CHAPTER THREE
After work the next day, I stopped by my mother’s house. Pulling up outside, I saw her crouched among the flower beds with a basket at her side. I knew it contained pruners, a trowel, a spade, and other gardening tools. A tree cast plenty of shade over her, protecting her from the sun. The simple sight was one I’d seen a lot growing up.
Originally, I’d thought she kept such good care of her garden because she found peace in it. Later, I’d come to realize it was more than that. Clear was so obsessive about her garden for the same reason that she was so particular in other ways—it was about control. She was even more of a neat freak than I was.
Rose bushes, flowering trees, decorative rocks, and peony bushes bordered her garden. There were several rows and patches of herbs and colorful flowers; my favorite had always been the snapdragons. The tire swing hanging from an oak branch should have looked out of place, but it didn’t.
On my part, our relationship was a little awkward and strained. How could it be anything close to smooth, given the life she’d created for us? But Clear still lived inside that self-protective bubble, where her world was perfect. In that world, no tension whatsoever existed between us.
Did I wish she’d face reality? No, because there had been a few times when her bubble had burst—like when she received abusive letters from the family members of Michael’s victims, forcing her to face the true extent of the pain he’d caused others. The result had been ugly. Tears. Pills. Vodka. It was just far easier to let Clear live with her fantasies.
As I walked up my mother’s gravel pathway, I was hit by the scents of flowers, spicy herbs, and rich soil. She looked up and beamed at me. With her guileless smile and soft voice, there was something very ethereal about her. “Hi, baby, how are you?”
I forced a smile. “Fine. You?”
“Great. I’d hug you, but I’ve got a lot of dirt on me.”
I sat on the sun-warmed, wooden porch step. In the distance, a radio played, and kids laughed. Here, there was only the soft ringing of the wind chimes, the rustling of leaves, and the sound of a spade thumping soil. “What are you planting?”
“Not planting. Fixing. Ruth Peterson’s damn dog dug up my flowers again,” she grumbled.
I felt my brow furrow. “Did you mention it to her?”
“She gave me that fake smile as she expressed her sympathy, saying her dear Fluffy would never do such a thing, and she wished me luck in finding the real culprit. She’s sixty years old and thinks she can’t do any wrong.” Clear took a deep breath. “So, what have you been up to today?”
“Grocery shopping. Then work.” And racking my brain, trying to figure out what was going on. Hell, it was bad enough that someone found out that Nina Bowen was a penname. The fact that they’d traced it back to me was even worse. But this person was using what they’d learned to fuck with me, and I had no idea why or who. “What about you?”
“Nothing much. After work, I was on the phone with your dad for a little while. And then I came out to fix this mess.”
“You going to see him Saturday?”
“Of course.”
I rubbed my thighs. “I was thinking of coming with you.” Because I had questions that Michael just might be able to answer. Considering I only visited him twice a year—near his birthday and Christmas, purely to appease Clear—you’d think that she’d be suspicious to hear I wanted to visit him. There was nothing but sheer delight on her face.
“Oh, he’d love that! He misses you so much. He always asks about you.”
My stomach churned at the idea of seeing Michael. Sitting opposite a person who’d murdered a bunch of women but insisted they loved you and considered you their child … it was a total mind-fuck. “Everything okay at work?”
“Great. Working at a library might not be anyone’s idea of a dream job, but I like it. Not just because I like books, but because it’s quiet. Peaceful.”
“Has anyone other than Ruth and her dog bothered you?” I asked, careful to keep my tone casual. It had occurred to me that the person fucking with me could also be playing games with Clear if this was somehow related to Michael.
Clear’s brow creased. “Are you talking about the Buchanans? You know they don’t pay much attention to me these days. Why? Have they been bothering you?”
“Not recently, no.” Unless the mysterious John Smith—I was guessing the name was fake—was a Buchanan. “I meant reporters, journalists, people like that.”
“Only some true crime writer who wants to interview me about your dad.”
“Noah Linton?”
“That’s the one. I told him I wasn’t interested in talking with him.” Clear took off the gardening gloves and stuffed them in her basket. “He bothering you?”
“No. He left me a voicemail, but that’s all.”
“Then why do you seem so uneasy?”
“I’m not uneasy. I was just checking.”
“Huh.” Unconvinced, Clear gave me a searching look, absentmindedly breezing her finger over a flower bloom. “Well, the only person I’ve had an issue with lately is Ruth, so you have no need to worry.” She winced as she stood and then gave her knee a brief rub. “So, are you staying for dinner?”
“Can’t. I told Sarah I’d help tidy her apartment.”
Clear snorted. “Good luck with that.”
Yeah, I was pretty sure I’d need it.
Standing in the middle of Sarah’s studio apartment half an hour later, I shook my head. Clothes were strewn around. Crumbs seemed to litter most surfaces. Dirty dishes and mugs were piled in the sink. Trash had spilled over the overflowing can and onto the floor. And the clutter … oh, God, the clutter.
If you looked beneath the mess—which was a challenge—you could see that the open space was kind of quirky. The furniture was as mismatched as my eyes, but it wasn’t shabby or grubby. In fact, the mash of colors and styles gave the place some personality.
Technically, the last thing I should want while my thoughts were scattered was to clean someone’s apartment, but cleaning helped me think. It also would be an outlet for the anger. And I’d welcome any distraction right then.
“So, where do we start?” asked Sarah.
“Firstly, you need to get rid of half of your stuff.”
She frowned. “But I need it.”
I pointed to the piles of crap on several surfaces. “You need all these batteries, receipts, pens, and chump change? You need all these magazines, opened letters, candy wrappers, and empty take-out cups? Really? Now I’ll support your pen obsession, but that’s it.” I opened her closet. And sighed sadly. “Oh, Sarah.” She had a real floor-drobe going on. “How do you find anything in this nest of clothes?”
“If I pile them in the drawers, I can’t properly see what’s there.”
“So roll each item up and place them side by side.”
She considered that a moment. “Huh. That would work.”
I glanced around. “I guess we should get started.” We put on some music, poured ourselves some wine, and then we got to work.
For hours, we scrubbed, scoured, mopped, polished, and vacuumed. The worst mess was in the bathroom. Going by the dirty grout and the badly soiled toilet pan, it hadn’t been leaned in a while.
We then decluttered each room, organized her closet and cupboards, threw away her out-of-date products, and bagged the clothes she no longer wanted so we could take them to the local charity store.
As I worked, my mind drifted. Calmed. And the edginess that had made me twitchy all day finally left me.
When we were done, I blew out a breath. Even though my back ached, my hands hurt, and I had a headache from the overpowering smell of bleach, I felt good. Lighter.
Sarah practically flung herself on the sofa. “God, that was awful. Never again. I’m never letting the place get in that state again. Ever.”
We both knew that was wishful thinking on her part.
Hearing my phone beep, I tensed. Each time I got a notification on my cell, I wondered if it was another email from ‘Smith.’ So far, there had been nothing more from him.
Licking my lips, I dug the phone out of my purse and checked it. There was an email, but it wasn’t from Smith. The tension fizzled away, but my annoyance didn’t fade. I was sick to death of reacting this way each time I heard that damn beep.
“Everything okay, Kenz?”
I blinked at Sarah. “Fine.”
She didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t push it. I suspected it was only a matter of time before she got on my case about it, though. That suspicion proved correct. A few days later, I was wiping a table when Sarah whispered into my ear, “At some point, you and I will be having a conversation about whatever has you so distracted.”
“I’m just a little preoccupied. That happens when I’m near the end of a book.”
Sarah shook her head. “This is different. This isn’t just you drifting in and out of the present. You keep scanning the bar, looking all suspicious.”
She was right. I regularly glanced around the bar, mentally taking note of everybody who came and went. I’d thought I was being subtle about it. Apparently not.
“Has that Linton guy done something to worry you?”
“No. He left me a couple more voicemails, but that’s all.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Noticing the time, I dumped the cloth behind the bar and spoke to Reed, “I’m taking my break.” He just nodded. I turned. And almost bumped into Sarah, who apparently wasn’t done poking at me.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then the door swung open and … it was weird, but it was like the air changed. Charged, even. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Blake Mercier had entered. My stomach fluttered, which I totally ignored. Or, at least, I tried to.
“Going by the blush on your face,” began Sarah in a whisper, “I’m guessing that’s Mercier. No wonder he had you flustered. He has some really potent sex appeal going on.”
Reaching the bar, he said to Reed, “Coffee. Black.” Although he hadn’t tacked on a “please,” the words didn’t sound rude.
“To take out or in?” asked Reed.
“Out.”
Reed turned to me. “Kensey, can you fix this guy a black coffee to-go before you take your break?”
“Sure.” As I prepared Blake’s order, I felt his gaze on me, but I didn’t look at him. Not even when I placed his cup on the bar and slid it toward him. I wasn’t being a coward. It was just that eye contact … well, my body always got all tingly when we locked gazes. I didn’t need that crap.
I also didn’t need that my hormones were doing yet another happy dance.
As such, I continued to pay him no attention as I retreated to the breakroom to grab my cell and water bottle from the locker. I again ignored him as I headed through the bar and outside, where I settled on a bench. Comfortable, I then opened the notepad app on my phone.
My thumbs tapped on the screen like crazy, writing down the scene that had been playing out in my head like a movie for hours. It had killed me not to take a moment to jot it down on my notepad app earlier, but I couldn’t exactly pause work and dash to the locker to grab my phone each time an idea struck me.
I jotted down every detail, every movement, as I ‘saw’ my character, Eve, return to her newly bought home. Saw the character tense at the sound of a child giggling upstairs. It was a sound she’d heard before. A sound that shouldn’t have been there, since no one else lived in the house …
Eve gripped the banister as she climbed the stairs. She could hear her heart pounding like crazy in her chest and the ticking of the grandfather clock. But no more giggling. Still, she’d heard it. She had.
She froze as light footsteps raced along the landing—a child’s footsteps. There was another giggle. The sound was full of mischief, like a kid playing hide and seek who couldn’t help chuckling under the strain of needing to stay quiet. But there was something else in that sound. Something … sly. Dark. Wrong. And it—
A voice shoved its way into my mind and wrenched me out of the scene. Blinking, bringing the outside world into focus, I noticed Blake standing a few feet away. I also realized he was staring at my mouth … and that my tongue had peeked out to touch my lip, just as it often did when I was concentrating. His face was totally blank, but his eyes glittered with intensity.
My heartbeat kicked up and butterflies took flight in my stomach. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.
“I said, Cade’s right—you make good coffee.”
“Um, thanks.” Determined to escape the sexual tension that was building, I went back to my notepad app, read over what I’d written, and plunged myself back into the scene. Once again, I was in the big house, surrounded by magnolia walls and stylish furnishings as Eve—
“How long have you worked here?”
I ground my teeth. “A while.” Before I could lose the tender threads that I still had on the scene, I returned straight back to the story. Standing in Eve’s house once more, I again heard that giggle …
Eve swallowed. She should go back downstairs, she thought. She’d tried following the giggles before, but it always came to nothing. As if someone—or something—just liked the idea of toying with her. “Fuck that,” she muttered, turning to go back down the stairs. And then she heard something else. Not a giggle. Not a footstep. It was a—
“How long is a while?”
Snapping back to reality yet again, I clipped, “Four years.”
His eyes narrowed at my tone. “Prickly little thing, aren’t you?”
When I was trying to write and someone was interrupting me for no good reason? Yeah, absolutely. “Was there something you wanted?”
Blake stalked toward me. “As silent partner, I’m protective of this place and CCC. I don’t want either of them to get undeserved negative attention. The things I said pissed you off. I get that. But I can’t apologize for being protective of my businesses.”
“Oh. Okay.” And I went right back to my cell phone.
Blake sighed. “It’s dumb to hold a petty grudge against me. You and I might not agree on whether your being here is good for the bar, but it’s not something you need to get in a funk over.”
I frowned. Petty grudge? Get in a funk over? He could not be believed. I leaned forward a little. “Let’s be clear on something. You have absolutely no idea or say in what I can, can’t, or need to do, Mercier. Do I like that you made judgements about me based on the word of one person? No. Who would? But I’m not holding a grudge. I’m not in a funk. I just don’t like you.”
His eyes briefly gleamed with what could have been amusement. “Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
His hand flew out and caught my wrist. For a single moment, I thought he was making a grab for my phone—which would have earned him a punch to the face. But then he rubbed his thumb over the inside of my wrist, brow creased, and I understood.
I held up my other arm. “No scar there either. Found a good plastic surgeon.”
“Did you now?” said Blake, voice even. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if a surgeon really could fully remove such scars. They could be highly minimized, sure, but if I’d truly slit my wrists, there probably would still have been something there. A faint line or an indentation of some kind.
“I want my hand back,” I said. He circled my pulse with his thumb one last time, and then he let go, but my skin still tingled from his touch. Why was this even happening? He wasn’t my type at all. Too intense. Too dominant. Too … calm. I went for guys who were fun and playful. This guy was composed in a way that was genuinely intimidating. It was also kind of hot, if I was honest. Not even the blatant danger he exuded dulled his appeal. Which just went to show that my sexual antenna had no common sense.
“Did you try to kill yourself?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“Libby Williams believes that you did it.”
“Then it must be true.” I unscrewed the cap from my bottle and took a long swig of water. “You shouldn’t be asking me, though. Haven’t you heard? I’m a crackhead. We drug addicts have a habit of stretching the truth.”
“If you didn’t try to commit suicide, why would you let people think differently?”
“Go ask Libby. Apparently, you find her an authority on me and my life.”
Screwing the cap back on the bottle, I stood. But he didn’t move back. He stayed right where he was, staring down at me, and … shit, it was like little sparks bounced from me to him. The heat between us was as palpable as it was unbearable. His scent—dark and mysterious—snaked around me, teased my senses, and drew me in just as powerfully as those hard eyes. I doubted that any female who’d been the focal point of his attention that way had ever done anything but melt into a puddle at his feet.
I didn’t melt for anyone.
“I really don’t think your girlfriend would like how close you’re standing to me,” I said. “Unless this whole looming-over-me business is just you trying to intimidate me. She might get a kick out of that.”
His brow pinched slightly. “Girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend. Fuck-buddy. Booty call. Whatever Libby is to you.”
“Libby’s none of those things to me.”
I hated that part of me was glad of that. I didn’t want to care.
“What’s Cade to you?”
Now it was my turn to frown. “Important. We share everything—even crack.” His cell phone began to ring, but he didn’t move to answer it. Didn’t even break eye contact with me. “You should probably get that.”
“Probably.” But he sipped his coffee instead. His eyes dropped to the pendant on my silver necklace. He fingered it gently. “Pretty.”
It was. The pendant was two thick angel wings folded over so that one slightly overlapped the other. “Thanks.” The hairs on my nape suddenly lifted and it felt like something was burning a hole between my shoulder blades. I slowly turned, running my gaze over every inch of my surroundings. There was plenty of people around—some simply walked along the street; others were moving in and out of stores. But no one stood out. No one appeared to be paying me a blind bit of notice. This shit with the mysterious Smith was fucking with my head, making me paranoid.
“What’s wrong?” asked Blake.
Blanking my expression, I turned back to him. “Thought I heard someone call my name.” I rolled back my shoulders. “My break’s over. See you around.” I brushed past him and walked straight into the bar, relieved he didn’t follow me. Blake Mercier might be walking, talking temptation, but he wasn’t for me.
Collecting empty glasses, Sarah frowned at whatever she saw on my face. “Everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said.
“No, it’s not. And you’re going to tell me why.” That fierce expression was one I’d seen plenty of times before—it meant she wasn’t going to back down. So it was really no surprise that she turned up at my apartment later that day. She practically stormed inside as she said, “Something’s going on with you. Don’t say there isn’t, Kensey. I won’t buy it.”
With a resigned sigh, I sank into the sofa and curled my legs under me. Honestly, it would be a relief to tell someone about the Smith situation. The stress of it had weighed on my chest. I hadn’t initially mentioned it to anyone for two reasons—one, I was used to shoveling my own shit. Two, I hadn’t properly absorbed what was going on; it simply felt too surreal.
Surreal or not, it was happening and I couldn’t ignore it. “You have to promise you won’t repeat this to a single soul.”
A little mollified, Sarah nodded and made herself comfortable on the armchair. “Okay, tell me.”
I licked the front of my teeth. “A week ago, I received an email. Well, my penname received one. It was from a reader, John Smith. It contained a link for a website that’s an internet community for writers to share their stories. One of his stories … it was about me, Sarah.”
She tilted her head. “About you?”
“Pretty much. The character’s name was Kelsey Irons, and she wrote horror books under the penname ‘Tina Bowden.’ Kelsey’s father, not her stepfather, was a serial killer. There were so many details from my life—the bullying, the goth phase, even the time I was held at knifepoint by a mugger. No real names were mentioned—not even Michael’s. But it was my life.”
Sarah blew out a stunned breath, her face strained with lines of worry. “There’s more,” she guessed.
“The end of the story was beyond weird.”
Swallowing, Sarah rubbed at her throat. “The situation itself is weird enough.”
“The story ended with my death. In the last chapter, I died when I was held by knifepoint. As you know, that was two years ago. In the story, I didn’t escape with only a slice on my lip. I was stabbed to death multiple times.”
“Motherfucker.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “Do you think Smith is the person who did that to you? That they wish they’d killed you that night?”
“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think so. When I fought back that night and the mugger cut me, they freaked out and did a runner. I still believe that they only meant to rob me.”
“But it’s possible that Smith—if that’s even his real name, which is unlikely—wishes you’d been killed that night.”
“Or he’s just trying to scare me. Personally, I think it’s that.”
She rubbed at her thighs. “Have you been to the police?”
“To say what? ‘Hi, someone wrote a story about me.’ You really think they’ll care? Even if they did, what can they do? There’s nothing illegal about writing a story that’s similar to my life story. I thought about contacting the website to have it taken down, but the story doesn’t violate any of their conditions, so they won’t care either.
“Besides, going to the police would mean exposing that I self-publish books. It would leak that Michael Bale’s stepdaughter writes horror books—Joshua would make sure it did.” My delightful half-brother worked for the police department. “I don’t want my personal shit to touch the books.”
“If Smith knows a lot about you, he’s either someone who lives here or a stranger who’s been hanging around, asking questions about you. Have you noticed anyone loitering?”
“Nope. This is the only communication I’ve ever received from him, and the email contained nothing but praise for my books.”
She leaned forward. “Read the email to me.”
I dug out my phone and logged into my email account. “Here it is …
Dear Nina,
I wanted you to know just how much I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your books. Reading is my escape, and through you I was able to escape to an amazing—if terrifying—world. I don’t usually write reviews, but I enjoyed your first book so much that I left a five-star review. I’ve included the link at the bottom of this email. Please, please, please read it. And please keep writing, and I’ll keep reading.
Best,
John Smith
I put my phone away. “The name he uses on the writer community is Shadow.”
“Shadow,” echoed Sarah, brow creased. “It could be that Smith isn’t obsessed with you, he’s obsessed with Nina Bowen. He could have been trying to find out more about her and then somehow discovered it was a penname—maybe he then traced it back to you as opposed to him invading your life and finding out about Nina. Either way, it’s bad, because it means he’s obsessed with someone.” Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. “Did you reply to the email?”
“Hell, no.” Even if I was strongly tempted to tell the weird motherfucker to get a life. “He obviously wants my attention—I’m not giving him anything.”
She twisted her mouth. “Can we trace him through his email address?”
“Unless you possess hacking skills, no, because I sure don’t.”
Sarah’s shoulders sagged. “Do you think Smith could be one of the Assholes?”
“Possibly. They don’t acknowledge me as one of them—I’m Bale’s kid, in their eyes, just like in Smith’s story.”
“Joshua would enjoy making your life hell.” Frowning thoughtfully, Sarah pinched her bottom lip. “If the obsession is with you and not Nina Bowen, I have to wonder how they found out you’re a writer. You know me, your mom, and my family would never breathe a word of it to anyone. Smith found out some other way. Could he have broken into your apartment and gone through your laptop?”
“I sincerely doubt it. I hide my laptop and my notebooks somewhere safe.” The neighborhood wasn’t low in crime. “They wouldn’t be impossible to find, but I’d be seriously surprised if anybody did manage to find them. After reading the email, I went through the entire apartment. Nothing has been moved or taken—I’m obsessive enough to have noticed a while ago if they had been. There’s no sign that the lock was ever messed with either.”
“How else could they have found out?”
Sighing, I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Maybe they went through your trash outside. Is it possible that you could have thrown something out that would have given them a clue? I’ve heard that stalkers do stuff like that.”
I blinked. “I don’t have a stalker, I have a creepy dickhead intent on pissing me off and scaring me—not the same thing. As for searching through my trash? Maybe. I don’t know.” I pinned her gaze. “We need to keep this to ourselves, Sarah. Clear cannot find out about this. She wouldn’t deal with it well, and I don’t want her reaching for anxiety pills again. Your family would completely overreact. Unless this situation escalates, we keep it quiet.”
“I won’t say a word.” She worried her lower lip. “Are you going to tell Michael?”
“Yes.” I ran a hand through my damp hair. “I need to ask him if any of the people who write to him expressed an interest in me. If the only reason I have Smith’s attention is that I’m Michael’s stepdaughter, he may have contacted him.”
Sarah did a slow nod. “When will you next see Michael?”
“Saturday. In the meantime, all I can do is be vigilant.”
“I’ll do the same.” She frowned, as if something just occurred to her. “You don’t think Smith is Blake Mercier, do you? I mean, he doesn’t strike me as the type who’d do this kind of thing, but there’s something dark about him.”
I thought about it for a moment. “No, I don’t think it’s him. When Sherry introduced me as Kensey Lyons, he seemed genuinely surprised. I wasn’t what he was expecting at all. And when he was talking to me earlier today, I got this horrible feeling that someone was watching me from behind.”
Her brows drew together. “What was he talking to you about?”
“I couldn’t work out whether he was trying to make conversation or to just plain annoy me. I was trying to concentrate on the scene I was writing, and he seemed to find my preoccupation with it as me snubbing him. He said I shouldn’t get in a funk just because he doesn’t think it’s great for me to be working at the bar.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “A funk?”
“A funk. Oh, and he kept pressing me over Libby’s lie that I slit my wrists. Even grabbed my wrist and checked for a scar.”
Sinking back into the chair, Sarah pursed her lips. “He wants you. That’s a no-brainer. And so he should. You’re stunning, even with your freaky mismatched eyes,” she teased.
I snorted. “Leave this alone, Sarah. I know you well enough to know that you’re thinking of doing some matchmaking, but this guy isn’t for me. And right now, I have enough going on.”
She sobered. “We’ll find out who Smith is, Kensey.”
“Yes, we will.” And then I’d stomp on his spine. Repeatedly. Preferably wearing ski boots.
After Sarah left, I locked the door and then slid the window shut. The sky was beginning to darken, casting shadows everywhere. I carefully scanned the view below me, but there was no one in sight. Honestly, I doubted that Smith was out there, but I was betting that he wanted me to worry that I was being closely watched. Like I’d let some asshole who cowardly skulked in shadows instill any fear into me. Hell, fucking no. When you’d been face-to-face with a murdering sociopath, there wasn’t a lot that could scare you.