CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Good thing we don’t have a dog. Or a cat,” Alex said as he pulled up a stool to settle in at the kitchen counter on Monday morning. He shot her a gotcha stare.

Elle quirked up her eyebrows as she served him eggs for his first-day-of-school breakfast. “Why is that a good thing? Because you’d have pet hair on your new T-shirt?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Because if we did, Fido would be all happy right now.” Alex plunked half a pill on the Formica, and her heart leapt like a ballet dancer.

She wanted to kiss the damn pill. “Oh, thank God,” she said, exhaling in relief.

“That we don’t have a pet who nearly ate your Percocet?”

She smiled so broadly she couldn’t contain it. She trembled with relief. “Yes. Exactly. Where did you find it?”

He pointed at the couch. “In between the couch cushions.”

She flashed back to Friday night when she’d hurt her thumb. She’d reached for the bottle to take the second half-pill, but she must have dropped it right before she fell asleep. She grabbed the pill from the counter, tossed it in the sink, and ran water over it, washing it down the drain. Though she’d already chosen to believe Colin hadn’t pilfered it, seeing evidence that he was on a steady path was a relief.

A huge one.

Now if only she could figure out who had texted her. She had no clue, so after she took Alex to school, while waiting in her car until she saw him walk through the front doors and safely inside, she called Colin and told him about “WJ’s” creepy text from Saturday night.

“Come to my office. Let me see the text.”

Twenty minutes later he was studying the message at his desk. Hey, pretty lady. Don’t you be messing around with that new guy. WJ.

“It doesn’t even have my name on it. Is there any chance it was just an error? Maybe it was meant for someone else?” she suggested, as she clasped the hope that she wasn’t the target of some strange stalker, calling her a pretty lady and warning her to stay away from her new man.

“That would be great if it was just a mistake,” he said, but his tone was completely pragmatic and she could tell he didn’t think “oops, that was meant for someone else” was a likely scenario.

Nor did she. “Except I got a strange Facebook comment, too,” she said, then told him about the hazy memory from the other night, including how odd the name was on the post. “It was gone as quickly as it was posted.”

“Who was it from?”

“I can’t remember. I was loopy on pain meds. But it wasn’t a real name. It was like some weirdly menacing roller derby name, but for a guy.”

He nodded and listened intently, her phone in his hand. He’d shifted into all-business Colin, and she sensed this was the newest challenge he was about to take on. He opened a browser window on his computer, and tapped the number into a reverse phone search. It showed up as unavailable. “Pretty sure this text came from a burner phone. If I looked up your number, it would show the wireless carrier it’s registered to. A burner phone isn’t registered, so it’s hard to trace. Let me see what I can do, though.” He set down the phone, cupped her cheeks, and met her gaze once more. “I promise, Elle. I’ll fix this for you.”

She didn’t know how he could, but she loved that he wanted to. Loved, too, that he pulled her close and brushed his lips on her forehead. Loved that he wanted to take care of her. No one had taken care of her in years. She wrapped her arms around him and breathed him in—his clean, freshly showered, morning scent. She stayed like that for several minutes, there at his office, curled up with him. This was where she wanted to be when times were good, and this was where she wanted to be when times were tough.

The next day, he stopped by the center to tell her he’d tried to apply an IP tracer, then a prototype for a new phone security app, then even a silly app that let users spoof friends with anonymous text messages. None revealed the sender’s info.

“Do you think it’s about us?” she asked him, worry in her tone. That was all she could figure. That someone was trying to stop her from seeing him. “Do you think it’s from your ex? That woman you said sent you angry messages?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I haven’t heard from her in a year. That’s so over it’s beyond over.”

“Who do you think is sending these to me?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop until I find out.”

* * *

All the fucking technology in the world at his fingertips and no one could trace a goddamn burner phone?

“Tell me, Larsen. Tell me when you get a pitch for a company that has that tech, and we’re getting in on the seed funding round,” he said, frustration thick in his voice as he sifted through app stores, past pitches from scrappy startups and app makers, and all the presentations he’d ever heard on new technology, with Larsen by his side, hunting, too. The two of them were parked on the couch by his coffee table, furiously searching for any startup, any technology they’d ever been pitched that could help their cause.

Were the drug dealers who used them really so far ahead that they’d found the one fail-safe method of covering their tracks?

“I’m on it,” Larsen said with a crisp nod. “My ears are peeled. Or is that eyes?”

“Eyes are peeled. Ears are open,” Colin said, tapping his temple, then his ears. “But none of it’s working. My brothers don’t even have tools to do this, and that’s the business they’re in. Security.”

“Isn’t that the point though? Not to go all Internet privacy on you, but isn’t that why burner phones exist? Because people feel like they have no privacy. Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines.”

He sat up straight. “What did you just say?” The cogs whirred in Colin’s head.

“Facebook won’t even tell you who sends you creepy messages because of privacy guidelines?” Larsen repeated tentatively, furrowing his brow.

An idea hit him—it was out of left field, but sometimes the best ideas were born there. He latched onto something Detective John Winston had said.

The gang culture, oddly enough, loves social media. They post pictures of themselves online, on Instagram and Facebook, holding wads of bills from their drugs, or showing off phones they stole.

“You’re brilliant,” Colin said to Larsen, then flipped open his laptop, logged into Facebook, and started hunting. There were many ways to solve a problem. You could tackle it point by point, or you could go wide and surround the problem.

He’d had no success tracing the number, so rather than go from number to name, he’d have to amass a list of possible names and see what matched. He rolled up the cuffs on his white shirt—nothing ventured, nothing gained—and spent the next few hours digging into Facebook and Instagram for images of the Royal Sinners.

Don’t mess with the Royal Sinners.

That was what they said about themselves.

Those were the words used in Elle’s messages.

Don’t you be messing around…

Whoever WJ was, he had effectively identified himself as a gang member in the text. Gang members had nicknames—weirdly menacing ones. WJ wanted to own his intimidation, and Colin was determined to find him.

Colin had something these gang guys didn’t have.

Ingenuity. Resourcefulness. And one hell of a brain. He knew how to use his head to solve a problem. As he hunted, he unearthed a braggart’s den. He found a treasure trove of images, just as John had said he would. Young guys holding wads of cash. Guys aiming guns at the camera. Others pointing to the ink on their arms. Protect Our Own.

He captured screenshots. He saved images. He took notes. He checked geotags on Instagram. He studied the pins on the back of images.

He did it again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

He didn’t have an answer, or a name, or a number. But he had a database now. Soon, WJ would tag something. That was what these guys did. Then he’d zero in on him.

* * *

Two Elles.

Over the next few days she returned to her split self. Only this time she was Happy-Go-Lucky Elle, and she was Sleeping-With-One-Eye-Open Elle.

Her schedule was packed with work, and school pick-ups, and the start of Alex’s first history project of the year, and cooking dinner for her son. It was stuffed with Colin playing a few rounds of State of Decay with him, and then basketball with Rex, Tyler, Marcus, and Alex at the center. Tomorrow was jam-packed, too—during the day she had a board meeting with the center’s directors over the remodeling progress, and at night Ryan was proposing to Sophie. He’d planned a surprise family celebration for Sophie afterward.

Life was almost too good to be true.

Almost.

Because there, in the background, slinking over her shoulder was her phone stalker. WJ.

She hadn’t said a word about it to her son. He didn’t need to know. It was his first week of school, and she wanted him to be able to focus on being a freshman. But she needed desperately to talk to someone.

“It’s been three days since the text message. Maybe it’s all over,” she said to her sister as she visited with her at the Skyway rink on Thursday evening.

“Let’s hope so. Did you get a new cell phone like I told you to?”

“What’s the point?” she asked as Camille straightened up napkins and straws at the snack counter. “My number is on the center’s website. Anyone can get it.”

Camille gave her a pointed look. “Maybe it shouldn’t be so easy to reach you.”

She drummed her nails against the counter. “I want the boys to be able to reach me. That’s the point of doing what I do. To be accessible. To be a resource for them. I can’t shut myself off from the world.”

“Just be careful. Because someone clearly doesn’t like your boyfriend if they’re sending you messages not to mess around with him.”

Elle sighed heavily and twisted her hair into a makeshift ponytail. “I know. It just makes no sense.”

“Maybe it’s an angry ex of his. Someone who’s pissed you have your claws in him?” Camille suggested, reminding Elle about Colin’s ex who lashed out when he broke up with her.

“I don’t think so. Why would she sign it WJ?”

Camille shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe WJ stands for Whack Job.”

Elle cracked up, the first good laugh she’d had in days.

Twenty minutes later, she picked up Alex from Janine’s house. He’d been working on a history project with Janine’s son. In the past she’d have let Alex take public transportation home, but there was no way she was letting him on the city bus with WJ hanging over her. No way, no how, not going to happen.

She chatted briefly with Janine on the porch then headed to the car, waving good-bye. “Good luck this weekend. I’ll be there cheering you on, though it’ll pain me not to skate,” Elle said.

“It’ll pain me more not to have my favorite blocker,” Janine said with a pout.

“Are you going to come with me to the final match this weekend?” Elle asked Alex once they were inside the car.

“Can I stay home and hang out by myself?”

She flinched at the idea, gripping the steering wheel. “No. I want you to come with me.”

“But why? You’re not even skating. I just want to hang at home. Play Xbox and stuff.”

“We’ll have fun. We’ll get pizza at the rink,” she said through pursed lips. She didn’t tell him the truth—that she could barely stomach letting him out of her sight.

He kicked his foot against the floor of the passenger seat.

“Alex, don’t do that,” she said, as she changed lanes.

“I just don’t feel like going. First you won’t let me take the bus, and you always let me take it last year. You’re treating me like a baby. Now I have to go to a game you’re not even skating in. Can’t I just chill? What if Rex and Tyler come over?”

But before she could say no one more time, her phone buzzed in the console.

“Want me to see if that’s Colin?” Alex asked, grabbing the phone.

“I’ll look at it later,” she said hastily, as the truck in front of her slowed. She didn’t want Alex seeing any messages from Colin, though they hadn’t exchanged many dirty ones lately. Still, her phone was private. It was hers.

“Mom.”

She hadn’t heard that tone in years.

His voice was laced with fear.

She snapped her gaze to him, and her son was staring at the screen, jaw agape.

Pure, primal terror burst through her, like a dam breaking. “What is it?”

But she knew.

It could only be one thing.

“Who sent you this?” he asked, his voice thin as a thread, cold as winter.

She yanked the wheel right and pulled into the lot at a Burger King. Slamming the car into park, she grabbed the phone from him.

The hairs on her neck rose.

Pretty ladies should be smarter about who they get INVOLVED with.

The phone slid from her hand, clattering to the console.

“What is this?” Alex asked again.

She inhaled deeply then did her best to channel a calmness she didn’t even come close to feeling. “I’ve been getting some strange messages.”

He shook his head adamantly then stabbed his finger against the screen. “This isn’t strange, Mom. It’s fucking creepy. It’s stalkerish. Who is sending you these?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her hold on a cool, collected tone faltering.

“Someone who doesn’t want you to be with Colin.” His voice rose with every word.

She bit her lip and managed a small nod. “It seems that way.”

His eyes widened as big as the moon. “Mom! I like Colin. He’s a cool guy. But seriously, this is freaking me out.”

It was freaking her out, too. More than she could ever have imagined. But she couldn’t let on. She had to stay strong for Alex. She had to be titanium.

“Colin is working on it,” she said, taking her time with each word. “He’s working on figuring it out, and we’ll make it stop.”

“‘We’?” he asked, arching an angry eyebrow. “Who’s ‘we’? You and Colin? Or you and me? Or you and—”

“I’ve got this. I’ve got this under control. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Just like when you had things under control with Dad?”

She held up her index finger. “That is not fair. And this is not the same.”

“You’re right,” he said, spitting out the words. “It’s not the same. Because he’s not Dad. He’s just a guy.”

“Alex,” she said, but she let her voice trail off because he was right. Colin was just a guy. Alex was her flesh and blood.

He stopped talking, crossed his arms, and slumped down in the seat.

“Let me get you home and make you dinner,” she said, as calmly as she possibly could.

She stuffed her phone into her purse in the backseat, as if that would erase the message. But the text was still there, staring at her, breathing hot fumes on her like it had a pulse, a heartbeat. Like a shadow that lurked by her side. Colin had thought a Royal Sinner was sending these to her, and she was sure now that he was right. Sure, too, that someone in the Royal Sinners didn’t want Colin in her life.

Seemed her son felt the same way.

* * *

He didn’t talk to her at dinner. All he said was “thanks.” He got up from the table, finished his homework, showered, and went to bed.

“Night.”

Barely a word.

Just like that year.

The year he didn’t talk.

The year he was nearly destroyed by his father’s death.

She sank down on her couch and ran her hand over the back of her neck. Her sparrows. Her guide to finding her way home. This was her home, here in this apartment, with her son, who she loved madly, fiercely, to the ends of the earth and back again. He was her home, and she’d helped him find his way back to her after he’d lost his father. She’d do it again, and again, and again. She reached for a framed picture of him on the coffee table—his fourth grade school photo, where he wore a goofy, toothy grin. A small smile surfaced as she ran her finger over it. A tear threatened her eyes, but she refused to allow it to appear. She would not wallow. She would not weaken.

She had one goal in life and it was to take care of her son, no matter what.

Colin had told her he had some leads and was tracking them down, and she was grateful for that. Damn grateful. But as she set down the photo, she knew.

Knew it was time to hit the brakes.

Ironic, because she thought it would be the past with pills and the drinking that were her deal breakers. But she’d gotten over the addiction issue faster than she’d imagined she would. This new threat, though? She didn’t know for certain if the texts were because of her involvement with Colin. But they sure seemed to be tied to his past. Not the addiction, the history he’d proven time and time again that he’d moved beyond. His other past.

The one he had zero control over.

Through no fault of his own, that past had resurfaced to the present. The past where a gangland shooter killed his father, and the present where a member of that same street gang was harassing her. All because she was in love with him.

Holy shit.

In love.

She was in love with him.

That was going to make it so much harder to do the right thing.