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wall in the scuffle and I picked it up to hang it back on the wall. It was a futile gesture, but it felt good to restore some order to the room. I turned it over to locate the hangers on the back of the frame, then froze.
    There was a slim manila envelope taped to the back.
    I tore it off the frame’s cardboard backing and let the print fall forgotten to the floor. I flipped the envelope over, but there was no label and nothing written on it anywhere. I lifted the flap and slid out the contents.
    Huh. I raised my eyebrows. High definition surveillance photos, shot against the familiar backdrop of Hawthorne. But there didn’t seem to be anything worth photographing in them. I could make out the form of a woman, shot from a distance, but the photos had been taken in public places and didn’t depict anything suspicious or blackmail-worthy. Aside from that, the focus was so fuzzy you couldn’t even tell who she was. Whoever had taken the pictures was obviously not a professional.
    Was this really why the guy in the bathroom had shot at me? To protect a few blurry photos? If so, he should have saved himself the mangled wrist. You couldn’t even tell who the subject of the photos was, much less what she was up to.
    I flipped through more blurry, badly focused, taken-from-behind shots until suddenly, the quality of the photos improved drastically. Either the guy who’d taken them had gotten past his learning curve, or someone else had taken over. I held one of the better, clearer photos closer to my face and squinted. Like the others, this one had been taken from behind, but in this one there was no mistaking the familiar long, blonde hair.
    I dropped the photograph and took a shocked step back, sucking in a sharp breath as though distance from the photos would protect me from what I saw in them.
    It was me. I was the woman in the photographs. Miller and the man in the bathtub had been stalking me.
    There was one of me in the parking lot at the Graceful Mermaid. Me running errands. Me out for a rare jog in my sweats—which told me just how long they’d been watching me. Since I hated working out and relied on being on my feet all day at work to keep in shape, I only jogged about three times a year.
    Nausea rose in my throat and I had to swallow hard. The man in the bathtub had been spying on me, invading my privacy for months. But why? Was he just your average, everyday pervert, or was he up to something worse? My mind leaped to every horrible scenario I’d ever heard on the news. Kidnapping, rape, torture. The New England Slasher.
    Was that what had been planned for me? Normally, I laughed at conspiracy theories, but that was before I’d discovered I was a Fury. Before people started attacking me.
    I flipped through the photos again, heart pounding, and felt a rush of fierce satisfaction at the thought of the man lying unconscious in the bathroom behind me. Whatever he and Miller had planned for me, it hadn’t ended well for either of them. I wasn’t sure yet which of them was going to end up worse off, but with Miller dead, the man in the bathroom was left alone to face the anger quickly overwhelming my nausea. And as angry as I was becoming, my money was on him.
    Alecto writhed in my head, urging me to go hit the guy until he gave me some answers, and this time, I didn’t argue. I dropped the envelope and took a couple steps toward the bathroom. I was about to get Furious when I heard a noise outside. With difficulty, I forced myself to calm down long enough to walk into the center of the room and listen. I cocked my head, standing as still as I could while I strained to hear. Were those footsteps?
    I held my breath.
    Yes, definitely footsteps, and coming my way. I froze. What if these guys had another friend who was in on it—whatever it was—and he was coming to finish the job they’d botched? Should I hide in the bathroom to make sure my prisoner stayed quiet, or should I face whoever was at the door? I willed