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corner.
    â€œIf it makes you feel better, I don’t want to be here with you any more than you want to be with me,” Pierce said.
    Madison stiffened and turned around.
    â€œYou’re surprised,” he said. “Did you think after you left I was sitting around, miserable, hoping you would come back?”
    Why not? She’d been miserable, missing him.
    â€œOf course not.” She took the seat across from him. “I’m glad you’ve moved on. Theresa seems like a great girl.”
    â€œTessa.”
    â€œWhatever. I really don’t care.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
    Pierce stared at her, his dark eyes searching, as if he were looking for the answer to an important question. “No, I guess you really don’t.”
    Before she could figure out what that meant, the door opened. Casey stepped into the office, closing the door behind him.
    â€œHere you go.” He handed Madison a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and set some cream and sugar packets down on the table.
    â€œThank you.” She ignored the cream and sugar and clutched the coffee between her hands, breathing in the comforting aroma. She took a deep sip. The coffee was bitter, and only lukewarm, but she didn’t care. The smell alone was starting to wake her up, and the caffeine rush would finish the job in a couple of minutes. She took another sip as Casey sat down behind his desk.
    His lightly graying hair was military short, like Pierce’s, but he was far less imposing than the intent man sitting across from her. She imagined any criminal facing Pierce Buchanan had to be a shaking ball of nerves by the time he finished questioning them. She’d never thought of him as intimidating back when they were dating, but as he sat there watching her now, the little hairs stood up on her arms.
    â€œMrs. McKinley,” Casey said, “I don’t know how much Special Agent Buchanan told you about why he brought you here, but basically, since one of my agents was involved in a shooting, I have to perform an investigation into the incident.”
    She set her cup down on the table. “What is it that you want to know?”
    â€œLet’s start with your version of what happened yesterday morning.”
    â€œThere isn’t much to tell. I looked out my kitchen window and saw a man in my backyard, the same man I’ve seen several times in the past few weeks, watching me. I called my brother to get his advice—”
    â€œWhy didn’t you call the police?”
    â€œTechnically, my brother is the police.” She waved her hand in the air. “Regardless, I’d already called them several other times to report the same man watching my house. They never arrived in time to catch him, so they chose not to believe he’d even been there. They weren’t exactly receptive to more calls from me.”
    â€œFair enough. Then what happened?”
    â€œAfter I ended the call with my brother, I watched the man in my backyard for a while. And, well, there was just something . . . familiar about him.” She glanced at Pierce, wondering how much he’d told his boss. “I decided to confront him. He ran as soon as I stepped outside.”
    â€œHow many times have you seen him before? Where did you see him?”
    â€œI didn’t come here to talk about those other times. I’m here to talk about yesterday’s shooting.”
    â€œStandard background questions,” Pierce said. “It helps frame the overall investigation.”
    She grudgingly continued. “The first time I saw him was three weeks ago, right after I moved in. He had the hood of his denim jacket pulled up, just like yesterday, so I couldn’t see his face. He was standing on the sidewalk leaning against an oak tree. Technically, he wasn’t on my property. When I passed by my window half an hour later, he was still there. Watching my house.”
    She remembered the alarm