Ugh, it’s going to be a long one.
Rolling out of bed, I walk into the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker. My day doesnotstart without a large mug of the aromatic drink. I turn on the news for some background noise and open my laptop to begin updating notes in patients’ charts.
A news story catches my attention, and I turn the volume up on the television to hear what the news anchor is saying. A picture of one of my clients shows up in the upper right corner of the screen, with live footage outside his estate being streamed.
Nick Genova, CEO of Armitech Solutions, which specializes in defense manufacturing, was found murdered in his home last night. Sources say he had a security system in place, but the sensors were not tripped. No suspects have been named as of yet. We will keep you updated as more information becomes available. In other news…
I turn the volume back down. My hands tremble as I open a search for Nick Genova in my records. He hired me shortly after I opened my own practice, when it was in a less than secure part of town. He’s the entire reason I was able to open my practice in the center of Chicago and take on more lucrative clients.
Nick was a good man. I set my own hours of practice, but I was on call for him twenty-four hours a day. I thought it was weird when he first brought it up, but he paid handsomely for the service, and it was hard to pass up when I had a degree to pay for.
That was five years ago. I managed to pay off my debt in record time because of that man—along with purchasing a nice condo. I skim through notes of our last few sessions to see if there’s anything out of the ordinary. Nothing seems out of place—he was happy, planning a vacation with his wife, and was in talks with a few new clients.
So, why does this whole thing seem… off?I don’t have time to think about it right now. I push the thoughts away and get ready for the long day ahead of me.
I arrive at my office a little past seven in the morning, and it looks like a crime scene. Cops are littering the place, yellow caution tape blocks the entrance, and a few people are snapping photos of the area. I stop, frozen in place, trying to take it all in.What the hell happened here?
“Please, keep moving, miss,” a tall man in the Chicago blues says as he tries to block my view of my office space.
I tear my eyes away from the destruction in front of me. “T-that’s my office,” I manage to choke out as I motion to the mess behind him.
“The tenant’s here,” he says into the walkie attached to his shirt lapel. He lifts the tape for me to duck under. “Follow me, please. The detective wants to see you.”
I duck under the tape and get an up close and personal view of the destruction in my office. Filing cabinets are turned over, office supplies are flung all along the floor, and all the drawers of my desk and my receptionist’s desk have been emptied and lay broken on the floor.
My jaw drops, and my eyes widen at the horrific state of the office. “W-Who would do this?”
“That’s what we are trying to figure out.” His deep voice makes my blood run cold and my heart pound in my ears. I inhale past the lump forming in my throat.
It can’t be.
I close my eyes, willing my mind tricks to disappear. I haven’t seen him in over fifteen years, but his voice haunted my dreams just this very morning. I slowly turn to face him and stare into the same beautiful blue eyes that had me tossing and turning. “Hello, Finley.”
Grayson
The woman with her back to me is breathtaking. She’s wearing a fitted royal blue dress, a beige blazer, and high pumps—which make her calf muscles look lean and toned. Her long blonde hair is flowing in loose curls over her shoulders.
Damn, she’s a knockout.
As she talks to the rookie cop, her voice carries across the span, and I’m tremendously happy to be working this case so I can get closer to her. “That’s what we are trying to figure out,” I respond to her question directed at the cop. Her body goes rigid. She slowly turns to me so I can drink her in. “Hello, Finley.”
Her expression changes from surprise to anger when she recognizes me. I haven’t been able to forget her either.
“It’s Doctor Grier, Mr. Bowers.” She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her perfectly arched eyebrow at me in challenge.
Two can play this game.
“Detective, actually.” I smirk and continue. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind following me?” I motion toward a corner of the office space to not be overheard by the others. She gives a curt nod and follows, careful to step over the debris. “Any idea who would have done this?”
“Why would anyone want to break into a psychologist's office? I have nothing in here besides office supplies and a comfortable couch.” She lets her annoyance shine through as she speaks.
I smirk.She’s funny. “Is there anyone of importance you were treating as a patient?”
“That’s confidential,Detective,” she says, adding disdain to my title. “I’m not allowed to provide information about who I treat without a warrant. You must know that, being in your profession and all.”
“Yes,Doctor, I’m well aware of the HIPAA guidelines and what information you can provide without a warrant. I hoped you would tell me if you treat any high-profile patients. Without names, of course.” I motion to the exquisite office space around me. “You’ve got to be doing something right; otherwise, how could you afford such a nice office in downtown Chicago?”
She narrows her beautiful gray eyes at me. “Yes, well, I’ve worked very hard to get where I am. I don’t know who could have done this.”
