“Yes,” I replied. “It’s a bit drafty in the lobby today.”

“You are wearing a wool coat and a heavy scarf, Emily.”

“I catch colds easily.”

He stood up, his tall frame cast in shadow against the gray sky.

He walked slowly around the desk.

I felt my muscles tense, my body preparing for a blow that I knew he would never deliver.

Adrian stopped a few feet away from my chair.

“Your sleeve is turned up,” he said.

I looked down at my right wrist.

The cuff of my blouse had ridden up, revealing the edge of a greenish-yellow bruise shaped like fingers.

I quickly pulled the fabric down and buttoned it.

“An accident,” I whispered. “I bumped into the kitchen counter.”

“You are a terrible liar,” Adrian said.

He did not sound angry, only patient.

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

He tossed it onto the glass desk.

It slid across the surface and stopped right in front of my hands.

“Open it,” he said.

My fingers shook as I untied the string of the envelope.

I pulled out a stack of glossy photographs.

They were high-resolution images taken from various angles on the streets of Chicago.

In the first photo, I was walking out of my apartment building.

Just a few yards behind me, parked at the curb, was a sleek black SUV with tinted windows.

The second photo showed the same SUV idling outside the grocery store I visited on Tuesday night.

The third photo was taken last night, showing the vehicle parked across the street from my apartment, its headlights cut but its engine running.

My breath caught in my throat.

“This vehicle has been tailing you for four days,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

I stared at the license plate in the photos, a cold dread pooling in my stomach.