LITMIR.BIZ

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moving her backward in time. Thinking about the incident with Josh Varner, she began to grow more and more uneasy.

       “Tell me about your family,” Trace said, making notes now and again.

       “My mom and dad divorced when I was four. Mom moved back to Florida where she was raised, remarried not long after and had another kid. I stayed here and lived with my dad.”

       “He still alive?”

       “He passed away a couple of years ago.”

       “I lost mine a while back. I still miss him.”

       Maggie made no comment. Her dad had been demanding and a tough disciplinarian, but she had loved him and still missed him.

       “How about high school? Anything stand out? Any old grudges that might blossom years later?”

       She forced her gaze to remain on his face. No way was she telling him about Josh Varner. Josh didn’t even live in Texas anymore. He had gone to UCLA on a scholarship and then taken a job in Seattle with Microsoft. She’d heard he made barrels of money.

       And if he wrote her a message, it wouldn’t sound anything like the words on the notes she had received.

       “I, um, can’t think of anything. Besides, if it was something from high school, why would the person wait all these years?”

       Trace’s pen stopped moving. “Usually something happens, an event of some kind. A stressor, it’s called. A trigger that digs up old memories, sometimes twists them around in a weird direction.”

       She shook her head. “I really can’t think of anything.” At least nothing that had recently occurred. Still, she was glad he looked down just then to write another note. She had always been an unconvincing liar.

       “It may well be that this guy has seen you somewhere but the two of you have never met. He could be fixated on you for no good reason other than the color of your hair, or that you look like someone he once knew.”

       A little chill ran through her. “I see.”

       Trace reached over and squeezed her hand. “Look, we’re going to catch this guy. There are very tough laws against stalking.”

       She nodded. Just his light touch reassured her. Maybe this was a man she could count on, a man who could make things turn out all right.

       They talked awhile longer, but he didn’t bring up her past again. If something happened that involved her Great Shame, as she thought of it, she would tell him. If she did, she knew the look she would see on his face. At the moment, she just couldn’t handle it.

       Trace rose effortlessly from his chair, to tower over her on his long legs. “On the way back to the office, you can show me where you lived when you got the first note.” He packed up his stuff, closed the briefcase, clamped on his cowboy hat. “I’d like to take the notes,” he said, “check them for prints.”

       “All right.”

       Trace bagged the notes and she led him to the entry.

      “You keep your doors and windows locked?”

       “I’m pretty good about it.”

       His glance was hard and direct. “You be better than pretty good. You be damned good.”

       She didn’t like his attitude. On the other hand, he was probably right. Even in a good neighborhood, the crime rate in Houston was high.

       “I’ll keep the doors locked.”

       “Good girl. Let’s go.”

       She felt his hand at the small of her back, big and warm as he guided her out of the house toward his Jeep, then opened the door and helped her climb in. They cruised by her old apartment. He stopped in front and made a thorough perusal of the area, then turned the Jeep around and headed back toward his office.

       “Anyone in your old apartment building who might be interested in you in some way?”

       “There’re only four units. A retired lady schoolteacher lives in one. There’s a single mother and her four-year-old son, and an older man in a wheelchair. The one I left is still vacant.”

       “Looks like we can rule out the apartment residents.”

       They reached his office and Trace walked her over to her car.

       “Remember what I said about keeping your doors locked.”

       “I will.”

       As Maggie drove back to her town house, she couldn’t help thinking that in going to a private investigator she had done the right thing.

       She didn’t like the attraction she felt, but it was only physical, nothing to really worry about. Trace was a handsome, incredibly masculine man, and she hadn’t been involved with anyone in years.

       And she felt better knowing she had someone to help her.

       Even if she had to pay for it.

       Trace sat in front of his computer, staring at Maggie O’Connell’s webpage. The black background showed off a dozen photos of the Texas Hill Country, including the imported African game that roamed the grasslands, and a variety of magnificent sunsets that lured the viewer deeper into each scene.

       On another page, there were shots of small towns and beaches along the coastline bordering the Gulf, and wonderful action photos of various power- and sailboats skimming over the water in Galveston Bay.

       The colors were brilliant, the angles of the photos showed the subject to the very best advantage, and there was always something a little different, something intriguing about each picture. At the bottom of the page, information on the three galleries in Texas that carried limited-edition prints of Maggie’s work was listed, and a contact email address.

       Trace searched through the dozens of other sites that popped up on Google when he referenced her name, and the more he searched, the more frustrated he became.

       Damn, his client wasn’t just a good photographer, she was practically a celebrity. She was a well-known, well-respected artist whose work had been viewed by thousands of people.

       And any one of them could be the person who was stalking her.

       Trace leaned forward in his leather chair and punched the button on the recorder, listening again to his conversation with Maggie. When he finished, he reviewed the notes he had taken.

       He went to work on her list of names, verifying what little information he had. Nothing turned up. Michael Irving and David Lyons both had webpages. Irving was a certified public accountant in Dallas. Lyons was a corporate lawyer in Houston with Holder Holder & Meeks.

       It was after seven by the time Trace finished. The office was closed. Annie had left for the night and Alex and Ben were out working cases. Trace had decided to postpone his trip to the shore until next weekend, and had called Rex Westcott to start the tail on Maggie tomorrow morning. He had sent Rex’s photo to the email address she had given him: [email protected].

      Photolady. Looking at some of her work, he realized she was far more than that. He might have smiled, except that he didn’t like complications, and Maggie O’Connell was nothing but. Her life was complicated. The possibilities of who her stalker might be were endless.

       And the unwanted attraction Trace felt for her only made matters worse.

       He sighed as he rose from his chair, plucked his hat off the credenza behind his desk and prepared to leave. A knock on the front door caught his attention. He glanced at the clock, saw that another hour had passed and wondered who knew he would be there this late.

       He settled his hat on his head and started for the front door, turned the lock and pulled it open.

       “Good heavens, Trace,” said a familiar female voice, “where on earth have you been?” Carly Benson Rawlins stormed past him into the office, whirled and set her hands on her

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