Thursday was my slow, sluggish day. I wasn't in a hurry to get anything accomplished even though I had a stack of homework about six inches tall on my kitchen table and four missed calls from my coworker, Heather, asking me to come in on my day off. I could use the extra pay, but I didn't like being called into work when Samantha, another coworker of mine, who rarely showed up, didn't make it in. She'd been doing that a lot lately.

I worked as a barista at a small coffee shop in Boston. It was right across the street from the University of Massachusetts where I studied psychology, making it a very convenient commute to work after classes were over. I was in my senior year, about to graduate with my bachelor's degree.

UMass hadn't always been my dream school. I'd actually had my heart set on Yale. My older brother had dreamed of attending UMass but never got the opportunity. He was killed in a car accident a month before classes started. I'd been sixteen at the time and when it came time for me to start applying for colleges, I decided I wanted to go to UMass Boston since Ricky never got to. Now I was almost finished with my four years and I hoped somewhere up in the clouds, he was proud of me.

I wasn't real successful with my life yet, but I had a cozy little apartment near the Harbor Walk and I'd received a job offer from a medical office that I was set to start right after graduation. I planned on putting in my two weeks' notice sometime in the next few days. Money was tight, but I was able to pay all my bills and still have a little left over to order the occasional pizza or rent a movie. For the time being, that was good enough for me.

It was around three in the afternoon and I was sorting through the mail I'd received that day. Bills, bills and more bills. One coupon card for a pizza parlor. A solicitation from an HVAC company. Nothing I was excited about. I tossed the junk mail in the trashcan and sat down at the kitchen table, pushing my homework pile aside and opening my laptop to check my emails.

Most of my inbox contained crap from random websites that I didn't know how on earth they even got my email address. I had one message from my psychology professor telling me she was interested in reading a paper I'd written the previous year for another class. I typed a short response with the file attached and continued deleting junk mail.

Just when I thought I was finished, my computer made a ding, signaling that I had a new message. I didn't recognize the sender, Richard Lux, and there was no subject. I opened the email to find a short threatening sentence with no signature.

"You should sleep with both eyes open."

I felt as though my heart had sunk to my stomach. A chill swept over my body and my hands started to shake as I hurriedly moved the eerie message to my trash folder and hoped it was just a stupid prank.

I'd been so careful, so sure I'd covered my tracks. It would be hard to find a plain Jane college student in a city as large as Boston, wouldn't it? They couldn't have tracked me down.

I sat there for several minutes staring blankly at my computer screen. I didn't know what to do. Should I tell someone? Should I call the police? Should I just ignore it? My mind was spinning with questions and concerns. The reasonable part of me wanted to blow it off and laugh at some internet troll's idea of a joke. The cautious part was too busy sorting through scenarios in my mind, trying to figure out if Boston had been a bad decision and if I should leave.

Leaving would be very drastic, but that's what I was used to. I knew I couldn't hide forever, but I'd been so sure I could outrun my past. I'd convinced myself I could start over and make things work. I'd never stopped to allow myself the thought that it may never work, that I may never make a full recovery.

A knock sounded at my apartment door.

My first thought was that they'd found me. My second thought was that it might be the person who sent the email.

I started shaking as I tiptoed toward the door, trying not to make a sound. The laminate creaked under my feet and I froze, hoping whoever was outside wouldn't hear it.

"Jessica?"

I heard my name called from the other side of the door. It was a deep male voice. But it didn't sound like him. Maybe he hadn't found me. Or maybe he'd sent a friend.

I slowly started making my way toward the door again. Once I reached it, I hesitated a moment before standing on my tiptoes to peek through the peephole.

The apartment building was old and not very well maintained which was visible in the cloudiness of the peephole as I peered through, spotting a man probably a few years older than me with wavy brown hair and side swept bangs. He didn't look familiar and I didn't recognize his voice.

"Who is it?" I forced myself to ask, mentally cursing when my voice was noticeably shaky.

"My names Joey," the man answered, placing a hand on the wall beside the door.

"What do you want?"

"Would you open the door, please?"

I pondered the idea for a split second, quickly deciding against it. I didn't know this man. He could be the ax murderer for all I knew! I didn't want to give him the opportunity to kidnap me or steal something or worse.

I wouldn't go through that again. I wouldn't give anyone the chance. Not after what had happened.

"I don't know you," I said, double checking that the door was locked.

He groaned, obviously getting frustrated with me. The clouded sight of this man becoming annoyed was enough to skyrocket my blood pressure.

It's not him, I reminded myself.

But I couldn't let myself trust a perfect stranger. I had no reason to believe this man was affiliated with him, but I had no reason to doubt it either.

"I know you don't know me, Jessica, but I don't have time to play games here. Please open the door."

He sounded sincere, but so had everyone else before they hurt me.

I frowned at the doorknob. "What are you talking about?"

"If you open the door, I'll explain everything to you."

"I don't trust you," I raised my voice. "What if I let you in and you kill me or something?"

I realized how ridiculous I probably sounded to this man. Never had I treated someone at my door in this manner before. I was usually much easier going. Like a normal person. That stupid email had gotten my nerves all twisted up and I'd managed to convince myself that it was too much of a coincidence that this man had come knocking at my door right after I read that email.

I heard a soft chuckle from the other side of the door followed by a deep sigh.

"I'm glad you're cautious about letting strangers in," he said. "But I can assure you, I have no intentions of shooting up the joint or anything of the violent nature."

I stepped backwards to the kitchen counter, grabbing my cell phone and pulling up the contact for the Boston Police Department. I'd added their number to my phone in case of times like this. Times when I was scared and unsure of whether or not I had a 9-1-1 situation on my hands. My thumb hovered over the call button while I contemplated dialing or not.

"Come on, Jessica," the man's voice came again. "I just need to talk to you. I don't want to hurt you."

Those words sounded all too familiar. He'd said the same thing so many times. He'd just wanted to "talk," but he'd never actually wanted to talk.

"Why can't you talk to me through the door?" I asked, hoping he'd settle for that.

"Because I don't feel like hearing you and your boyfriend's personal bullshit in the damn hallway!" came the voice of Mrs. Simpson, the cranky old woman who lived across the hall from me.

I was flabbergasted. "Mrs. Simpson, I-"

"Just let the poor boy in so I can read my Fabio books in peace!" she shouted.

I knew that as much as Mrs. Simpson hated noise, she'd for sure do something - probably call the police - if this man were to do anything violent. I weighed my options and forced myself to trust that mean old Mrs. Simpson would come to the rescue if I screamed.

I caved, but decided to leave the door open in case he tried anything, so Mrs. Simpson would hear and hopefully put a stop to it.

I cautiously unlocked the door, hearing a loud click as the little lock button popped back up when I turned the knob. I slowly creaked the door open, staring up at the man in the hallway.

"Finally!" Mrs. Simpson barked, slamming her door shut.

I took in the appearance of the man in front of me. He was tall, about six-foot-four. His wavy brown hair was trimmed neatly in a way that said he was professional but also had a reckless side. He had piercing sapphire blue eyes and a dark shadow of stubble, indicating he hadn't shaved in a day or two. He had a strong jawline and soft pink lips that I found myself noting looked ridiculously kissable. He was wearing a navy blue New York Yankees shirt with black jeans that fit him a little too well, and black boots.

"Thank you," he smiled, watching my expression as he stepped passed me into my apartment.

He glanced around the small living room and kitchen, taking a seat on the arm of the couch a few feet away. I stood next to the open door awkwardly, trying to figure out what I should do.

"Close the door," he instructed simply.

That reminded me of him. Only, he would have slammed it shut for me.

I shook my head, mustering up the courage to argue with him. "No. I don't know what you're going to do."

He groaned again, standing up and stepping in front of me, practically towering over me. I got goosebumps, feeling how close he was to me as he gently clasped his hand over mine, removing my hand from the doorknob, and closed it himself. He then pressed his back against the door as if to tell me I wasn't going to open it again. My angst kicked into warp drive. What was I going to do if Mrs. Simpson couldn't hear me?

I steadied my breathing and crossed my arms, trying to swallow my fear.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" I demanded.

"You're in danger," he said pointedly, yet calmly.

"W-What?"

"Sit down. I'll explain." He nodded to the couch.

I reluctantly did as he said, sitting on the arm where he had sat.

"Your aunt died two weeks ago," he started to explain, turning to take a glance through the peephole. "She left a will that leaves everything to you."

I went from scared to confused in point five seconds.

I didn't know my aunt. I'd only met her once when I was four, and if my memory served me well, she had no interest in me whatsoever. Why on earth would she leave everything to me in her will? I hadn't even heard about her dying. And why was some random guy I didn't know coming to tell me about it?

"Are you her attorney or something?" I frowned, scanning my eyes over his appearance once more.

He didn't look like a lawyer, but anything was possible.

"No," he chuckled. "I hate attorneys. At least the defense attorneys. They always fuck everything up."

I had no idea what he was talking about. "Huh?"

"Look." He crossed his arms with a deep sigh. "Your aunt's will says she was really fond of your brother, Ricky, and she had originally planned to give him everything, but since he died, you were the next best thing. You were the closest thing to your brother, so she left everything to you."

I winced at the mention of my brother's name.

He cleared his throat loudly, pushing off of the door and sitting down on a rickety barstool a few feet from me.

"The problem is, your aunt's boyfriend thought he was going to get everything. He's all pissed that that's not the case. It seems that he's the next person to give everything to if, for whatever reason, you don't get it."

"What in fucking hell?" I shut my eyes tightly, wishing this would all just go away when I blinked.

Joey nodded, running a hand through his hair and looking toward my living room window. "You're not safe here. We need to leave."

My head snapped up at the word "we." My mind was racing and I felt a migraine threatening to immerge. I was having a conversation about a man I didn't know having it in for me, with another man I didn't know who could also be planning to do me harm. Had I woken up in the Twilight Zone? I didn't think I deserved this. Maybe I deserved some of the past experiences, but not this. Not anymore.

"We? What are you talking about?" I looked at him like he had three heads.

"Jessica," he sighed, getting frustrated with my hesitation. "You're in danger if you stay here. Well, you're in danger, period, but you're safer with me."

"And you think I'm just going to up and leave with you? Some guy I don't even know!" I shouted, placing a hand on my forehead as if that would suppress the oncoming headache. "Why the hell am I in danger?"

Don't say it's him. Don't say it's him. He can't be back.

"Because your aunt's boyfriend put a fucking hit out on you!" Joey snapped in a hushed tone, clearly sick of my questions, but not wanting anyone else to hear him.

A nervous ball formed in the pit of my stomach following his answer. I suddenly felt all the air leave my lungs and my vision clouded as though I was going to pass out.

Joey reached my side in one stride, grabbing my arm to steady me and helping me lie back against the cushions. He took a seat next to me, searching my eyes like he was trying to read my mind. The goosebumps came rushing back at my realization of our close proximity.

"He... he what?" I stuttered, trying not to hyperventilate. "This can't be happening. This can't be happening!"

"Calm down," Joey said like nothing was wrong. "I'm going to keep you safe."

"You?" I shrieked incredulously. "I don't know you. How do you even know about my family? How did you know my aunt? Why aren't the police telling me this?"

"My department picked up the case when we found your aunt's body," he said, clasping his hands together. "I am the police. I'm a cop. My guys responded to a call from your aunt's boyfriend and found her dead in her living room. Her death has been ruled a homicide."

I'd completely forgotten that my aunt even lived in Boston.

"Who killed her?" I asked quietly, feeling the color drain from my face.

He shook his head. "Don't know. We assume the boyfriend, but we haven't been able to support it with evidence yet. He seems to have a solid alibi, but I'm not buying it."

"How do I know you're really a cop?" I wanted visual proof.

He reached in his back pocket and I half expected him to pull out a gun, but instead he opened his wallet, revealing a badge and his identification.

"We suspect he killed her to get her money, thinking she'd left everything to him. They'd been living together for twelve years," Joey continued. "But since he found out he got nothing and you're getting everything, he contacted a hitman to get rid of you."

"What exactly is everything?" I asked, having no clue what my aunt could have left me.

"Apparently she was a collector of many high-valued paintings and sculptures, and she had over three million dollars from her business. I think she owned some real successful wedding planning thing."

I could almost feel my jaw hit the floor. "Three million dollars?"

He shrugged. "Lucky you."

I sat there, stunned, staring at the wall. Three million dollars? My aunt – the same aunt who hated me when I was little - had left me three million dollars? What?

Joey stood up, taking in a long, deep breath. "Alright. Pack your bags."

"What?" I snapped back to reality. "No! I'm not going anywhere with you! I have work and school and-"

"And a hitman plotting your murder."

I didn't want to go anywhere with some guy I didn't know, even if he was a cop. I didn't trust him. I didn't trust hardly anyone. I'd learned the hard way that people were often something other than what they presented themselves to be, and often had ulterior motives. How was I supposed to know if Joey was just fucking with me? What if he was really the hitman? Badges and ID's could be faked.

"How can I trust you?"

I didn't want to go, but I certainly didn't want to stay if someone knew where I lived and was coming after me. I'd allowed myself to get too comfortable with Boston. It was passed time to leave. I could finish my degree somewhere else. Somewhere where I could blend in and hide, the same way I had been for years.

"You'll just have to." Joey was clearly not in the mood for my questions.

"Suppose I go with you." I inhaled sharply. "Where are we going to go?"

"I can't tell you that."

Deal breaker.

"Then I can't go with you," I countered.

"Jessica, I'm not really asking anymore," he said sternly. "You're going to have to leave sometime. I'd prefer it be with me than God knows who else."

Okay, maybe he has a point. Sort of.

"You have to understand that I don't just run off with random guys I just met," I tried to explain. Not anymore. "It's hard for me to be okay with this."

"Hey, I get that," he said, kneeling in front of me on the floor.

He looked a lot less capable of killing me from that position. I was surprised he was taking the time to try to calm my nerves. Cops didn't normally treat me this way.

"Why can't you put me in witness protection?" I thought that sounded a hell of a lot better.

His forehead creased and his brows drew inward like he was debating how to answer.

"Because the guys overseeing this case, who I answer to, don't believe you're in any real danger," he told me.

"If they don't think so, why do you?"

"Because I actually pay attention," he retorted. "I received a letter on my doorstep this morning telling me to have my department drop the investigation or something would happen to you. It was signed by a Richard Lux. I assume it's a fake name. I couldn't find him in the system. The detective working the case basically blew it off though, telling me it was probably a prank from someone who'd heard about the murder on the news."

"It's not..." I choked. "I got an email from Richard Lux right before you knocked on my door."

Joey jumped up to find my computer. "Do you still have it?"

"Yeah." I followed him to the kitchen table. "It's in the trash folder."

He pulled it up quickly and read the email with a groan. As he leaned over with his arms folded, resting on the table, I took a second to admire the way his slightly messy hair fell in front of his face and the back of his black jeans hugged his ass. He glanced up at me, knowing I'd been staring at him, and I felt my face heat up.

"I'm going to give you fifteen minutes to grab a bag with some spare clothing, your toothbrush, and whatever necessities. Then we're leaving," Joey ordered.

He walked back into the living room and plopped down on the couch, tapping his foot impatiently.

"If I go with you-"

"When you go with me," he corrected. "You will not take your phone or computer because they can be tracked. And now you have fourteen minutes."

I gave up on arguing and turned toward my bedroom to grab an overnight bag. I kept asking myself what the hell was I doing as I tossed clothes in the bag. But what choice did I have? I hoped I could trust him. I had to trust him. I had to believe that he was a police officer here to save my ass. I had no one else I could trust.

A montage of questions cluttered my mind. Everything from how much clothing I should pack, to how I was supposed to notify my professors and my boss of my spur-of-the-moment absence.

Thirteen minutes and not a second later we were out the door heading for Joey's car.