Adrian did not let me return to my studio that night.

For once, I didn’t argue.

The photograph of me leaving home was still inside the evidence bag.

Time: 21:14.

The attack had happened at 21:27.

Thirteen minutes.

Someone hadn’t simply predicted where I would go.

Someone had known.

At the station, Adrian placed my phone on the table.

—Who knows your schedule?

—Nobody. I don’t have one.

—Your employees?

—I work alone.

—Friends?

—They know I like desserts. They don’t know when I’m going somewhere.

He stared at me.

—What about your social media?

—I post after I leave.

That made him pause.

He turned toward one of his detectives.

—Pull timestamps from every incident involving Valeria.

The detective returned twenty minutes later.

Five locations.

Five crime scenes.

And one disturbing pattern.

Every incident began shortly after I arrived.

Not before.

Adrian put both hands on the table.

—They’re waiting for you.

I stopped joking.

—Why?

—That’s what we’re going to find out.

The police moved me temporarily to a secured apartment.

Adrian insisted on staying nearby.

At midnight, I found him sitting at the dining table surrounded by photographs.

—You know staring at those won’t make them confess.

He didn’t smile.

I sat opposite him.

—Adrian.

—What?

—Are you scared?

His eyes lifted.

For three years, I had remembered him as the man who corrected the angle of forks.

The man who hated disorder.

The man I’d run from because I thought marrying him meant spending my life inside rules.

But that night he looked exhausted.

—Yes.

I didn’t expect the answer.

—Why?

He pushed one photograph toward me.

The river.

Another.

The market.

Another.

The shopping center.

—Because I reviewed the first incident.

The birthday cake.

I remembered.

I’d entered a bakery and, minutes later, police arrived to arrest the chef.

—What about it?

—The anonymous report that sent officers there was submitted six minutes after your card payment.

I frowned.

—Coincidence?

—Maybe.

Then he showed me the ice cream shop.

—The report there came four minutes after you paid.

The market?

Seven minutes.

The mall?

Three.

My mouth went dry.

—Someone can see my bank transactions?

—That’s one possibility.

I immediately opened my banking app.

Adrian stopped me.

—Don’t use it.

—Why?

—Because until we know how they’re tracking you, assume every digital action creates information.

I put the phone down.

Then something occurred to me.

—The convenience store.

—I know.

—I didn’t pay before the man entered.

Adrian’s expression hardened.

Exactly.

That incident was different.

Someone knew where I was before I bought anything.

The next morning, detectives searched my studio.

Nothing obvious appeared.

No hidden camera.

No suspicious device.

Then one officer called Adrian into the storage room.

Behind a shelf of baking equipment was an old electrical outlet.

Inside it was a tiny transmitter.

I stared at it.

—How long has that been there?

The technician examined it.

—Months, possibly longer.

Adrian turned to me.

—Who has keys?

—Me.

Pause.

—And?

I hated the answer.

—My landlord.

—Anyone else?

I thought.

Then remembered.

—My former assistant.

—Name?

—Daniel Mercer.

Adrian froze.

Only for a second.

But I saw it.

—You know him.

—No.

Lie.

I stood.

—Three years apart and you still do that thing with your jaw when you’re hiding something.

He looked at the officers.

—Give us a minute.

When they left, I crossed my arms.

—Talk.

Adrian remained silent long enough to make me angry.

Finally:

—Daniel Mercer isn’t his real name.

I stared at him.

—What?

—His real surname is Locke.

My stomach dropped.

—Locke?

Adrian nodded.

—He’s my cousin.

I laughed once because the alternative was throwing something.

—Your cousin worked in my bakery for eight months and nobody thought I should know?

—I didn’t know until recently.

—How recently?

—Three weeks.

I stepped back.

—Three weeks?

—Valeria—

—You discovered your cousin had worked for your ex-fiancée under a false surname three weeks ago, while crime scenes were appearing everywhere I went, and you said nothing?

—I didn’t have evidence connecting him.

—Apparently evidence is required before basic honesty.

His face tightened.

That hit where I intended.

Adrian lowered his voice.

—Daniel disappeared seven years ago after a family dispute.

—What dispute?

—Money.

—Try again.

He looked away.

There it was.

The Locke family.

Perfect manners.

Perfect posture.

Perfect silence whenever reality became embarrassing.

—Adrian.

He finally answered.

—My grandfather’s will.

I waited.

—Daniel’s father believed my branch of the family manipulated it. There were lawsuits. Accusations. Daniel blamed my father.

—What does that have to do with me?

—I don’t know.

That part, I believed.

Daniel had been a wonderful assistant.

Quiet.

Funny.

He knew every recipe I ruined.

He knew I hated raisins.

He knew I sometimes walked to convenience stores after midnight.

And he’d installed half the shelving in my studio himself.

Including the shelf hiding the transmitter.

Adrian’s phone rang.

One detective had found Daniel.

Or rather, they’d found where he’d been living.

The apartment was empty.

Inside were photographs of me.

Hundreds.

Not romantic photographs.

Surveillance.

Me leaving the studio.

Buying flour.

Walking home.

Meeting suppliers.

Sitting in cafés.

And beside them were maps.

Every crime scene was marked.

But Adrian noticed something I didn’t.

He placed the maps chronologically.

—Look.

The first locations were far from me.

Then closer.

Then closer again.

Until the convenience store.

—Someone is testing response times, he said.

I felt cold.

—Whose?

He looked at me.

—Mine.

That changed everything.

Maybe I wasn’t the target.

Maybe I was bait.

The next two weeks were strangely quiet.

No crime scenes.

No anonymous messages.

No Daniel.

I stayed away from social media.

Used temporary payment methods arranged through the investigation.

And, under police advice, changed locations unpredictably.

Adrian never left me completely alone.

It annoyed me.

It also made sleeping easier.

One evening, I found him attempting to make crème brûlée in the secured apartment.

I stared at the kitchen.

—What happened here?

—The recipe said medium heat.

—That pan looks like evidence.

For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

And for one dangerous second, I remembered why I’d almost married him.

Then I remembered why I hadn’t.

—Don’t misunderstand this, I said.

His smile faded.

—I don’t.

—Saving my life doesn’t automatically repair our relationship.

—I know.

That surprised me.

Adrian placed the ruined pan down.

—Three years ago, I thought loving you meant teaching you how to fit into my life.

I said nothing.

—After you left, I realized I never asked whether that life fit you.

I looked away.

—That’s a very expensive lesson.

—You sent me the catering bill for the canceled wedding.

I almost smiled.

Then his phone rang.

Everything changed again.

A detective had found Daniel’s car.

Abandoned outside an old Locke family property.

Inside was a laptop.

The hard drive contained a folder with my name.

But the files weren’t photographs.

They were police reports.

Every crime I’d encountered.

And every report had been prepared before the crime occurred.

Some by days.

Some by weeks.

My stomach turned.

—So Daniel planned them?

Adrian shook his head.

—Look at the creation dates.

The earliest file was seven years old.

Seven years.

I hadn’t even opened my bakery then.

I hadn’t met Daniel.

I hadn’t even been engaged to Adrian.

—That’s impossible.

Adrian enlarged the oldest document.

At the top was my full name.

VALERIA SUTTON.

Below it:

SUBJECT CONTACT PROTOCOL.

I looked at Adrian.

—What is that?

He didn’t answer.

Because underneath my name was another.

ADRIAN LOCKE.

And beside his name:

PRIMARY RESPONDER.

Someone had paired us together years before our engagement.

Before the canceled wedding.

Before my strange talent for finding crimes.

Adrian immediately ordered the file traced.

The metadata led somewhere neither of us expected.

Not Daniel.

Not a criminal network.

A private security company.

Locke Strategic Holdings.

Owned by Adrian’s family.

He stared at the screen.

—My family created this.

I remembered all those dinners.

His grandfather.

His parents.

The endless rules.

The obsession with control.

Suddenly those rules seemed less ridiculous.

More sinister.

Adrian called his father.

No answer.

His mother.

Disconnected.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

Adrian gestured for me not to answer.

I did anyway.

—Hello?

A familiar voice spoke.

—Valeria.

My whole body went cold.

Daniel.

—Where are you?

—It doesn’t matter.

Adrian signaled for the call to be traced.

Daniel continued:

—You need to stop trusting Adrian.

—You’re the one who hid a transmitter in my studio.

—I put it there so I could find you before they did.

I frowned.

—Who are “they”?

Silence.

Then:

—The people who taught Adrian to believe every rule existed for a reason.

Adrian heard him.

His expression changed.

Daniel continued:

—Ask him why the Locke family wanted him in the crime squad.

—Daniel—

—Ask why every city he was transferred to suddenly had cases connected to you.

My blood went cold.

Adrian took the phone.

—Where are you?

Daniel laughed quietly.

—Still giving orders, cousin?

—If you’re protecting Valeria, prove it.

A pause.

—Fine.

My laptop chimed.

A file had arrived.

Video.

Adrian opened it.

Security footage from three years earlier.

The night before our wedding.

I appeared first.

I was leaving Adrian’s family home after the rehearsal dinner.

Then, twenty minutes later, Adrian’s grandfather entered a private study with Daniel.

There was no audio.

But Daniel placed something on the desk.

A folder.

My photograph was visible on the front.

Adrian’s grandfather opened it.

Then he pointed at my face.

And drew one finger slowly across his throat.

Not an instruction we could interpret with certainty.

But Adrian’s face turned white.

The call was still connected.

Daniel spoke again.

—You always believed Valeria left because she hated your family’s rules.

Adrian stared at the screen.

—She did.

—No.

Daniel’s voice became quieter.

—She left because someone made sure she would.

I stopped breathing.

—What does that mean?

—The note you left Adrian three years ago wasn’t the only note delivered that night.

I looked at Adrian.

He looked equally confused.

Daniel continued:

—There was another one.

—For whom? I asked.

—Adrian.

Silence.

—What did it say?

Daniel took several seconds.

Then:

“That if Adrian married you, you wouldn’t survive the honeymoon.”

The room became completely silent.

Adrian looked at me.

I looked at him.

Three years ago, I’d believed I was escaping a suffocating family.

Adrian had believed I’d simply abandoned him.

Neither of us had known that, somewhere between our two decisions, somebody else had been moving pieces.

And then Daniel said the sentence that frightened me most.

—Valeria, the crimes weren’t designed to kill you.

Pause.

—They were designed to make Adrian protect you.

Adrian gripped the phone.

—Why?

Daniel answered:

—Because someone needs the two of you together again.

The call ended.

A second later, every light in the secured apartment went out.

And from the hallway outside came three slow knocks.