Chapter 14-Contact #2
Charlotte left at 9:30 with copies of all the emails and a plan that involved at least six phone calls and one emergency filing.
Richard was on his laptop when it chimed.
"Declan," he said, turning the screen toward me.
A man appeared in the video window. Mid-forties, graying hair, cropped military short, sharp eyes.
"Ms. Whitmore," Declan said. His voice was flat. "I've traced the email headers. They're routing through six different VPNs, but the original send point is a coffee shop in Midtown. Public WiFi. Untraceable."
"Crowe's not an amateur," Richard said.
"No." Declan's fingers moved across a keyboard off-screen.
"But he's arrogant. The metadata on the photos tells a better story than the routing.
All taken with the same device—a high-end camera, not a phone.
Professional surveillance equipment. Same kind a PI firm in Back Bay uses. I'm pulling their client list."
"How long?" Richard asked.
"Two hours. Maybe less." Declan's eyes flicked to me. "The silver sedan you flagged last week is registered to David Mercer through a shell company, but the shell was created three months before Mercer filed his suit. Someone set this up long before they needed it."
"Premeditation," I said quietly.
"Extensive premeditation." Declan leaned back. "Whoever's running this spent more time planning it than most people spend planning their weddings."
"I'll have more in two hours. Stay visible, Ms. Whitmore. Don't make his job easier."
The screen went dark.
Richard closed the laptop.
I turned toward the window. Watched the street below.
A silver sedan was parked three buildings down.
The same one from Declan's report.
"Richard."
He was beside me in two steps.
He followed my gaze.
The sedan's windows were tinted, but I could see the outline of someone in the driver's seat. Not moving. Just... sitting there. Watching.
"That's not a coincidence," I said.
Richard already had his phone out, taking photos. Sending them to Declan.
My phone buzzed.
Text from an unknown number: Nice view from the tenth floor.
I showed Richard the screen.
Something dangerous flickered across his face.
"He wants you to know he's watching," Richard said quietly. "Wants you scared. Wants you to make a mistake."
"I'm not going down there," I said.
"No. That's what he wants. He wants you to react. To do something that looks threatening or unstable." I kept my eyes on the car. "We follow Charlotte's plan. We don't give him anything he can use."
Richard stayed beside me.
We watched the sedan for several minutes.
Then it pulled away from the curb. Drove slowly down the street. Disappeared around the corner.
I turned away from the window.
Picked up my phone.
Opened my calendar.
Morrison meeting: Monday, 9 AM.
Deposition prep: Monday, 2 PM.
Report on the Morrison case to Whit on Monday at 5 PM.
I stared at my father's name.
Whit was the senior partner on Patterson. He'd reviewed my findings personally. Taken them to the bar himself.
My finger hovered over the entry.
Then I added one more line.
File counter-complaint: Today.
Richard found me in the bedroom twenty minutes later.
I was on my laptop. Pulling up files. Everything related to Morrison. Every email, every meeting note, every document that proved the relationship was nothing except what it was.
"Blaire."
I didn't look up.
"I need to document everything. Every interaction. Every?—"
"Blaire."
His hand covered mine.
I stopped.
Looked at him.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said quietly.
I looked down at the laptop screen.
"I don't know how to do it any other way."
"Then we'll figure it out together."
"Okay," I said.
I wanted to argue. To insist I was fine. To become the Blaire that didn't need help, didn't need support, didn't need anything she couldn't control.
Instead, I said, "I'm scared you'll see me fall apart and realize there's nothing underneath."
Richard's hand came up to cup my face. Gentle. Deliberate.
"That's not what I see." His thumb moved along my jaw. "I see someone who checked the lock three times every night for months and stopped the moment she let someone stay. That's not falling apart. That's the opposite."
Richard pulled me against his chest.
I let him.
We stood like that for a long time. His arms around me. My face pressed against his chest. My laptop was still open on the bed.
"We'll figure it out," he said finally. "The investigation. Crowe. All of it. Together."
I listened to the word settle into the room.
"Together," I whispered.
I breathed in the scent of him. Coffee and something clean. Familiar.
"Okay."
That night, Charlotte filed the complaint.
Richard and I lay in bed in the dark. His arm around me. My head on his chest.
"Monday, Crowe might file his," I said quietly.
"He might. Or we fight it and win. Or we lose and rebuild." His voice was steady. Certain. "But whatever happens, you're not doing it alone."
I closed my eyes.
Listened to his heartbeat.
Steady. Real.
Years ago, I had chosen control over him. Chosen safety over risk.
I wasn't choosing safety anymore.
And Crowe—whoever he'd sent, whatever evidence he'd manufactured—he could destroy my career, my reputation, everything I'd built.
But he couldn't make me choose to push everyone away again.
I was choosing not to isolate. Not to face this alone.
That choice mattered more than anything Crowe could take from me.
That night, I didn't check the lock.
Richard noticed. Didn't comment.