Page 1 of Secrets in the Dark

Chapter One

Celia

I never expected pink roses to be the beginning of my end.

At Bailey & Finch, senior legal assistants earned respect through meticulous documentation, not by collecting admirers. Yet there I sat at 11:37 pm, alone in the office, staring at a fresh bouquet of pink roses arranged in a slender crystal vase on my desk.

The firm's sleek forty-second-floor suite lay in hush and half-light. Only my desk lamp and the diner-style glow from the kitchenette pushed back the dark. Three massive evidence boxes still needed organizing for Miles's cross-examination prep—another late night, another caffeine-laced apology to my circadian rhythm. It wasn't unusual for me to be the last onein the office, sorting through documents long after the partners had retreated to their penthouse condos and expense-account dinners.

I hesitated before touching the cream-colored card nestled among the blooms. The first bouquet had appeared three weeks earlier—tiny blush buds with a note that readBrightening Your Dayin bold lettering. I'd been flattered then, assuming the flowers came from a grateful client. The Anderson settlement had just closed, bringing millions to an injured factory worker. Perhaps this was his family's way of saying thanks for the hundred-plus hours I'd spent building evidence charts. Legal work seldom earned tokens of appreciation.

"Secret admirer?" Penny from Accounting had teased, iced coffee in hand, when she'd spotted that first arrangement. "Someone's got their eye on our resident workaholic."

I'd shrugged, cheeks flushing. It had seemed sweet—harmless. A pleasant break from the endless parade of affidavits and evidence logs that filled my days.

The tokens continued, appearing at unpredictable intervals but always when I worked late. A café gift card tucked under my keyboard with a line about burning the midnight oil. A vintage bookmark that perfectly matched the leather journal I carried. Small chocolates from that specialty shop two blocks away that I'd mentioned once during a staff lunch at the popular Southwestern-style grill we frequented. Thoughtful gestures suggesting someone was keeping track of my habits—closely.

At first, I'd convinced myself it was Kevin from Corporate Law, who always smiled a little too long in the elevator. Or maybe Sam, the new paralegal who sometimes asked for my help with research protocols. They both had access to the office after hours. It felt nice to be noticed, to be seen as something more than Bailey & Finch's document machine.

But tonight's card felt different. My fingers trembled as I slid it from its envelope:

You looked beautiful in your navy blouse today, Celia. I noticed how you switched to the gray blazer after lunch when the conference room got chilly. I love watching you walk from the third-floor coffee cart back to your building—how you always pause at the crosswalk before your usual right turn onto Carson Street rather than taking the direct route past the construction.

The cardstock fluttered from my grip.

A chill tightened around my ribs. The coffee cart was two blocks from our building—my private detour to avoid construction dust that played havoc with my allergies. To notice a blazer change behind closed doors? That required proximity. Access. The level of observation went beyond office crush into something darker.

Earlier notes had grown increasingly personal: compliments on a new hairstyle, mention of a specific pair of shoes, references to conversations I'd assumed no one was paying attention to other than the parties involved. Flattering yet intimate, as though the sender were studying me, cataloging my movements and preferences with obsessive detail.

But this? This was surveillance, maybe stalking.

I scanned the dark windows, suddenly aware of the floor-to-ceiling glass panels displaying me like an exhibit to anyone watching from the neighboring towers. The downtown financial district never truly slept. How many eyes might be trained on me right now, noting the shock on my face, the way my hand trembled as I reached for my phone?

Security, I thought—then dismissed the idea. What would I say? A note about my blazer wouldn't sound urgent to the night guard. Better to go home and breathe. Sort this out in daylight when the gesture wouldn't seem so menacing.

I powered down my computer, grabbed my blazer, and left the roses behind. They felt contaminated now, tainted by the awareness of being watched.

The parking garage echoed too loudly beneath my heels. Shadows seemed to inhale between concrete pillars. I threaded my keys between my knuckles—urban self-defense 101—and hurried to my car. Each footstep amplified in the cavernous space. Each distant sound—an elevator ping, a car door closing floors above—sent my pulse skittering.

The drive to my Henderson apartment blurred into a series of anxious glances at the rear-view mirror. No one tailed me, yet tension bracketed my shoulders. I took a circuitous route home, doubling back twice to ensure I wasn't followed. Paranoid, perhaps, but the note had scraped away my sense of security.

Inside my building, the lobby lights shone bright, and our night guard, Eduardo, offered his usual nod. "Late night again, Ms. Marshall?" he asked, barely glancing up from his crossword.

"The usual," I managed, aiming for casual. The normalcy should have soothed me. It didn't.

Apartment 3-C sat at the corridor's far end. Before my key reached the lock, dread hardened in my chest: the door wasn't fully closed. A slim bar of darkness split door and frame where there should have been unbroken security.

Logic shouted:back away, call 911. Instead, some reckless impulse drove me forward. I nudged the door with my foot. It swung inward to reveal my pristine living room bathedin neon spill from the Strip beyond my windows. Everything looked in place—white leather couch, glass coffee table, an artful arrangement of law journals, framed black-and-white photos of Chicago where I'd grown up.

Yet wrongness pulsed beneath the apparent order. My favorite fountain pen no longer lay parallel to my legal pad; it angled forty-five degrees off true. A throw pillow perched dead center on the couch instead of its usual left corner. Case briefs on the kitchen counter aligned too perfectly, edges flush in a way I never managed despite my organizational tendencies. Someone had entered, touched my life, rearranged just enough to whisper:I was here. I decide the boundaries.

My bedroom door stood ajar. I flicked on the hall light, unwilling to step into darkness.

Golden glow spilled over neat bedding, organized dresser, closet door shut. Exactly as I'd left it that morning—except for the single pink rose centered on my pillow. Under it, a cream card in that now-familiar script:

You forgot to leave the lamp on.

A strangled sound escaped me. He knew my small habit—leaving the bedside lamp burning when I worked late, a childhood holdover I'd never outgrown. He had stood where I slept. Had perhaps watched me sleep on previous nights. The violation crashed over me in waves, sending me stumbling backward into the hallway.

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