One
ONE
Someone threatened to kill her last night. Now a man was following her.
Coincidence? Not likely.
Jennie Buchanan’s breath hitched as she boarded Portland’s MAX light-rail train and wound through standing passengers toward the far door. She glanced back.
The guy crept in. Searching the car, he caught sight of her and headed down the narrow aisle.
Her photographer’s eye took in every detail. Short, stocky, wearing a light gray hoodie, twenty-five at the oldest, he looked like one of the many skaters hanging out at Pioneer Square. His eyes told a different story. Dark and narrowed, fixed on her like a hunter sighting prey.
He advanced. Silent. Stalking. One hand never leaving his hoodie pocket.
Had to be a weapon. A gun, maybe, or a knife.
Fear razored through her stomach, and she backed deeper into the car. She tripped on a baby stroller, grabbed the handle and righted herself. The fresh scent rising up from the sweet baby did nothing to calm her fears.
“Sorry,” she said to the mother, her voice trembling. She tried to smile an apology, too, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
She couldn’t endanger the baby so she kept moving, easing in and out of people. She ached to ask them for help. The tall man with a kind face. A young woman, earbuds snugged in her ears and tapping her foot, her face buried in a book like many of the other commuters.
Not a good idea. What could she say? How could she make them believe she was in danger when even she didn’t know why?
She searched for an escape route before the train departed, but the doors grated on their hinges and closed with a solid thud. She had no way out. Her heart picked up speed, thudding in her ears, a rapid thump, thump, thump as her brain clouded with indecision.
Please, God. Send a police officer. Even a transit cop would be good. Anyone official, really. Just someone in uniform to scare him off.
He continued to move closer. Slower now. Stealthily, like a hunting cat. He flipped up his hood, his face dark and shadowed. Who was he? And what did he have planned?
He came to a stop on the other side of the car. He looked up and the overhead light gave her a clear look at his dark eyes boring into her.
The train jerked on its rails. A high-pitched squeal grated up her nerves. Riders jostled. She lost her footing for a moment. So did he, wobbling then reaching up to clamp stubby fingers around a slick aluminum pole.
She gasped.
His fingers. His hand. Stained bright red, the color running down the underside of his sleeve. Paint. Red paint.
The same color used in the art gallery break-in last night where someone had ripped her photos from the wall and spray-painted a message.
OPEN THE SHOW AND YOU DIE! it said.
She hadn’t seen the warning, but the gallery owner had phoned first thing this morning. She’d said the police wanted to talk
