Privacy Code (Shatterproof) by Jordan Burke Page A

while if Catherine was her real name. Not knowing what she looked like, sounded like, laughed like, cried like.
    Sight unseen, I cared about her well-being.
    And now I had placed her in danger. Two kinds, actually.
    One, the danger I knew existed if she happened to be connected to me and what would h appen if someone got hold of Catherine and used her to get to me.
    Two, the danger of doing damage to her emotions, which I hadn’t considered because I didn’t know about the pain her life until I saw it on her face as I left the hotel room.
    Fuck.
    In ten years, I hadn’t made a stupid move. I’d been careful not to put others in danger, even when they meant very little to me outside the realm of bringing me physical pleasure.
    In ten years of doing what I do, I had never once even considered doing something like that, much less to someone I had developed some level of feelings for.
    Even if I hadn’t left the room under those circumstances, I would have never seen her again. So I was bound to hurt her at least in one way, and potentially the other. Or both. All because I let my sexual desires overrule my logic.
    But hell, what man couldn’t make that claim at least once in his life?
    The difference with me, though, was that the consequences were far more severe than facing divorce, losing a job, or anything else like that.
     
    . . . . .
     
    My place was in the Charles Village neighborhood of Baltimore, a nice neighborhood with lots of restaurants and shops within walking distance. It’s a two-story townhouse with on-street parking, a small and fenced-in front lawn, and a front porch that spans the entire width of the unit.
    It was just after 9 p.m. by the time I got home. I was frustrated with how the night had gone, so I was glad to see no one had parked in my spot.
    I was also glad Mrs. Woodal l wasn’t out on her front porch. She lived in the townhouse adjacent to mine. She and her husband had introduced themselves to me the first day I moved in here almost ten years ago, letting me know that they were there if I needed anything. Considering the fact that I needed ultimate privacy, the last thing I needed was nosy neighbors, which is why they had known me as “Andrew Murphy,” my alias. Mr. Woodall had died four years after I moved in and Mrs. Woodall had kept up their tradition of spending every spring and summer night on the front porch, watching the world go by.
    Walking into my house, I suddenly felt hungry. I hadn’t eaten dinner. I also had built up quite a bit of energy that needed to be spent. Enough energy that I probably could have punched through a brick wall.
    If only Catherine hadn’t asked that one damn question….
    I considered going for a run, but ruled that out. When I run, I think, and the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was think too much.
    Basketball was my preferred method of keeping in shape. There were courts nearby, and I sometimes went down there and played alone, working up a good sweat and exhausting myself at the end of a day.
    Other times I’d play in a pick-up game. There was a group of guys in their late te ens and early twenties who were down at the courts quite a bit.
    While I was almost ten years older than most of them, I more than kept up with the speed of their game. Not that being almost thirty was old, but I did get some satisfaction in knowing I hadn’t lost the physical edge I’d had a decade ago.
    Some evenings were spent at one of the local taverns playing pool. It was a game I wasn’t particularly good at, but I enjoyed it and found myself picking up pointers by watching some of the people who play for money.
    I ruled o ut basketball that night, along with the other forms of relaxation, opting instead for the release I really needed.
    But before I took care of that, I got a fresh piece of salmon from the refrigerator, heated up a pan, and cooked it with dry white wine and diced onion. I usually don’t eat standing, but I did tonight, leaning on the