Page 78 of The Dark Before Light

I watch his face, seeing the moment the line connects. He listens for a few seconds, then says, “Yeah, hold on,” and hands me the phone.

My heart skips a beat as I lift it to my ear. What if…

“Hello?” My voice is breathless.

“Dr. Stirling, thanks for humoring me,” rumbles Sven.

I swallow a pulse of disappointment. “Call me Talia, Sven. I’m not your boss’s doctor anymore. What’s going on?”

“Just a minor security concern that was brought to my attention this morning.”

My heart, barely recovered, starts thumping again. “What does that mean? What kind of concern?”

There’s a long pause, like he’s weighing his words. “Since we left town, the same security company that monitors Alistair and Gail’s home has been monitoring yours.”

“What? Did you just say my house is being monitored without my knowing or approval?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Gabe’s wince. Sven’s sigh filters through the phone.

“I would have told you, but I think you can guess why I didn’t. That being said, I agreed with him that it was a good idea.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I’m angry at Kieran’s autocratic presumption. Another, more primal part of me is delighted because it means he’s thinking about me. That I’m important enough to protect.

“Okay,” I finally say, “let’s put a pin in that issue. What’s the security concern?”

“The two-man team assigned to you made note of a car driving by repeatedly over the last three days. The plates and registration are dead ends. There were several times the car slowed or stopped on your street right outside your house. Single male driver. Caucasian. Dark hair. They got some photos but so far facial recognition isn’t pinging.”

Disquiet ripples through me. My armpits prickle. I’m suddenly very glad Gabe is standing five feet away with a gun under his jacket.

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know.” The phone buzzes in my hand. “Will you take a look at the photo I just sent and tell me if you recognize him?”

I pull up the text and zoom in on the photo, studying the man. He’s wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses and looks like anyone. Generic. A shiver rolls down my arms.

“No, I don’t. Sorry.”

He sighs. “It’s all right. Worth a shot.”

“You think it has something to do with…” I can’t say his name, but thankfully, Sven doesn’t make me.

“It’s doubtful. There were some pictures of the two of you from the benefit, but they were scrubbed before circulation. And I’m very careful when I drive. No one followed us to your house Saturday.”

I flush at the reminder that Sven was here that night, probably just out of sight from the porch. If he was close enough, he could have heard everything Kieran said to me before I closed the door. The prospect doesn’t embarrass me, exactly, but it does make me wonder how many times he’s heard Kieran say similar things to other women. Which in turn pisses me off.

I curl the hand not holding the phone, digging my nails into my palm to refocus. “You think someone might be stalking me?”

“It’s possible. You’re quite the hot topic at the moment and not everyone is a fan.”

That’s putting it lightly. The article that came out this morning was my first in-depth interview, but there’s been a snowball effect since my former client decided to ‘out’ me a week ago. From online forums to clickbait articles, my name is popping up a dozen times a day. I’ve become an unwilling figurehead for incendiary debates on morality, ethics, and sexuality.

I’ve lost three more clients, two of them women who’ve been with me for years. Those hurt a lot worse than the previous losses. The consequences have spilled over the boundary of my career, too. After a disastrous incident at my neighborhood market on Tuesday involving a woman and a Bible, I’ve started grocery delivery.

Breakfast with Mia this morning was the first time I’ve been anywhere but my home or offices this week. In weaker moments, I’ve considered options ranging from cutting and dyeing my hair to closing my practice, selling my properties, and leaving the country. Even the consistent, supportive phone calls I’m getting—both from my network at Crossroads and professional colleagues—haven’t dented my underlying anxiousness.

I’m losing control of the life I built for myself over the last decade. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m okay with it, I’m not.

I’m really, really not.

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