“Stop fucking lying!” The pressure behind the barrel was increased. “I was there, remember?”
“I’m not lying! I have no idea w-who you are!”
“Bullshit! I was standing on that fucking sidewalk when you?—”
“So was she!”
The man’s words sank in, his stomach filling with an overwhelming dread. Keeping his weapon held securely in place, he picked up the guy’s camera, immediately opening the bastard’s most recently captured images.
Scottie.
Chase scrolled through numerous images. They were of her. He was with her in a few, but every fucking picture was ofher!
Outside her home. Walking in and out of the shelter. Getting into and out of her car. Pushing a grocery cart through the fucking store.
As he continued looking at the disgusting display of obsession, Chase realized the asshole had been watching her for at least the last several weeks.
What. The. Fuck?
His vision turned blood red, the fury rising within him unlike any he’d ever experienced. He wanted to kill the man right goddamn now. He wanted to curl his finger around his gun’s trigger, and he wanted to?—”
“I’m a reporter!” the man nearly shouted. “I-I mean Miss Cahill no harm. I’m just…I-I’m just working on a story for the Seattle Gazette! Check my ID if you don’t believe me!”
A…reporter?
Chase yanked the man’s bulging wallet free from his back pocket, flipping the leather flaps open. Tilting the plastic window housing the driver’s license, he checked out the guy’s name, address, and picture…
Levi Taylor.
The address was local, and the picture matched the man’s face. But that didn’t mean the ID was real, so he called the one person who could tell him for sure.
With the camera resting back on the pavement near Chase’s booted foot, he continued holding the gun on his prisoner while pulling his phone free. Lucky answered on the second ring.
“Tell me you didn’t fuck things up with your girl.”
“I need you to run a name.”
The seriousness in his tone must’ve resonated with his teammate, because Lucky’s response was a quick and serious, “Tell me what you need.”
After hurriedly catching the other man up on his current situation, Chase relayed the information Lucky needed to run the man’s background. After sending him a pic of the confiscated ID to confirm the name matched the photo, he did his best to keep his breathing steady while waiting for the results to come in.
“Okay, so it looks like your guy is a freelance reporter who’s lived in the city for the past eighteen years.” The sound of computer keys being pressed came through the speaker. “Guy’s got a long list of temporary contracts with several different news and media outlets around the city.”
“Can you tell who he’s working for now? He claims to be doing a story for the Gazette.”
A few clicks of the keyboard later and Lucky came back with, “Looks like he’s on their current list of pending freelance stories. His proposed story title is…oh, well shit. This might explain things.”
“What?” Chase kept his eyes on the man still lying face-down on the ground.
“The title he submitted to the Gazette’s employee system… ‘Social Media Dropouts: Where Are they, now?’” Lucky paused for a few more clicks. “Everything matches, brother. Guy has a few minor run-ins with the law. Mostly trespassing shit from being an overzealous reporter. Other than that and a few parking tickets, there’s nothing to suggest he means anyone any real harm.”
Chase wanted to believe Lucky’s intel. Any other time it wouldn’t even be a question. But this was Scottie’s safety they were talking about. And when it came to protecting her, he never could be too careful.
“Thanks, man,” he told Lucky. “I’ll check back in soon.”
“Sure thing, brother. Keep me posted.”
Ending the call, Chase returned his full attention to Taylor. “Why do you have fake plates on your car? And why the hell did you take off the way you did that night when I tried talking to you outside Catalina’s?”