He stopped outside of the gallery, hands tucked into his pockets. The familiar weight of his knife sheathed in the back of his trousers. Subject A was not in today. He'd left her at home, working in her home office. Subjects B, C and D already fettered off for their summer programs.

Acting for B, expressive dance and gymnastics for C. D had soccer. Now that he was rolling into phase two of his observations, this was where he liked to tighten the net, until the roped walls began to close in and the fish, realizing she was snared, began to thrash and kick. Knowing there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape.

The image thrilled him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the black wallet, the exterior scarred and aged. Inside was a thick wad of cash, a whole array of cards, tri-fold of family pictures and a stack of personal business cards.

He slipped one out, stroked a thumb over the expensive, raised print.

Commercial Property Development. Ori Goldman. So today he was a Jew. Lovely. A successful one, at least. Tucking the wallet and cards away, he assessed himself in the reflective pane of window glass. Adjusting the knot of his tie. Fingers cramping, he decided, given the damp chill of an island, it warranted veering off schedule and taking more of his arthritic medication a full half-hour early.

Palming the tablets, he knocked them back and swallowed dry.

Entering the gallery, bells chimed, turning heads in his direction. Lots of people about, more than he'd expected. All of them gawking and speaking in hushed whispers as if they were in the fucking Louvre standing before a Da Vinci or Monet.

Heathens, his lip curled derisively, wouldn't know true art, a true masterpiece if it slit their throat.

"Can I help you?" A hand brushed his shoulder and he jerked, surprised that he'd been so caught in his thoughts he'd failed to notice the offensive waft of overpriced perfume. His eyes must have registered his disgust as her expression wavered.

"Hello. Yes. So sorry, love. I was lost in my head," he said, smiling as he tapped a finger to his temple. "Old noggin of mine goes wandering. Yes, I was hoping to see this fabulous artist the island is buzzing over. Eddie Blake, is it?"

Her polite and professional smile was back in place, but he was a predator, and predators always knew when they'd been spotted by their prey. At the very least, she sensed something was up. This one, though, was no simpleton.

"Well, just this morning we unveiled four new pieces." She roped a hand around his arm, and saw the flicker of surprise at the discovery of hard, packed muscle beneath the beguiling sleeve of his shirt. Though he was older in years, and rangy in build, he'd kept himself in impeccable shape.

"Yes, I'd like to see them," he said, throwing his weight harder on the left so that he walked with what he hoped would be a sympathetic limp. "Old age," he muttered and she smiled again, all fake polish.

He half-listened as she showed him about, all the while his eyes moved about them, taking in angles and vantages. No inside camera, no troublesome alarms. Quiet street, minimal traffic flowing through the back. Lots of bodies on the floor, though. If he ever were to move on Subject A in here, it would have to be late. Very late. And even then he couldn't account for extenuating variables.

Home would be cleanest, he surmised. He rolled his gaze to the gallery manager. Canny. Perceptive. This one would remember him, he thought. A made a mental note that may require a bit of...clean up when the job was done.

"It's an interesting gambit you have going here," he said, smooth as warmed honey. "Secrets are incredibly seductive. I wonder if Ms. Blake would be interested in a bit of commissioned work? I'm a man of...many secrets."

"What makes you think the photographer is a woman?"

"The images," he said with a sweep of his hand, "the eye is distinctly female."

"You're very perceptive," she replied. Grey eyes flat. "Unfortunately we don't do commissioned work. Sorry."

"If she should change her mind." He handed over Ori Goldnan's business card. "Your name, love?"

"Jenelle Davies."

His smile stretched. "May we meet again," he said with a tip of his head. And strolled out of the gallery. Limp forgotten.

#

Frowning at the screen, Eva rotated the image. Hating it more, she grumbled in complaint, she flipped it back.

"You're doing it again," Marshall commented, laptop perched on his knees, their legs tangled together on the couch.

"What?"

"Scowling."

"It's not working," Eva sighed. Tipping her head back to close her eyes. "All the pieces are sold, Jenelle's chewing my ear for a new batch and my mind is mush. Everything looks the same. Boring. Uninspired. I can't work under these conditions."

Closing his laptop, Marshall rose, wove behind the couch and gathered Eva's shoulders in his hands, fingers kneading the muscle. "Yes you can. You're brilliant. You're talented. You are the best photographer this side of the world, Eva."

Smiling, Eva looked up at him. "Just this side?"

His lips lowered to hers. "You want more, you're going to have to sway me with more lingerie. Something red this time."

"Girl are going to be home soon," Eva said. "And I've got dinner to start before they do. Claire and Sam are joining us, remember? No getting naked or wearing red anything until at least nine tonight."

"Pity," he faked a pout, but couldn't mask the smile. "Dogs are getting antsy. I think I'll take them out for a run, burn off some steam. Maybe twenty minutes in a quiet house will help you think better."

"You're the best." A knock on the door had Eva rising while Marshall hunted down the leads, whistling for the puppies, and at the sound of his voice came clamouring down the corridor in blur of fur. Only Skittles, sunning on the deck, didn't appear the least bit interested.

"You can thank me with red lingerie."

"I don't think I have red lingerie."

"You do." Winking, Marshall kissed the tip of her nose. "I went snooping. It's already laid out on the bed."

She leaned into him with a kiss, unlocked the front door and all the heat and warmth and joy within her dropped to her toes, bled out into nothing.

"Jerry." The last time they'd clapped eyes on each other had been about six months into settling on Haven. After that their interactions had lessened to the brief quarterly phone call. Eva had taken great comfort in knowing that Jerry Harrows' face had gradually receded from the forefront of her mind.

And now here he was. Thick and bulky and real. Wearing old jeans and a tattered leather jacket.

"Eva," he said in that dry, barking voice of his. "Long-time no see, kiddo."

"Marshall, this..." Eva's foggy brain stalled. The go-to script out of practice, "Uncle. My uncle Jerry."

"Harrows." Jerry stuck out a paw, shook Marshall's hand vigorously. "You're that reporter, aintcha? Seen you on the news recently."

"That's right." Marshall smiled, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "Are you passing through for a visit?" He shifted a quizzical gaze to Eva. Not much familial resemblance there, he thought, from Jerry's busy red brows and thick maritime accent.

"Nova Soctian?" he asked.

"Good guess," Jerry said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

And though he was excited to meet someone in her life, his senses were acutely attuned to the tension surrounding the moment. Like players at a high stakes game. Something was off. Something major.

"Mind if I have a word, private-like, with my niece, boy-o?"

"I was just going to take the dogs out for a run," Marshall said, nodding towards the rambling pack of fur loping up and down the hall. Sticking his fingers in his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle and that bounding blob changed directions and bolted out the door, following as he clapped his hands and jogged down the drive.

"Pups, eh?" Jerry shoved his hands in his pockets. "See you've roped yourself a good looking fella, too, if you like 'em pretty types."

"Girls will be home soon," Eva said, nodding towards the patio. "We'll have more privacy outside."

Before he stepped inside, Jerry across to the rocking chairs and lifted up a long white box. "Found these on the step. Guess your beau was looking to surprise you, eh?"

"Not again," Eva sighed, recognizing the long, white box and gold ribbon. At Jerry's inquiring glance, leading him inside she told him all about her mysterious admirer.

"Red and white roses, you say?"

Out on the deck, Eva opened the box and sure enough a dozen long stemmed flowers were tucked inside surrounding a single red one.

"Someone must got it bad for ya, kiddo." Jerry rocked back on his heels, worn shoes squeaking. A dark, fathomless look in his unreadable gaze. "This happen before?"
"Only once. Last week. Thought my Romeo took the hint and backed off." Sealing the flowers back in the box, Eva hauled them over to the large garden bin full of garden trimmings, weeds and other compost. "It's got to be my neighbour across the street, Kevin. He's annoyingly persistent."

"New to the neighbourhood?" Jerry asked, hiking up the legs of his jeans as he sat.
"He's a local divorced dad trying to get back in the saddle and picked me to be his prize pony." The table had already been set for dinner, pitcher full of juice with mulled berries and Perrier water. Eva turned over a class, poured him some. "And I've spent six months breaking his heart turning him down."

"Harder to say no to a more desirable specimen though, eh?" Though his eyes twinkled with humour, the warning was there. "Think it wise to get cozy with Mr. Live-at-Five?"

"Define cozy?"

"Can't get too caught up, kiddo. You know the rules."

"You were the one who told me to let it all go." Annoyed, Eva shot out of her seat, tossed up her arms. "Well, that's what I'm doing. Letting it go. Moving on."

"Hate to be the Bad Guy, really do, but—"

"I know, okay? I know. We've had this discussion before. But I'm a person, Jerry. I can't stay celibate forever."

Setting down his glass, Jerry set his elbows on his knees. "If I thought this was only you scratching an itch, we wouldn't be having words, But a guy who has pricy blooms delivered to your doorstep ain't exactly what you call casual."

Arms crossed, Eva lifted her chin. "Why are you here?"

"Some details you need to be aware of," he said, rubbing a hand over the bald palette of his head. Sitting back down, Eva listened as Jerry lit a cigarette and gave her the news.

Randy Kincaid's case had stalled, yet again, after he'd fired another lawyer and a new judge was sworn in. The last one had been close to losing his patience and put forth a judgement to force Kincaid case to move to trial, but this new judge hasn't had his patience stretched within an inch of its life. So, in light of Randy electing to self-represent, had moved to allow for ample time to study the evidence. Pushing the new court date to February of next year.

"What does this mean?"

"Two things." Jerry stubbed out his cigarette, waved a hand to dispel the smoke. "First, by representing himself he can't claim mistrial. And he's no lawyer, don't care how many time's he's been incarcerated in the past. There's ways to tweak the system, the case, and he won't know how to argue them effectively. Him not having a council is better for us. Second, I think he's trying to get to ya. I see this a lot in domestic cases. He thinks this'll intimidate ya, and allows direct contact with the object of his obsession."

Eva bit down on the urge to shudder against the icy wisps of shock skating along the delicate nerves of her spine.

"We're collaborating with folk out in New York, talking 'bout bring up a couple others he's harassed over the years to show pattern of behaviour. Escalation and the like. There's three so far willing to come forward. We're hoping for a few more."

Christ. All those women. And she was the only one in this mess. "Alyssa always said I really could pick 'em."

Jerry eased back into the chair, hooking another cigarette between yellowed knuckles. "Speaking of, any communication there?"

Eva's eyes flashed to his. "You know I haven't."

"Hm. Well." Jerry nodded slowly. "What about Nathan?"

That icy feeling was beginning to spread from her back down her arms, tingling in her hands. "Where's this going? Why are you really here?"

Jerry puffed out a lazy stream of smoke before reaching for the laptop he'd brought in his satchel. Setting it down on the table, he opened a browser window, and spun it around for Eva's perusal.

It took her a moment to make sense of what she was seeing, but twice that to actually believe it. Eva's heart seized, then dropped into the icy bowels of her belly.

Facebook, she thought dully. Nathan had decided to create an open page in active search of his daughters, calling out to the public to help him find his missing 'family'.

The numbers were small, only a dozen or so who supported the page—a few of her so-called friends, but those numbers could easily grow and spread. How long before someone on Haven saw this? Started asking questions, or worse, brought this page to the attention of her girls? Could she trust them not to reach out to their own father? Lucy was the only one with no clear memories of him.

Payton would never. But Hailey...?

Hand over her mouth, Eva scrolled down through the string of statuses.

To my babies: Hannah, Patience and May...I'll find you.

And interspersed between them were photographs, most of which had belonged to her, Eva thought resentfully. Bastard had pillaged through her pictures she'd personally captured, slapping them up on the wall and soaking up sympathy. But worse, so much worse, he was keeping their faces out there—public.

Accessible.

What was to stop Randy from finding it? He'd used social media to stalk her several times, already. He could do it again even from behind bars. Prisoners gained access all the time to the internet, and who was to say for certain he didn't have an accomplice on the outside?

"Bastard couldn't even use his own photos," Eva seethed, clicking on the main image and scrolled through. The third one stopped her cold. "He put us up here? All of us?"

Jerry nodded severely. "Did ya know anything about this?"

"How could I? You told me to stay off these sites. To keep the girls away from them."

"Yeah, speakin' of the girls." Jerry reached for the untouched glass she'd poured for him, raised it to his lips. "How things going on that front? Hailey in particular."

Eva swallowed deeply, unable to meet that shrewd, sharp gaze. "She's...fine. Angry with me, but what else is new. She worked through the highlights, giving him the key information to present the whole picture.

He stayed silent throughout, humming or hawing in agreement. "Kids got a lot of her mom in her. Strong mind. Strong will."

Eva shifted in her seat, unsure what to do in the face of his praise.

"The page hasn't been active for more than a couple of weeks, so I don't think there's been much damage done. But could've been worse had we not intercepted it. 'Specially with all the attention you've been gettin' of late."

"How did you find it?"

Jerry lifted hard eyes that gave nothing away. "Doesn't matter. Got a team working to get it pulled by end of afternoon. I'm here to make sure you keep things quiet on your end."

Thrusting a hand through her short dark hair, Eva bit down on the urge to scream. "I'm doing the best I can. The girls don't have access to Wi-Fi at home. And for good fucking reason, it seems."

"Kids are industrious little devils when needs must." Jerry held out a hand and Skittles cantered over, sniffing at his thick fingers with a wet nose. Jerry smiled, stroking behind her ears. "I know she'll be upset about the play. Have a chat with Hailey, bring her to heel. Make sure she knows what's on the line, as it were."

"Believe me, she's well aware." Hands shaking, Eva closed the laptop.

Draining his glass, Jerry set it down, twirled it between thick fingers. Gotta run, kiddo. 'Fore I do, mind if I have a quick looksie?"

Throat too tight to manage a single word, Eva nodded.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fresh pack of smokes, tapped the box a few times against his hard palm. "Just make sure you know what you're getting into with this newsy type. He's fire, if you wanna risk getting burned—and losing all this..." He swept out a hand, cigarette poised between two thick fingers, shrugged.

"That's on you, kiddo. And you alone."