Chapter Eight

Brielle

"There's nothing you can do?" I ask the patient and polite detective who's arrived at my home on what should be a bright and cheery Saturday morning.

After a third creepy call, I have finally decided to get the authorities involved, but to my dismay, I'm learning quickly that their hands are pretty much tied.

"I'm sorry, but no, not really, not with what little we have," he replied. "That unavailable number isn't traceable, and without any sort of physical evidence, there's no way to try to figure out who's behind this."

"So, what do I do?"

"Keep a record of any more calls or messages you get. I will open a file on this and add notes about any other instances should anything else happen. But my strongest recommendations now are to change your phone number and maintain awareness of your surroundings. If things escalate, call us."

"Escalate?" I can feel my eyes widening in concern.

"If the calls and messages become more frequent or more intense, for example," he explains.

"Or if I feel like someone's following me," I say slowly, my mind racing with all sorts of unfathomable possibilities.

Yeah, just like… No. Do not go there!

The detective touches his hand to my arm.

"Are you all right, Miss Cerver? You're very pale."

"Sorry," I manage in a hoarse whisper. "It's just… I just… um. Had a really bad experience with an ex-boyfriend several years ago."

He leans forward and frowns, his eyebrows knitting together with worry.

"Is that so. Can you please tell me what happened?"

I explain an abbreviated version only, because even the highlight reel I am sharing threatens to undo the carefully constructed composure that I am barely managing to cling to thus far.

The seasoned detective takes notes as I talk, and I can tell by his expression that he has seen firsthand precisely the type of details I have just glossed over. When I am finished, he clears his throat gently, and I see both anger and sympathy reflected in his eyes when he speaks.

"I'm so sorry you went through that. If it will help put you at ease, I am happy to check into him and make sure he is still incarcerated. I will also make sure your new name does not come up anywhere at all in connection with all that. Okay?"

I heave a sigh of relief.

"Yes, please. That would be good," I say, and attempt a weak smile.

He leaves me with a reassuring smile, a card with the nearest station's address and direct dial number, and a report number, and my hands tremble as I close and lock my front door behind him.

That afternoon Mari and I head out shopping, and among my purchases is a can of mace and a brand-new phone with a brand-new number.

***

For the next few weeks, it is peaceful. My life returns to its normal level of hectic, with no further intimidating calls received. I begin to breathe easier, particularly when Detective Tucker stops by a few days after his first visit to let me know that my ex is still very much behind bars where he belongs.

But by the following Thursday my world begins to unravel again. Two more menacing voicemails followed by five text messages make it clear that whoever is fixated on me figured out my new number.

I immediately call the police so that Detective Tucker can add them to the open file.

Then I call Mari.

"I don't know what to do, Mari," I tell her despondently.

"Do you want to come and stay with me? Say the word. You know I have an extremely comfortable bed in the guest room."

"I know you do," I admit. "And I will keep that in mind. But I don't want you to be at risk, either. I will stay in my own place for now. Let's just hope that whoever has a problem with me doesn't feel the need to do anything more drastic than leave me hateful messages."

Allen

Six weeks post-move, I am sitting behind my desk, wrapping up the last interview with a new hire on Thursday afternoon.

Sam Jaxton's military service record is impressive, as is his prior experience providing personal security in the civilian sector. He is quiet, but when he does speak, it's well thought out and articulate.

The fact that he is a strapping six-foot-seven wall of muscle that has been trained to be lethal when necessary is a bonus.

Found my final member, I realize, and am grateful.

"Welcome to the team, Sam," I say, standing and extending my hand in congratulations.

"Thanks, Mr. Jones. I'm glad to be a part of this."

"Please, call me Allen. Glad to have you. Go down the hall and see Hope to get your onboarding paperwork completed. We will hit the ground running in the morning. Eight a.m. in the conference room."

"Yes, sir."

Once he's gone, I lean back in my chair and smile.

Sam's addition to my team means I now have six highly trained men in place to provide the best protection possible to those who come to us in need. Mark Baxter, retired Special Forces and unit leader, is the oldest at forty-three. Sam is forty, as is Braeden Nichols. The other three - Jack Anders, Marlon Gabriel, and Pete Dixon - are in their mid to late thirties.

While all of them have stellar military service backgrounds, Pete also brings guru-level IT skills to the group, which means that I have someone besides me that can discreetly access any system anywhere at any time.

Helping me keep track of it all - employees, clients, and the financial stuff that comes with running a business - is Hope Klosen, an experienced, no-nonsense accountant and office manager that I have known for years and trust completely.

Got a good group of people, I think to myself. Should not take long for them to form a cohesive unit.

I turn my attention to my computer and pull up my calendar for the next week. The client list is growing already, and I feel confident that with the contacts I have made with local law enforcement agencies, other people needing help will come my way sooner rather than later.

After all, there is only so much the police can do sometimes, I acknowledge, and repeat my company's simple but powerful mission statement in my head.

Protect and defend.

Brielle

By lunchtime Friday, I sense that I am being watched everywhere I go, although I never see anyone or anything unusual. Still, the feeling makes me extremely uneasy.

For the first time in my career, I decide to have another realtor present with me during the open house I am hosting from two to four this afternoon. Anne is a competitor, but also a good friend, and when I explain the reason for my request, she readily agrees to keep me company.

"Don't forget, when Barbara got attacked, I was only two streets away at a showing," she reminds me. "That's when Benji made me promise I'd either learn to shoot or learn self-defense, since it's not always possible to buddy up for safety."

"Which did you choose?" I ask.

"Both," she says solemnly. "Can't be too careful."

The open house is well-attended, which enables me to focus on the event instead of my mysterious harasser. Too soon, I am shaking the hands of the last of the interested parties before Anne and I walk through the property together to turn off lights and close doors.

"Do you want me to follow you back to your office? I don't mind," she says, looking at me with concern like the protective fifty-nine-year-old grandmother of four that she is.

I wave her off, trying my best to sound braver than I feel.

"So far, it has just been voicemails and texts, nothing physical. I should be fine," I assure her.

We shake hands and part ways at the end of the driveway, but I notice that she lingers until I am in my car with my doors locked before she waves goodbye and drives off.

I call Mari, and her voice filling my car's speakers is a comfort.

"How did the open house go?" she asks.

"Pretty well," I tell her. "My gut says the Smiths will receive a few offers come Monday, if not by tonight."

"Good, I'm glad. Wanna go get sushi?"

"Sure. I missed lunch, and I am starved. You want to meet there, or should I come by and pick you up?"

"No point in both of us driving. You fly, I'll buy?"

"Deal," I answer with a grin. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

***

A half-hour later sees us settling into our usual booth at the hibachi and sushi place that has become a favorite haunt of ours. Our food arrives and we dig in. I am telling her about the open house when my phone chirps.

When I glance down and see 'unavailable', the color leaves my face. Mari notices it immediately.

"Another one?" she says softly, and I nod.

She holds out her hand. "Gimme."

I pass my phone to her and watch as she clicks on the text message icon to open the app. Her eyebrows raise as she reads the newest arrival, then glances up at me.

My words almost tangle in my suddenly constricted throat.

"What does it say?" I manage to whisper.

"You're definitely going to want to tell Detective Tucker about this one," Mari answers, and her face radiates concern as she turns the screen to where I can see it clearly.

Uppity bitch. You're gonna bleed.

The words are bad enough, but it is the picture underneath that sends my pulse into orbit. It is me, earlier today, as Anne and I unlocked the front door of the property to set up for the open house.

"Do… do you think…" I begin to stammer, but Mari cuts me off.

"I think that Anne being with you is the only thing that kept you safe today," she snaps, "and I think we need to call Tucker, right now."

Luckily, he is on duty, and dispatch puts me through to him in his car.

"I'm on my way to you," he says. "I'm not far from that restaurant. See you in a bit."

Detective Tucker arrives in minutes, and his jaw sets like granite when he sees the latest message sent to me.

"Ms. Cerver, I think it's time to consider hiring some personal security," he tells me, his voice firm.

He scrolls through his cell phone, then jots down something on one of his cards and hands it to me.

Cosantóirí

LLC is followed by a phone number.

"You need to call them," he says earnestly. "A friend of mine works there, and they're really good at what they do. When you call, tell them Marlon's friend Adam Tucker sent you. Okay?"

I nod slowly. "Do you think it's safe for me to go home?"

"I think it's a good idea for me to at least follow you and check your house before you go inside if you insist on going home," he answers.

I nod again, my mind racing, as I dial the number I have been given, and wait.

"Cosantóirí LLC," I hear a woman's voice say.

"Hello, I was referred to you by Adam Tucker, he's a friend of Marlon's?"

The woman asks a few questions, then tells me, "I can send someone to meet you at your home within the next hour, if you'd like."

"Yes, please," I answer gratefully, and give her my name and address. When I hang up the call, I already feel a bit lighter.

"They'll meet us at my house around six," I announce to Mari and Detective Tucker, who both look relieved.

Allen

I am just about to wrap up for the day when Hope appears in my doorway.

"Brand new client," she begins as she hands me an intake sheet. "And she sounded scared. I told her I would have someone at her place by six. Who do you want to send?"

As I skim the paper Hope just gave me, I do a doubletake, and Hope notices my reaction.

"You know her."

Yeah, I know her. She is the awesome woman I am severely attracted to that I treated like crap and drove away…

"She was my realtor," I answer instead, trying my best to sound calm and level. "She helped me find this place."

Brielle's one of the most strong, confident women I have ever met. If she is scared, it must be serious.

"What did she say when she called, exactly?"

"That a friend of Marlon's recommended us. An Adam Tucker."

"He's a detective with Pantego PD," I reveal, a note of worry tinging my tone that has Hope arching an eyebrow at me.

Whatever is going on is bad enough that the police referred her to us to keep her safe?

"So, who do you want to send?" Hope repeats.

I answer immediately.

"I'll take the lead on this one personally."

"And who do you want as your backup?" she tosses back, reminding me of one of my own basic rules - no one goes into a situation without backup.

"Marlon. But put him on standby only for now, please."

"You got it."

As Hope heads down the hall to read Marlon in, I turn off my laptop and pack it into its bag, then shrug on my suit jacket.

Ten minutes later I am in my truck, programming my GPS to take me right to Brielle Cerver's front door. As I leave the parallel space in front of my building, I can only hope that she will even speak to me once I arrive.