It had been a wonderful break to work on organizing the space backstage. Nothing here had anything to do with the law, witnesses and evidence, or unpredictable, not-so-dead stalkers. When Grant’s phone sang out a few bars of the Rocky theme and Mitch’s phone glowed through his back pocket with an alert, she knew the break from trouble was over. All three of them paused to check their devices. Instead of the social media update as she’d assumed, her notification was for a news alert she’d set up to keep her apprised of any mention of the Falk case. She swore at the breaking news headline that Falk’s safe house had been breached and shots were fired. “Haywood,” she murmured. “H-he said he’d bl-blame me,” she stammered, accessory to murder echoing in her head. “This can’t be happening.” Mitch’s arm came around her waist, steadying her. The warmth of his arm filtered through her silk blouse and pushed back against the sudden chill that skated over her skin. “Blame you for what?”
