Dead Ringer by Mary Burton

wanted her body and life back.
    Nicole
shoved out a breath as she dug the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door
to her studio.
    She'd
chosen this space not for its trendy location, low price, or history. All of
which were great. She'd picked this studio space because of the light. Six
floor-to-ceiling windows on the north and south sides of the room let in the
most delicious light. Heavy shades allowed her to control how much came into
the studio during a shooting, but most days she kept them wide open. She loved
natural light. It brought with it nuances that man-made light didn't quite
have.
    Nicole
dropped her keys and mail on a battered desk she'd bought secondhand. A high
stack of papers filled her in-box, and her appointment book was filled with
miscellaneous papers she still needed to file. Paperwork--another hallmark of
this new life she was struggling with.
    She
shrugged off her coat, laid it on the chair behind her desk, and opened the
shades. Even on this gray day sunshine still seeped into the studio. There were
a white chaise, a couple of wooden chairs, and a stool she used for portraits.
On the back wall was a selection of six backdrops that hung together. Her most
recent portraits covered the bare white walls of the space. In the back of the
studio was a door that led to her darkroom. The room was small, not more than
five by five, but it was enough space for her to work in.
    Cupping
her hand under her heavy belly, she crossed the room to the darkroom. She
flipped on the red light and glanced at the pictures drying on the line. So
many photographers used digital now, but she loved the flexibility of film. It
added richness to her work that nothing could duplicate.
    But
she wasn't so nostalgic that she ignored the digital side of the market. She'd
managed a small business loan so she could invest in computers and software and
create portraits quickly. Being adept at both forms of photography translated
into more revenue.
    She
sat behind the desk. The answering machine's green message light blinked the
number three, signaling she had messages.
    Nicole
pressed the PLAY button. The
first message was from a bride she'd met with last week to discuss her wedding.
"Nicole, this is Callie. I've set the date. December twenty-fourth. I'd love
for you to do my photography. Call me. My number is..."
    The
wedding was a big-budget project. Nice. December. The
baby would be eleven months by then. Nicole tried to picture what the child
would look like in seven months but couldn't.
    She
played the second message. This one was for an engagement picture of a young
couple. They'd climbed Everest together and wanted a quirky portrait to reflect
their adventurous life. Good.
    And the third message. "Nicole, I saw you today. You looked
lovely. So, so radiant. I hope all is well with the
baby."
    Something
in the man's voice set her nerves on edge. Who was it? She replayed the
message, thinking she'd missed his name. She hadn't. He'd not left one. She
replayed the message again, this time trying to identify the voice. She
couldn't figure out who it was.
    I saw you today....
    Where
had he seen her? She'd come straight from home to the studio.
    I saw you today....
    She
glanced at her prized large windows. Who the hell had been watching her?

Chapter
Four
    Tuesday, January 8, 4:10 P.M.
    Jacob
dropped his keys on his desk. His office was ten by ten, furnished with
county-issue furniture, and a set of bookcases filled with technical manuals.
No pictures on the wall or knickknacks on his desk.
    Except
for the stack of files in his in-box, the office looked as it had the day he'd
moved into it two years ago.
    At
any point he could walk out for good and know he'd not left anything special
behind. That's the way he lived his life. He was always ready to pick up and
leave at a moment's notice. He knew enough about psychology to guess that the
quirk stemmed from his childhood. His mother had been a drunk and an addict and
they moved around a