PROLOGUE
Dressed in a pair of black shorts with neon pink polka dots and a matching camisole, Janelle Joyce removed the claw clip from her hair, shivering a little when the long, golden curls tumbled down around her shoulders. Humming under her breath, she applied an expensive cream under her eyes, then a heavy, overnight moisturizer to the rest of her face. While she waited for the thick goo to dry, she brushed her teeth, then tidied up the bathroom of her Hollywood Hills mansion.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t actually in the Hollywood Hills, and maybe the six-bedroom masterpiece wasn’t quite as big or nice as other homes in the area, but it was close enough to count. Besides, it was a far cry from the single-wide mobile home she’d grown up in outside of nowhere Kansas. To say she’d come from humble beginnings was an understatement, but it was a part of her past the media just loved to hype.
She liked to think a big part of her success had come from talent and hard work, but in reality, she knew a lot of it had been pure luck. There had been a lot of open-mic nights at music clubs and small-time gigs in less-than-reputable bars. She’d even spent six months stringing her guitar and singing on street corners for spare change before she’d finally gotten her big break.
It had all happened so fast, she’d barely had time to enjoy it. One minute, she’d been barely scraping by, living on Ramen noodles and bologna sandwiches. The next, she was opening for some of the biggest pop stars in the industry. Now, she was one of those pop stars, performing in front of sold-out stadiums and signing autographs until her fingers cramped.
Of course, fame came with a price.
She’d just finished her first international tour, and she’d been riding high on the success of her newest single when she’d received the first phone call. At first, she’d brushed it off, chalking the heavy breathing up to a run-of-the-mill creeper. It hadn’t been the first time a fan had tracked down her personal number. So, she’d mentioned it to her manager, changed her phone number, and gone about her business without much more thought on the matter.
The second call had changed everything.
The caller wouldn’t give his name, and he’d made it impossible to track him, but she’d never forget his words.
“I know what you really are. You’re a siren, beautiful but deadly. I hear your voice in my head all the time. I can’t stand it anymore. It has to stop. I have to make you stop.”
The next morning, a dozen dead, crumbling roses had arrived on her doorstep.
Things escalated quickly after that, and for two months, she’d been a complete wreck. More gifts came, always some macabre and disturbing token that left her heart pounding and her hands shaking. There had been more decayed flowers, dead animals, and pictures of her that had been taken without her knowledge or consent.
Every incident had been reported to the police, and every time, they’d taken her statement, photographed the offending objects, but there wasn’t much they could do to guarantee her safety. Her stalker was always careful to never leave anything identifying behind, and he hadn’t attempted to contact her directly again since his chilling threat.
Still, everywhere she turned, Janelle felt watched, hunted. She jumped every time her phone buzzed. The sound of the doorbell suddenly had the ability to induce paralyzing panic. Leaving the relative safety of her house reduced her to a simpering, wide-eyed, neurotic mess.
With a disgusted huff, she twisted open the child-proof cap on an amber bottle and shook one of the tiny white pills into her palm. She detested the need for the prescription sleeping pills, but with all the stress, it was the only way she could fall asleep at night. Clutching the pill, she left the bathroom and headed to the kitchen for a bottle of water.
Once she’d taken her sleep aid, she settled onto one of the barstools at the center island and stared at nothing in particular as she spun the plastic bottle cap across the granite. Her life was so screwed up, but the worst part of the whole mess was that she had no control. She hated being weak.
From behind her, a man cleared his throat, and Janelle startled so violently she almost toppled off the barstool. “Damn, Grayson! You scared me half to death.”
It wasn’t the first time her new bodyguard had snuck up on her, but then again, she was ridiculously distracted these days.
From the shadowy doorway that led to the back mudroom, Grayson nodded.
“Okay, well, I’m going to bed.” Standing, she pushed her stool under the counter. “What time do you and Will switch shifts again?” Grayson didn’t answer, and the longer he continued to stare at her in silence, the more fearful she became. “Grayson?”
Her heart hammered, making it difficult to breathe, as alarm bells blared inside her head. Gripping her water bottle tight enough to make the plastic crackle, she backed away from the kitchen, her brain working furiously to find an escape route. Her security panel was too far away. Her kitchen phone was too close to the man in the shadows.
The patio.
Only, it would eat up precious seconds to disengage the lock bar to get the sliding door open. Fuck it. She’d just have to risk it, because there was no way to make it to the front door before the looming shadow caught up to her.
Just as she made her decision, the man—definitely not Grayson—stepped into the light of the kitchen, his face contorted into a mask of crazed determination. Eyes the color of dark chocolate stared at her from a face that was human in only the most general sense, because there was no humanity in his cold gaze.
“You should have been asleep by now.”
Oh, hell no.
Launching her water bottle across the kitchen, Janelle didn’t wait to see if she’d hit her mark before pivoting on her toes and sprinting for the glass door on the other side of her living room. She kicked the lock bar with her bare foot, nearly weeping with relief when it disengaged with a loud clatter against the glass. Her hands shook violently, but she grasped the wooden handle and wrenched the door open on its tracks.
One foot on the flagstone, one still on the carpet, she cried out when cruel fingers twisted in her hair, jerking her backwards so that she landed heavily on the living room carpet. The impact knocked the breath from her, and made lights dance in her vision, but she refused to lay down and die without a fight.
Flailing wildly, she screamed over and over, hoping one of her neighbors would hear her as she kicked out blindly at her attacker. Her right foot connected with some part of him, somewhere painful going by his low groan, and he loosened his hold just enough for her roll to the side and scramble to her feet.
Hurrying across her patio, she didn’t dare look over her shoulder. She could make it. She could get away. She was going to live, and her stalker was going to rot in jail for the rest of his fucking life.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound didn’t register at first, and by the time her frantic brain worked out what she was hearing, it was already too late.
Click.
The explosion was deafening, and the heat of it seared her back, melting her skin away from the muscles as she was propelled into the air. Janelle screamed in pain and fear as every passing second seemed to last for eternity before she was plunged into cold, clear water.
She sank lower and lower, until her heels scraped against the bottom of the pool. Tendrils of red floated around her and stained the water, the blood seeping from around the ten-inch shard of glass that protruded from her stomach.
Great. If she didn’t drown, she was probably going to bleed to death before the ambulance arrived. Above her, burning debris floated across the surface of the pool, while the fire that engulfed her beloved house illuminated the night sky. At least she could say she went down in a blaze of glory.
The incoherent thought made her smile, even as it became harder to keep her eyes open. Her lungs screamed in protest, and she knew she’d have to breathe soon, but she had no strength to move from her position.
Water curled around her wrists like icy fingers, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear the liquid had taken shape right there before her on the bottom of the pool. Of course, that made no sense. She was obviously hallucinating from blood loss and lack of oxygen.
It couldn’t be real, because guardian angels didn’t exist, and she was absolutely going to die.