To Love, Honor and Defend

She dropped into her chair. “There’s an interesting idea. You could start a Lagniappe fashion trend.”

Stan scratched his ear and grimaced. “I’ll pass, thanks.” He nodded toward the letter. “So what had you so engrossed that you didn’t hear me sneaking up? Something break in the Chandler trial?”

Libby shook her head. “See for yourself. That’s the fifth one I’ve gotten. Same handwriting, same stationery, same language. I’m beginning to take this guy seriously. I admit, I’m spooked.”

Frowning, Stan took the letter from the desk and read. “Have you reported this to the police?”

“Yeah. A couple weeks ago. They can’t tell me much. No prints on the letters, and the stationery is pretty generic.”

He grunted. “And this one? You called it in yet?”

“Not yet.” Libby rubbed her temple. “I’ve been so tied up with the Chandler case, I hadn’t realized how out of hand this guy had gotten. I’ve had hate mail before—people letting off steam. No real substance. But this guy…” Libby bit down on her bottom lip as she thought back to the earlier letters. “His threats are escalating.”

Stan tossed the letter onto her desk. “This is way beyond venting steam, Lib.”

She shivered. “Yeah. I know.”

“So…” He lifted the receiver of her desk phone and waved it at her. “Shall I report this letter or will you?”

Sighing, she pried the phone from his hand. “I’ll call it in. But not now. I’m exhausted. Too tired to deal with police questions and protocol.” She hung up the receiver, and Stan frowned. “When I get home. I promise. First, I just want a hot bath and a couple aspirin.”

Pushing away from her desk, she collected her briefcase and brushed past him. Stan turned as she marched toward the door and continued glaring his disapproval. “You taking home the brief I gave you on the Browning case?”

She raised her overstuffed briefcase and nodded. “Got it. I’ll go over it tonight and get back with you in the morning.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. If I know you, you’ll put it first and forget about calling the cops.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I won’t forget.”

“Promise me. ’Cause I will call if you don’t. This guy sounds serious, and you know how dangerous he could be.”

She shuddered. Yeah, she knew. The wackos she’d helped put away never ceased to amaze her with their capacity for evil.

“I’ll call. I swear.” She gave Stan an affectionate pat on the shoulder then headed out to the long, dim hall.

“Let me at least walk you out to your car.” Stan kept pace beside her.

She grinned and shook her head. “No need. I’ve got Old Peppy with me.” She held up the pepper spray on her key chain. “And I’m parked in the garage. Security’s got cameras there. I’ll be fine. Go back to whatever’s got you here burning the midnight oil.”

Stan hesitated, but finally shrugged and waved her off. “Just be careful.”

“Always am.” Despite her bone-deep weariness, she headed toward the elevator with a brisk stride, her head high and her eyes scanning her surroundings. As usual, she and Stan weren’t the only ones working late, but the majority of the offices along the spartan corridor were already dark and empty. Her low-heeled pumps clicked on the linoleum floor, the sound reverberating in the deserted hall. Libby had walked this hallway at night for years. Yet tonight, with Stan’s warnings fresh in her ears and the newest letter from her stalker tugging at her thoughts, the isolated corridor seemed gloomy. Unsettling. The spiders-on-your-skin feeling of having someone unseen watching you.

Libby jabbed the elevator call button with more force than needed, irked that she let herself get spooked so easily. Just the same, she repositioned her keys so the pepper spray was more accessible and ready with the flick of a finger.

She pulled in a cleansing breath while she waited for the elevator and mentally reviewed her schedule for tomorrow. In addition to the Browning hearing, she had depositions for the Gulliver case and motions to file with the Chandler case. Another twelve-hour day at least.

The elevator rumbled and groaned in the shaft, but the doors never opened. Hadn’t Sally Hickson spent two hours stuck in the elevator last week?

Libby gave the elevator doors one last withering glance before she headed for the stairs. The exercise would be good for her. By working late, she’d missed her three-nights-a-week kickboxing class twice this week already.

The emergency exit door clanged closed behind her as she trudged down the first of twelve flights of stairs, lugging her overburdened briefcase. Until the Chandler case was settled, she’d probably be missing a lot more than just aerobics classes. Like a personal life.

When was the last time she’d gone to dinner with a friend? If she couldn’t remember, it had been too long. And forget about dating. A relationship took too much time and energy. She didn’t need another demand on her day.

Or another broken heart. Libby’s steps faltered. Where had that thought come from?

Easy. Her assistant Helen’s little aside in their morning meeting that Cal Walters was out on parole.

Cal Walters. The memory of his laserlike blue eyes drilling into her from across the courtroom still haunted her. He hated her. He’d made that much clear with his icy glare. But why?

So much history…

Squaring her shoulders, she plodded on down the steps, shaking off the melancholy that settled over her whenever she thought about Cal. No point dredging up the if onlys.

As she reached the ninth floor, Libby heard a door a few floors above her open and close. She grinned wryly. Someone else had tired of waiting on the decrepit elevator.

The heavy, low-pitched thud of a man’s footsteps joined the clack of her own shoes on the concrete steps. An uneasy jitter crawled up her spine. She was so isolated in the stairwell….

She pushed the nagging sensation aside, blaming Stan for making her too jumpy. Pausing at the seventh floor, she shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other. When she stopped, the heavier footsteps fell silent, too.

Libby furrowed her brow. Odd.

She started down the next flight. The man’s footsteps resumed.

A prick of alarm nudged her to a faster pace. The person behind her matched her speed.

Don’t panic. Clamping down on the swirl of jitters that skittered through her, she leaned over the railing to look up. “Stan? Is that you?”

No answer.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Silence.

She slowly took a few more steps. The thuds echoed her progress, but she saw no one.

“You’re not funny, Stan!” She picked up her pace, wishing she’d accepted his offer of an escort.

The rasp of labored breathing wheezed behind her, growing louder—the ominous hiss of a viper waiting to strike.

Libby took the steps as quickly as she could without tripping. Her briefcase slapped her legs. Her heartbeat matched the frantic rhythm of her feet. Her pursuer kept time.

“I’m gonna get you, bitch!” His hoarse voice scratched through her like shards of ice, chilling her to the marrow. She swallowed the whimper that swelled in her throat.

Stay calm. Think.

With a sweaty hand, she clutched her pepper spray, flicked off the safety catch. Racing to the fifth floor, she mentally prepared for an attack. No one would hear if she screamed.