“They cut your brakes?” I asked.

“It wasn’t just the brakes,” Damon said.

He reached around me, his arm brushing my shoulder as he tapped the keyboard.

A new document opened on the screen.

It was an encrypted email thread between Damon and his head of security.

Attached to the emails were photos of me.

One showed me walking out of our favorite bakery on Michigan Avenue.

Another showed me sitting in the park, reading a book.

On each photograph, a small red crosshairs had been drawn over my chest.

“They sent these to my personal terminal,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“The message was clear.”

“If I kept you near me, you would die.”

I stared at the red lines on my own printed image.

The air left my lungs in a slow, painful hiss.

“You could have told me,” I said, turning to face him. “We could have gone to the police.”

“The police couldn’t protect you from Julian Vance,” Damon said.

“He had people inside the department.”

“He had eyes on every apartment I owned.”