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    bulk of the door. “I have a male intruder. Could you please send someone immediately? I’m afraid for my life.”

    “You don’t have a cell phone.”

    Yes. She did. Unfortunately it was upstairs. “Wanna bet? I also have a gun.” Also upstairs, damn it.
    “I’m a lousy shot, but I bet it would hurt a great deal if I fired at you at this close range.” She couldn’t imagine actually shooting someone, but if it came down to her life or his, she’d do it.

    “You don’t have to invite me in,” his tone was smooth. Even. Unemotional. Everything she wasn’t.
    “How about if we just talk through the door?”

    Invite him in? Was he insane? “What are you? A moron? You’re scaring the crap out of me! If you want to talk, move your foot, and stop trying to intimidate me.”

    “Okay. It’s moved—No, don’t—Damn it, woman!”

    The second his foot was withdrawn, Heather slammed the door, then engaged all five bolts. Shaking, drenched in nervous sweat, she spun around, racing up the stairs as if the devil himself was after her.

    Bzzbzzbzz.

    Found, outed, and probably mere seconds from being killed.

    She ran faster. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”

    She wasn’t safe in San Francisco anymore.

    With every crazy beat of her heart she anticipated hearing the stranger’s footsteps on the uncarpeted

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    stairs behind her. Out of breath, more from fear than from racing up the stairs, she burst into her apartment, then slammed the door behind her and shot home those bolts too.

    Leave. Now. No alternative.

    Snatching the gun off the top shelf of the empty closet, Heather clicked off the safety. If the guy made it through the front door somehow, and God only knew he’d looked capable of that feat, she’d shoot to kill.

    She’d have to. Because the man they’d sent this time didn’t look like he could be conned or outrun.
    This time they’d succeed. This guy would kill her.

    Ears tuned to the stairwell, she dragged her already packed suitcase out of the big, empty closet one-handed, and threw it on the bed. It took a matter of minutes to toss in the few belongings she allowed herself to keep out. And with every beat of her heart she anticipated the killer kicking down the door standing between them.

    SANFRANCISCO
    SUNDAY, JANUARY15
    12:32:51

    He’d handled their first meeting like a bull in a frigging china shop, Caleb thought, limping as he followed Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    Heather into the grocery store the day before that aborted meeting at her apartment.

    He’d struck out the second time as well, he thought with annoyance, which was why he was “redoing”
    this trip to the grocery store with her.

    His special and unique ability to manipulate, or rewind, time frequently came in handy—in life-and-death situations. This incident hardly qualified on either front, and he wasn’t thrilled to be wasting one of his lifetime allotments by using it on the delectable Miss Shaw.

    While the aftereffects of a time jump weren’t life-threatening, they were annoying. For several hours afterward he’d experience vertigo and nausea, and his ability to teleport was impaired. He’d jumped back twenty-four hours, and then back again another ten minutes. So here he was, limping on his bum knee, feeling like a drunk after a three-day bender as he followed Heather into the grocery store for the second time this miserably rainy Sunday morning.

    Be careful what you wish for, he thought with annoyance. He’d wanted to be put back on active duty.
    And here he was. Tailing a woman in a frigging grocery store. He felt like an ass carrying the little red plastic basket.

    How damn hard would it be to have Shaw’s daughter answer one simple question?

    Question: Where is your dirtbag father?

    Answer: Argentina. Or Iraq. Or Bumfuck,