“Thanks.” I stared into his deep blue eyes and nodded quickly.

“Is everything okay?” His eyes crinkled in concern, and I was about to answer, when I felt the man in the corner staring at me again.

“I’m fine.” I looked back down at my computer screen and stifled a groan. I’d received another message from Matt, a guy I’d spoken to a couple of times on the computer, yet had decided I didn’t want to meet. I opened the e-mail slowly, not really wanting to read what he had to say. I’d much rather be talking to the hunk in front of me. I read the e-mail from Matt quickly and then deleted it without responding. He just wouldn’t leave me alone. “Stalker,” I muttered under my breath, and looked up again to see the hunk staring at me.

“Sorry, were you talking to me?” His lips were twitching again, and I shook my head.

“No, sorry. I just had an e-mail from this guy. If it was from you, I wouldn’t be pressing Delete, trust me.” I groaned out loud as I realized what I’d said. “I mean, because you seem like a really nice guy.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Let me know if I can be of any help.” He went back to his book, and I was about to ask him a question about what he was reading, when I felt the man in the corner staring at me again.

“Shit.” I jumped up and grabbed my bag, hitting the hunk in the shoulder as I moved.

“You okay?”

“I think I’m being followed.” I said as I shook my head and nodded toward the corner where the man watching me sat. “Sorry, I have to go.” I grabbed my laptop and pushed it into my bag. “It was nice meeting you.” I gave him a quick smile and ran out of the coffee shop. “This was our serendipity moment. I hope we meet again,” I muttered as I gave the hunk one last look before darting down the street. I continued running down the street until I could no longer run anymore. I stopped outside a donut shop and leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply. I looked left and right to make sure I didn’t see the man who I was pretty sure had been following me and then rubbed my forehead.

“You’re going crazy, Bianca,” I said to myself as I straightened up and started walking at a normal pace. I started laughing as I reached the subway station and went down to catch my train. Not one person had looked at me like I was crazy as I’d run down the street. Even though I’d been running like I was in the 100m sprint finals at the Olympics. That was part of the beauty of living in New York City. You could be who you wanted, and you weren’t judged. The other side of the coin, the side of the equation that made me stop smiling, was the wonder of what would have happened if the man had been following me. Would anyone have come to my aid? I walked on to the subway and held on to the pole without looking at anyone. As I stood there I thought about both men in the coffee shop, one I’d wanted to get to know better, and the other, I hoped I never saw again. I shook my head as I realized how different I was now. My life had changed completely in the last year and so had I.

I never thought I was particularly brave until recently. I don’t enjoy watching horror movies. I sleep with all my doors double-locked, and I go through and check that all my windows are closed tight every night before I go to bed—and I live on the eighth floor of my apartment building. No, I’m not someone that anyone would call brave and definitely not an amateur sleuth. I’ve always been someone who likes to keep to herself. Some people would call me quiet, but those are the ones who don’t know me well. Inside, I’m a dynamo of activity and fun.

I used to be the sort of person who froze when she heard a creak in the floorboards or heard a sudden scream. My father always used to call me his frightened little rabbit when I was growing up. I heard the term a lot, as there were always sudden and unexplainable noises in New York City. I don’t think he realized that it was his overprotectiveness that led to my lack of trust of most people. However, my whole demeanor changed when my father died. The first twenty-five years of my life faded into obscurity when my father died.

My father died of a broken heart. Or rather I should say he died with a broken heart. I don’t think he ever got over my mother’s death. I’m not sure that I ever got over it either, even though I was a young girl when she was killed in a car accident. Her English ancestry was the reason I studied British history in college, and my love of her memory was the reason why when I was given my father’s secret box, I knew I had to do something about its contents. My mother’s death changed my father’s life, and my father’s death changed mine. The moment I read his letter to me was the moment I felt steel implanted in my backbone. It was the moment I knew that I wouldn’t allow anything to frighten me until I found out what really had happened to my mother.

I wasn’t surprised when the letter arrived. It was only after I read the note that I looked back at the envelope for clues. Only then did I realize there was no postage stamp. Whoever had left the note for me didn’t want any clues leading back to them. I stared at the letter in my hands and shivered slightly. It read simply:

Beauty and Charm. One survives. One is destroyed. What are your odds?

I read it again, trying to make sense of the note. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to take from it. I picked up the envelope again to see if there was anything inside that I’d missed. While I hadn’t been surprised to receive the letter, I had been surprised by its contents. I hadn’t expected such a blatant threat, though it shouldn’t have surprised me. My father had warned me, in the letter I’d found in his box, that there were people willing to do anything to keep their secrets safe. His letter had stated that he suspected that my mother’s car accident hadn’t really been an accident. However, his suspicions had come too late. It was only on his deathbed that he had started to remember conversations and actions that had happened prior to her death. His letter spoke of his sadness and regret at having shut down after my mother’s death. He felt that if he’d not been in such a deep state of depression he would have made the connections earlier. His letter didn’t directly ask me to find out the truth, but I could read between the lines. He wanted justice for my mother. It was the reason why he’d written the letter in the first place. The only problem was, my father didn’t say whom he suspected. All he had left me was a one-page letter talking of his suspicions and two boxes full of paperwork from the corporation he’d used to work for, Bradley Inc.