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to the very core of her terror. Though she appeared tough on the outside, Miranda knew that any psych student who took a peek at her relationships with men would note that she had “issues.” Make that “major issues.” Her back teeth gritted though she managed a smile.
    â€œThe same creep who’s been dogging you for the past three days.” Miranda’s stomach tightened as Louise edged in, straightened Miranda’s framed law degree that forever tilted on the wall, then slouched against the single file cabinet jammed into the corner. A smooth-skinned black woman with almond eyes and a keen intelligence, Louise had been working as a secretary in the Multnomah County DA’s office for the past four years. Now, Louise’s eyes were dark with concern.
    Which only upped Miranda’s fear factor.
    She hadn’t set foot in her cubicle of an office all afternoon and had only stopped by to pick up some papers. For most of the day, she’d been talking with the medical examiner or briefing Denise Santiago on the Richmond murder case. It was funny how she could deal with crimes on a daily basis, brutal, horrible crimes against people and property with a fierce doggedness that didn’t expose any of her own personal fears, but the thought of one man following her brought images from her past, painful, severe images that she had buried for years, straight to the fore.
    â€œWho is this guy?” she wondered aloud and fought the dread that settled like lead in her stomach as she packed away a sheaf of handwritten notes in her briefcase. She caught a glimpse of a picture she kept on the corner of her desk—her favorite snapshot of her two sisters and herself. It had been taken long ago, when she had been an innocent fifteen. Three girls at the brink of adolescence, their arms linked together as they stood on a windswept boulder high above the angry gray waters of the Pacific Ocean. Their faces were ruddy, their smiles sincere, their spirits as free as the gales that had tugged at their hair, blowing the strands in front of their eyes. A lifetime ago. A naive age that could never be recaptured. She snapped her briefcase shut.
    â€œI wish I had some idea who he is.”
    Louise lifted a shoulder. “Don’t have a clue. But my guess is he’s bad news.”
    â€œThis is the district attorney’s office for crying out loud. We’re not that far from the police station. There are dozens of cops all around. How does he get in?”
    â€œLike everyone else—through the front door. That’s the trouble with a public building, you know. It’s bought and paid for with tax dollars and allows any idiot inside.” Louise crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Petrillo doesn’t like this guy nosing around any more than I do. He told me to contact him the next time the mystery man shows up.”
    Frank Petrillo was a detective who had been with the department for more years than Miranda. Recently divorced and the father of two kids, he didn’t see as much as he wanted to, he’d been asking Miranda out for the past three months. So far, they’d only shared a pizza after working late one night. That was as involved as Miranda wanted to be. She didn’t date anyone she worked with. It was her personal, unwritten but never-broken law.
    â€œI just don’t understand why he doesn’t leave his name or number—why he keeps missing me.” Her desk was still messy, a few files piled on one corner, reference books open near her computer monitor, a half-full cup of coffee gone cold where she’d left it near her calendar.
    â€œYou ever thought he’s one of those stalkers?”
    Of course she had. “He’s too close. Taking too many risks.”
    â€œFits a stalker’s M.O., if you ask me.”
    Miranda plucked her raincoat from a hook on the back of the door and slung the coat over one arm. “Tell me about