Page 1 of Perfect Stalker

CHAPTER 1

JENNY

Agust of wind tears down Peachtree Street, ripping through my thin coat. November in Atlanta isn’t supposed to be this brutal. My hair whips across my face, stinging my cheeks as I quicken my pace toward work.

“Son of a—” The end of my scarf snaps free, dancing in the wind like a demented flag. I grab for it, stumbling in my heels. The click of my footsteps echoes off the surrounding buildings.

Two blocks to go. My stomach twists, and I press my hand against it. Coffee was a mistake this morning, but I’ll need the caffeine to survive another day at “Silver Fox Productions.”

“Move it or lose it, lady!” A bike messenger swerves around me, his shout carried away by the wind.

“You can do this, Jenny.” The words puff out in little clouds. “Just another day at the office. That’s all.”

But my pep talk falls flat as “Silver Fox’s” headquarters comes into view. Forty stories of steel and glass pierce the iron-gray sky like a blade. Dark clouds crawl across its reflective surface.

A woman in designer heels breezes past me through the revolving doors. The scent of her expensive perfume lingers, a reminder of everything I’m not. Everything I’ll never be in this world of power suits and private jets.

“Maybe I should become a caricature artist,” I mutter to myself, pulling my coat tighter. “Set up in ‘Centennial Park,’ draw stick figures of tourists...” The idea makes me snort. My artistic ability stops at doodling flowers in meeting notes.

A florist shop catches my attention, its window display bursting with autumn colors. Through the glass, I spot chrysanthemums in deep burgundy and gold. My nose starts running just looking at them. Working there would be a nightmare of constant sneezing and watery eyes.

Still better than facing Miranda’s snide comments about my clothes, or Tom’s creepy stares. The memory of yesterday’s staff meeting makes my skin crawl. Miranda had spent the entire hour making pointed remarks about “professional attire” while staring directly at my perfectly appropriate pencil skirt.

Sarah, sweet but spineless Sarah, had given me sympathetic looks but said nothing. She never does.

The winter chill follows me through the glass doors of “Silver Fox Productions,” where I’ve dedicated the last four years of my life for reasons I can’t quite fathom the longer I’m here. My heels click against the marble floor of the lobby, the sound echoing through the unusually quiet space.

Something’s wrong. The typical morning buzz—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and coffee maker gurgling—is absent. Instead, there’s rustling paper and the screech of packing tape being pulled from rolls. I think I hear some sniffling too.

I pause at the security desk, fishing my ID badge from my purse. “Morning, Carl.”

The security guard won’t meet my eyes or look up from the box he’s packing on his desk. He waves me through without checking my credentials—something he’s never done before. He’s always insisted on inspecting the ID every morning though he lets others walk right through. He pretends he doesn’t know me just to torture me.

Or maybe I’m that invisible. It’s hard to guess, and I’ve given up trying to understand how I became the designated whipping girl for the entire office.

My stomach drops when I round the corner to the main office floor. Cardboard boxes overflow with personal items. Family photos. Coffee mugs. Wilting desk plants. My coworkers huddle in small groups, speaking in hushed tones that fall silent when I pass.

Monica from accounting clutches her “World’s Best Mom” mug to her chest, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Derek from marketing dumps his desk drawer contents directly into a box while audibly grinding his teeth.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to myself, gripping my purse strap tighter.

Sarah intercepts me before I reach my desk. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun—a far cry from her usual perfectlystyled waves. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her voice stays steady. “You’re the only one staying.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “What?”

“New management.” Sarah glances over her shoulder. “They cleaned house this morning. Everyone got their notice...except you.”

My mouth goes dry. “That’s impossible. There was no warning, no?—”

“The company’s been sold.” Sarah pulls an envelope from her jacket pocket. “Some Russian media conglomerate. ‘Markov Entertainment.’”

The name sparks something in my memory, but I can’t place it. “When did this happen?”

“The deal closed last night.” Her laugh holds no humor. “I came in to find the notice taped to my computer, just like everyone else…almost,” she says pointedly. “Great way to kick off the holiday season, right? At the unemployment line.”

I scan the room again, really seeing it now. “This can’t be legal,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know better. Georgia’s an at-will employment state. They can fire anyone, anytime, for any reason.

“Two months’ severance,” says Sarah. “Better than nothing, I guess.” She waves a letter that says NOTICE OF TERMINATION on the subject line. The rest of the font is too small to read. “Just watch yourself, Jenny. Nobody gets kept on without a reason. The new owner might be expecting…something.”

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