Retreating to the living room, I punched Miles's number with trembling fingers. Miles Thatcher wasn't just my boss; he was the closest thing I had to a mentor in Las Vegas. Three years at Bailey & Finch had taught me he was the partner to call in a crisis.
"Celia? What's wrong?" His voice was crisp despite the hour. Miles was legendary for sleeping four hours a night and answering his phone on the first ring regardless of time.
"Someone's been in my apartment." My voice shook. "Another rose. They rearranged things—knew I'd left the lamp off—they've been watching me—"
"Are you alone right now?" The sharpness in his tone brought me back from the edge of panic.
"I—I think so. They're gone."
"Step outside, call the police from the hallway. I'll be there in ten."
Nine minutes later Miles arrived, improbably polished in a charcoal suit, not a silver hair out of place despite the hour. Detective Sofia Alvarez and her partner were already canvassing the apartment, dusting for prints. Meanwhile, I sat on the couch, blanket over my shoulders though sweat chilled my skin, recounting every escalating gift.
Miles paced the length of my living room, his Harvard-trained legal mind visibly sorting, analyzing, categorizing the threat. Alvarez slid the cards into evidence bags, her movements practiced and efficient.
"No prints on previous items?" she asked.
"I never reported them," I admitted, shame coloring my voice. "They seemed harmless."
"They're designed to," she said, no judgment in her tone. "Escalation is common. Stalkers often begin with gestures that appear romantic, establishing a pattern that draws the target in before revealing their true intentions."
She examined the rose from my pillow, now in a plastic evidence container. "Unfortunately, flowers aren't great for prints. Too many handlers between cutting and purchase. Mass-produced items like these pass through numerous distribution points."
"What about building cameras?" Miles pressed, ever the litigator looking for documentation.
"We'll pull footage." Alvarez's mouth flattened. "But professionals avoid lenses. They know the blind spots."
"Professionals?" I echoed, the word catching oddly in my throat. It suggested something far more dangerous than an obsessed coworker. It implied calculation. Resources. Intent.
Miles exchanged a look with the detective that drew the blood from my face. A silent communication passed between them, the kind that excludes civilian understanding. The kind that signifies something worse than you've imagined.
“Our firm recently won a conviction against a very powerful syndicate leader,” Miles said, voice dropping. “His people have a taste for payback.”
I frowned—our docket overflowed with big names. “Which case?”
“The Vegas outfit we took down last month,” he clarified. “He’s facing ten to fifteen.”
“I remember filing the briefs,” I said, brow furrowing. “But what does that have to do with this?” I gestured at the rose—my violated apartment.
“You did more than file briefs, Celia.” Miles’s tone gentled. “You uncovered the ledger—the discrepancies no one else saw. That evidence sealed the verdict.”
“It was routine,” I protested. “Any analyst would have spotted it eventually.”
Alvarez shook her head. “That ‘routine’ work put away a man whose family doesn’t forgive.”
Memory snapped into focus: weeks spent untangling double sets of books, tracing shell companies, testifying in a quiet pre-trial hearing. I’d considered it background noise to the courtroom drama.
“But my name was never in the papers,” I argued. “I’m not even an attorney.”
“It’s in the transcripts,” Miles said. “And transcripts are public. Anyone determined enough could find you.”
Alvarez jotted a final note. “The timeline lines up.”
Cold comprehension rolled through me. This wasn’t a shy coworker. It was organized crime—people with reach, patience, and no hesitation about eliminating loose ends.
"What do I do?" My voice cracked, fear finally breaking through my professional composure.
"We take you off the board," Miles said. "Tonight."