grimly.

He’d never forgive himself if he’d made Chloe a target for whoever had been following him for the last six weeks.

Three

Jake shifted her behind him, concealing her from the crowd with his body while he continued to inspect the busy walkway.

“I haven’t actually seen anyone following me but I have this…this eerie feeling that I’m being watched.” Chloe’s fingers closed over his forearm and she felt his muscles flex. “I swear the hair rises on the back of my neck.”

“When in doubt, trust your gut instinct,” he said. “If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. Soldiers learn that lesson the first week in a combat zone.”

“I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before,” Chloe told him. “I’ve read about it, and seen it in movies. But in real life and to me personally? No.”

“You sound more annoyed than scared.” Jake swept one more glance over the surrounding area. “Do you still feel you’re being watched?”

Chloe paused, assessing, and was relieved when she realized the eerie feeling had disappeared. “No.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Let’s resume this over lunch.” He took her arm and they left the grass for the sidewalk. He didn’t return to the subject of a possible stalker until they were seated at the restaurant with slices of hot pizza and cold drinks in front of them.

“What about a boyfriend?”

Startled, she looked up, her glass of ice water halfway to her lips. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you had a fight with a boyfriend lately?”

“I’m not dating anyone at present.” Chloe caught a quick flash of satisfaction.

“What about ex-boyfriends? Any relationships that ended badly? Guys who might be looking for revenge?”