It hadn’t even helped that she was well trained in self-defense and perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
She had still felt too . . . isolated. Too vulnerable. Not safe even behind locked doors.
And she had been aware of the strong urge to leave Atlanta, perhaps having inherited more of her parents’ nomadic natures than she had realized before then.
Perhaps.
Besides, change was inevitable, wasn’t it? And she had options. As painful as it had been, the deaths of her parents had provided her with not only life insurance bequests, but also a healthy investment portfolio and a very nice house that had sold at well above market value even in a depressed economy.
The third-floor corner condo she had found and purchased was small by comparison but very nice and more than adequate for her needs and comfort, the complex very secure even to the point of having manned twenty-four-hour security/concierge desks in the lobby, monitored cameras on all the entrances and exits and the hallways, and individual security in each unit, and it was virtually new.
The view she saw out her windows was hardly desolate or lonely; her main windows looked out on the bustling area of Charleston filled with galleries, stores, markets, and restaurants, everything conveniently within walking distance and well lit all night long. The area had a relaxed vibe despite the usual crowds, an area filled with art and music and wonderful cuisine.
There were virtually always people near, people around her, and from her first night in the condo, that had given her comfort.
There was alone—and then there was alone.
The inheritance had also allowed Tasha to quit her unsatisfying job as a paralegal and take some time to decide what she really wanted to do with her life. She had rather idly attended a few classes on various subjects and attended the occasional interesting-sounding seminar, but so far nothing had really drawn her toward a particular field.
She had found a great deal of satisfaction in volunteering with the Charleston Animal Society two or three days each week, and had made friends in the world of animal rescue as well as among some of her neighbors, but . . .
She was still alone, reluctant to get too close to anyone for reasons she couldn’t always explain even to herself. And still hesitant about plotting some specific direction for her life. Not so much because she felt a tendency to drift with the tide, so to speak, or even because she lacked interests to choose among from which to plan a future.
No, it was . . .
It was the wrong time. The wrong time to plan a future. There were things she had to do first. Things that needed to happen first. She didn’t know what those things were, but every instinct told her that until she found her way through this very odd and unsettled part of her life, the future wasn’t something she should be thinking very much about.
Something wasn’t . . . right. Something around her, close to her, was . . . unnatural somehow.
And a threat.
Even here, even feeling safer and less alone in the condo, in Charleston, she was still aware of a niggling unease, a sense that she needed to look over her shoulder.
Often.
Most of the time.
A sense that, sometimes, she was being watched.
Most of the time. Now.
And that whoever or whatever was watching her wasn’t friendly.
Whatever?
Now why had that very unsettling word entered her mind? How could a thing be watching her? A camera, maybe? Was somebody taking pictures of her, even filming her, for reasons unknown?
A stalker?
Oddly enough, that was almost reassuring. Not that she wanted a stalker, of course, but at least that was something . . . normal. Well, not normal, but at least not . . .
She didn’t finish that. Even in her head.
Tasha left the café and headed home, stopping at the fenced yard of one of her neighbors, to the delight of the big mixed-breed dog who came bounding over to greet her with a bark and then sit politely, waiting for the treat he knew was coming.
“You’re spoiling him,” her elderly neighbor called from the other side of the yard, where he was pulling summer weeds from his flower beds—a leisurely task that seemed to occupy him for most of what passed for winter in Charleston.
And gave him an excuse to spend time in his small, neat front yard and interact with his friendly neighbors.
“As long as you don’t mind,” Tasha called back cheerfully.
“Nah, he’s a good boy. Besides, you never give him junk that could make him sick.”
Tasha wasn’t at all sure Max the dog was even capable of eating anything that disagreed with him as far as people food went, but since she had fed him this exact food before, she didn’t worry about it. Instead, she leaned over the fairly low wrought-iron fence Max could have jumped any time he felt like it and fed him the leftovers from her lunch. As always, he took the food gently and politely, and when the last French fry was consumed, he offered a paw in thanks.
“Tell me you taught him that, Mr. Arnold,” Tasha asked with a laugh as she shook the offered paw.
“Nope, all his own idea.” The elderly Arnold was clearly proud of his dog, the only family Tasha had ever seen about the place.
“Then he’s a very good boy indeed.” She straightened back up, waved a casual good-bye, and continued on toward her condo, dropping the take-out box into a trash container as she passed.
Very clean place, this part of Charleston.
The pause to feed the dog and chat briefly with her neighbor had occupied her attention, but now that that was past, Tasha found the almost-constant uneasiness returning. She really wanted to look back over her shoulder—but when she did, nothing unusual was there.
She felt a bit better as she neared her condo complex and the sidewalk strollers and shoppers became more of a crowd. She felt . . . safer.
Still, even with the relaxed crowd all around her, the uneasiness never entirely left her. And she was bothered by the fact that even after she greeted the pleasant security guard in her very safe building and headed up to her very safe condo, she was still tense.
Even inside, door locked and security system activated, she was tense. Hell, she even checked out her closets and under her bed, peering into corners, looking behind draperies.
Nothing.
She was alone.
So why didn’t it feel that way?
—
“She’s getting jumpy, boss,” Murphy reported, using a disposable cell as was her habit.
“How do you know?”
“Usual. Glancing back over her shoulder, tense, preoccupied. In that state, I get the sense of all defenses up and ready. I also get the sense that sometimes, very cautiously, she reaches out, or at least opens herself up. Seemed to almost go into a trance in the café, but passed it off to the waitress as meditation.”
“Maybe she’s picking up on you.”
“I’m closed up tight as a drum. If she can feel me around her she’s more than psychic.” Murphy was one of the very few psychics on their side who could shield, could hide her abilities from every other psychic they knew she had encountered. And one of even fewer trusted to be actively involved in virtually every aspect of their struggle, out and about most of the time on her own, gathering information as well as serving other functions.
“Do you think she senses them?”
“Could be. Do we have anyone close enough to scan her?”
“On the way. But if she knows how to block, you know we won’t get much. And since she’s lived with this all her life, it’s a safe bet she knows how to block.”
“Ah, shit,” Murphy muttered. “It means I get to play conduit, right?”
“Well, it increases the chance of successful contact, using two psychics when one of them has your unique ability to link with a third. Besides, the ps
ychic capable of scanning her can’t get too close or take the chance of being seen by any of Duran’s goons.”
Murphy knew exactly whom they were talking about then, but all she said was, “Tell her to take it easy, will you? Last time I thought my head was going to explode.”
“Copy that.”
“And make sure somebody tells me if we find out Solomon can identify any of these bastards. I mean before they arrange a neat little accident and disappear her.”
“You think they may be planning one?”
“Hard to say. I’ve spotted a couple of their watchers in the last week or so, but they’re hanging back pretty far, not quite being their usual creepy hovering selves.”
“Any idea why?”
“Maybe because she caught them off guard when she moved here and began taking care never to be alone except in her condo. Her very secure condo. I’d think twice about trying to get in there myself. She’s on the third floor, and on the corner, with main windows very visible, and in an area of the city that really doesn’t sleep.”
“So any move they made against her there would have to be a very public one.”
“Yeah, unless they managed to pay off the security and concierge staff. I did some checking, and my bet is that isn’t likely. They’re well paid with great benefits, plenty of manpower, and many in security are ex-cops or retired military with very good records who got in their twenty and retired to a nice city and a very good job to supplement the pension and other benefits. A job they appear to enjoy, with no signs of restlessness or boredom. Not the sort of people Duran could hope to bribe unless he can offer something one or more of them really wants. Not the sort to have dirt in their pasts to invite blackmail—and I looked. Very clean records, and not the sort to bow to pressure. Just not in their natures, at least as far as I can tell.”
“And the concierge staff?”
“Pretty much the same. Well paid with outstanding benefits, highly trained, more than enough manpower so nobody’s overworked and the job gives them good time off in a wonderful city.” Murphy paused, then added, “The people who built Solomon’s condo complex knew what they were doing. It ain’t cheap, but most working professionals could easily afford to live there. They provided a safe, service-oriented set of homes for busy people living in a lively city, and they didn’t cut corners doing it. They even built well above code for hurricane safety.”
“You think she was consciously looking for safety?”
“I think she had a lot of choices, especially given her sizable inheritance, and chose a place where security, especially for singles, was at the top of the list of selling points.”
“Has she made friends?”
“Selectively. Through volunteer work with an organization here helping animals, a neighbor or three outside the complex but nearby, a few casual acquaintances met through school, a couple of other single women in the complex she occasionally meets for dinner, maybe one or two in the gym she goes to. She doesn’t lack for acquaintances, just doesn’t seem especially close to anyone. I get that’s an intentional choice, not a cold nature.”
“She’s a beautiful woman. Dates?”
“Not that I’ve seen. She’s worked with a few men in the volunteer organization, and of course some attended the same classes she was taking or auditing, but when I audited some of the classes myself, it looked to me like she rebuffed a few tentative passes. Politely and pleasantly, but not really leaving any room for a second try. If I had to guess, I’d say she was a bit wary of men, though I’m not sure if it’s because of what she senses or some past experience.”
“Nothing stands out in her past, certainly no trouble with men or any man, at least that anyone noticed. Good family, no abuse suspected or reported, she did well in school, even kept her nose clean in college, as far as we can tell. Not known for partying and got top grades in every class. Casual dates, more often with groups, but she did see a few men during her college years and nothing unusual was noticed or reported.”
“Well, then, my bet is that whatever she’s sensing, it feels male to her whether she’s conscious of that or not, and threatening, and she’s leery of taking chances. In this age of stalkers, and given the stats surrounding women who get murdered, I can’t say that I blame her much. If she does have shields, she’s probably keeping them up and especially solid around men.”
“Brodie’s going to love that.”
Murphy smiled. “Yeah.”
“And so will you. Because it’ll cause Brodie problems.”
“I take my fun where I can get it, boss.” Murphy’s tone was unapologetic, and brisk when she continued. “Solomon strikes me as a very strong woman with nothing fragile about her, emotionally or physically. She believes she can take care of herself, and in just about any situation she’s probably right; she’s had self-defense courses on top of martial arts training from childhood right up through the present. Even if all the training is an enjoyable activity to her, something to help her keep in shape, merely precautionary or something she followed through on after childhood due to simple interest or habit, the fact is that she’s been taught to be aware of her surroundings and alert to any possible danger. She listens to her instincts, and her instincts are naturally suspicious. She’s going to mistrust a hand of friendship, at least initially.”
“So if she can’t read Brodie, she won’t trust him.”
“Not as far as she can throw him.”
“What do you know about her psychic abilities?”
“Being buttoned up myself, no more than what you told me. She’s telepathic, open rather than touch, and possibly clairvoyant. Born active, or became active as a teenager the way so many do. Learned how to hide it, and fast. Maybe even did her best to deny it. Plenty do.”
“Maybe why it took this long for her to show up on our radar.”
“Could be. Far as I can tell, she’s taken care not to draw attention to herself and hasn’t done anything that could even hint she might possess psychic abilities. If we hadn’t stumbled on them keeping an eye on her only because we were keeping an eye on some of them, we might never have known about her.”
“Any idea why Duran is suddenly interested?”
“No—unless it’s because she’s become aware of them. Maybe that makes her dangerous to them. Or maybe it makes her more valuable. One of those things we don’t understand yet, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Okay, well, I’ll keep on lurking and see if anything changes before Brodie shows up. Where is he, by the way?”
“Making contact with a new ally.”
“Hope he or she is a good one,” Murphy said matter-of-factly. “We’ve lost too many soldiers as it is. We’re in this thing up to our necks and still don’t know enough of what it’s all about.”
“Yes. Report in if anything does change, Murphy.”
“Copy that.”
“Base out.”
Murphy turned off the phone, automatically pulled the battery out, and unobtrusively tossed phone and battery into separate trash containers as she moved casually past them.
I should have bought stock in disposable cell phones.
There were half a dozen others, as usual, in her roomy shoulder bag.
The Charleston street was busy but not especially crowded. Murphy blended in. It was one of her things, blending in.
When she wanted to.
She wandered with the crowd a bit, finally winding up near but not too near to Tasha Solomon’s condo complex. A sidewalk café provided a secluded corner and a dandy view of Solomon’s condo.
Murphy ordered a latte, one of her few weaknesses, and a muffin she didn’t really want.
Then she settled back to lurk.
—
Tasha couldn’t have said what woke her somewhere around three o’clock in the morning. One moment she was dead aslee
p, the next wide awake and straining to listen.
She had spent so much time over the years practicing raising and lowering her mental walls that she was usually able to keep them up while asleep—at least she thought she could—so those senses were registering nothing.
Neither were the normal five.
But something was wrong, and she knew it. Instincts deeper than any senses told her so.
She slipped out of bed, hesitated for an instant, then quickly straightened the sheets and duvet and put smooth pillows in place so that the bed looked as if no one had slept there during the night.
If I were them, I’d check underneath the duvet for warmth, though.
They? Who on earth were “they”?
All her instincts were screaming at her to leave now and think about the why and who later. But she still paused an instant in the doorway of her bedroom, looking back to make sure it appeared undisturbed.
It did.
The pajamas she wore were of the boxer shorts and tank top variety, so she was decently covered, and she didn’t stop to grab a robe or take the time to change or even find her shoes. Instead, she moved quickly through the apartment, grabbing her purse and keys from the entry hall table, to the door.
She looked through the spyhole, not surprised to see an empty hallway.
But they’re close. They’re nearly here.
She slipped out of the condo quietly, making sure the door locked behind her, hesitated for only an instant in the hallway, then headed for one of the two stairwells each floor allowed access to.
They’re coming up in the other stairwell.
Tasha had no idea how she knew that, but what she felt was certain. As was the absolute certainty that even though hallways and stairwells were covered with security cameras, somehow they had been tampered with or interfered with. And that access codes to all the security doors had also somehow been breached.
Security is an illusion. You know that.