Chapter 14-Contact
I was still in bed. Richard was in the shower. I reached for my phone out of habit—that same compulsion to verify everything I had to take care of that day.
No sender. Subject: You should see this before it goes public.
Three photos loaded on my screen.
Me. Outside the Morrison building. December, based on the coat I was wearing.
Me getting into my car. Same day, different angle.
The third?—
My stomach dropped.
Someone else and me. A man. The photo was cropped tight, our faces close together, the angle making it look like we were leaning in for something intimate.
January 9th. The Morrison deposition prep. Morrison had been showing me a clause in a contract, pointing at the screen while I leaned over to see. Professional. Witnessed by three other people.
The photo was cropped to erase the conference table between us. The documents. The other staff members were standing two feet away.
In the photo, it looked like we were alone.
It looked like proof of something that never happened.
The shower shut off.
I stared at the screen. At the way the image was cropped. Timed. Constructed to tell a specific story.
Someone had been watching me for months. Not weeks. Months. I'd known it was possible. I just hadn't let myself count backward.
"Blaire."
Richard's voice. Closer than I expected.
I looked up. He was in the doorway, towel around his waist, hair still dripping.
He looked at my face. Then at the phone in my hand.
"What is it?”
Not a question. A demand.
I handed him the phone without speaking.
Watched his expression go flat as he scrolled through the images. The muscle in his temple tensed.
"When was this taken?"
"January. The Morrison deposition prep. There were four other people in the room."
"And the others?"
"December. Outside the building." I heard how flat my voice was. How careful. "Someone's been following me since at least December."
"Earlier." Richard's thumb moved across the screen. "The metadata doesn't lie."
My phone buzzed. A new email. Same blank sender.
More where this came from. Question is—does the bar association see them first, or do you want to talk?
Richard was already moving. Pulling on clothes. Grabbing his phone.
"I'm calling Declan. He can trace the?—"
"No."
He stopped. Looked at me.
I was still sitting in bed. Still holding my phone. Still staring at the photo of Morrison and me that wasn't what it was, but would absolutely look like what it was meant to look like.
"Blaire."
"Surveillance photos. A pattern that looks suspicious when you line them up a certain way." I kept my voice level. "This is targeted. Deliberate."
And then the name landed.
Crowe.
The name I'd been circling around for two weeks without letting myself say it out loud.
My stomach dropped.
"Daniel Crowe."
Richard's gaze sharpened immediately. "You know him."
I let out a breath that didn't feel steady. "Too well."
Memories hit hard and jagged — long nights in conference rooms, boxes of financial records, the sick feeling in my stomach when the numbers didn't line up.
I'd been a first-year associate assigned as opposing counsel for the Morrison litigation. Young enough that nobody expected me to notice anything.
Except I had.
The falsified documents first. Then, evidence of jury tampering was buried deep enough that someone thought no one would ever connect it back to him.
"I helped expose him," I said quietly. "Or enough of it that the Bar opened an investigation."
Richard went very still.
"He lost everything after that," I continued. "His license. His reputation. And he blamed me for it."
The room suddenly felt colder.
Not because I understood exactly what was happening.
Because for the first time, I could finally see someone willing to keep watching, keep collecting, and keep waiting until they had enough to ruin me.
"He's been planning this for years."
"Since you exposed him."
My phone buzzed again.
Another email. Another photo.
This one: me getting coffee at the shop two blocks from the office. Dated October 3rd.
In the background, barely visible: James Morrison. Three tables away.
The caption: Interesting how often you two ended up in the same places.
I forwarded all three emails to Richard's phone.
Then I deleted them from mine.
"What are you doing?"
"Creating a record on a device that isn't actively compromised." I tapped Charlotte's name. "And calling someone who knows how this works and can defend me."
Richard watched me.
"Charlotte?"
I nodded.
The phone rang twice before she answered.
"Blaire? It's seven in the morning on a Saturday."
"I need a favor."
There was a pause. Then her tone shifted—sharper, more focused.
"What kind of favor?"
"The kind that involves a fabricated ethics complaint and someone who knows how to kill it before it goes public."
"I'm listening."
Charlotte arrived about forty-five minutes later with coffee and the calm confidence of someone who already knew how this was going to end.
She took one look at Richard in my kitchen and then glanced at me. "This is new."
I almost said not really. Didn't.
"Long story," I said. "We don't have time. You're going to want that coffee for this."
I showed her the emails. The photos. Told her about Crowe, the Patterson case, how I'd exposed him five years ago.
Charlotte's expression didn't change as she scrolled through the images, but her fingers tightened on her coffee cup.
"Crowe." Not a question. A grim confirmation. "I've handled bar complaints from a couple of his victims. This is his signature."
"Can you stop it?"
"If he hasn't filed yet, yes. Once it's official, it gets harder." She set down her coffee. "We need to move first. File a formal complaint against him for harassment. Get a restraining order. Build a counter-narrative before he controls the story."
"How long do we have?"
"Depends on what he wants. If this is about revenge, he'll drag it out—make you wait, make you panic. If it's about destroying you quickly, he's already filed."
Richard's expression hardened.
Charlotte's eyes flicked between us.
"There's something else," she said. "Something you're not telling me."
I looked at Richard. He nodded slightly.
"The surveillance didn't start in September," I said. "There's been someone watching me for months. Moving things in my office. Following me. The flowers, the break-in—it's all connected."
"Crowe?"
"We think so. Richard's been tracking a silver sedan registered to a shell company. It connects to David Mercer. He's the plaintiff in the lawsuit Morrison's facing. But the timing doesn't line up. The shell company existed before Mercer ever filed suit."
Charlotte was quiet for a long moment.
"If this is Crowe, then Mercer is likely a proxy. It's his pattern—use someone else to access a target, track schedules, establish presence."
"You're not certain," Richard said.
"No. But the shell company predating the lawsuit?" Charlotte set down her phone. "That means the surveillance came first. The case is just a convenient vehicle. And that's exactly how Crowe operates."
"The lawsuit gives Mercer a legitimate reason to show up for meetings, depositions, hearings, and document reviews. Nobody thinks twice about seeing opposing parties around litigation. That's useful cover if Crowe wants eyes on Blaire."
"He wants revenge," Charlotte continued. He can't get his career back, so he's taking yours instead."
Richard's jaw tightened.
Five months of watching me. Photographing me. Building a case designed to destroy everything I'd worked for.
A chill slid through me.
"Whit was the senior partner on Patterson," Charlotte said quietly. "He reviewed your findings personally. Took them to the bar himself."
Dread settled in my stomach. Not quite alarm. Just... awareness.
"Crowe and Whit knew each other," Charlotte continued. "Professionally, socially. They'd worked opposite sides of cases for years. When the bar started investigating, Crowe blamed Whit for pushing the complaint forward."
She paused. "He wasn't wrong."
I stared at the photo of Crowe on her phone.
"You found the discrepancies," Charlotte said. "And your findings triggered a review of Crowe's other cases. That's what buried him."
Charlotte nodded.
"And Crowe knows it. He's been sitting on this, waiting for the right moment. Watching you build your career. Waiting until you had something to lose."
My phone buzzed.
Another email.
Tick tock, Blaire. The bar association opens on Monday at 9 AM. Wonder what they'll think of all this.
I forwarded the email to Charlotte without reading it twice.
"Monday," I said. "He's giving me until Monday."
"To do what?" Richard's voice came out clipped.
"To panic. To make a mistake. To reach out and try to negotiate." Charlotte set down her coffee. "Create a deadline, force a reaction. He's done this before."
"So we don't react."
"We react on our terms." Charlotte pulled out her phone. "I know someone at the bar association. I'm calling in a favor. We’ll file a formal complaint against Crowe today—harassment, stalking, fabrication of evidence. Beat him to the punch."
"Will it work?"
"It'll buy us time. Create reasonable doubt about anything he files. The bar takes harassment seriously, especially from a disbarred attorney."
She started typing. "But we need more. We need to prove the photos are manipulated, and the timeline is fabricated. We need to discredit his case before he makes it."
Richard nodded.
"I can get Declan on the metadata. Trace the emails. Track the shell company to Crowe directly."
"Good. Do it." Charlotte looked at me. "And you need to stay visible. Keep your schedule public. Make it obvious you're not hiding. Don't give him ammunition to suggest you're acting guilty."
"I have the Morrison meeting Monday morning."
"Perfect. Go. Do your job. Let people see you doing it." She paused. "And whatever you do, don't engage if he reaches out directly. No emails, no calls, no negotiations. Everything goes through me."
I nodded.
My hands weren't shaking.
That was something new.