Chapter Two
Conrad was looking through the letters when someone knocked on the door.
“Coming!” Ella called from the other room.
“Stay where you are.” Conrad huffed. Couldn’t she follow one simple instruction? he thought to himself as he headed to the door.
Standing to the side and leaning over, he looked through the peephole and checked that it was room service with their order, then he let him in.
Elle was watching them both from the bedroom doorway, looking forlorn and adorable.
Adorable? he asked himself with scorn. Don’t get attached, you fool. She’s just a job.
He thanked and tipped the waiter as then man left, then gestured for Elle to tuck in.
He’d ordered them both a full English breakfast. He collected up the letters from the coffee table so he could read through them while they ate. He didn’t want her thinking he was available for conversation, after all.
She joined him after a moment, and they ate in silence; the only sounds were the scrapes of knives and forks across their plates.
Conrad had to admit that while he could leave most of his creature comforts behind without a second thought, no one made coffee quite as well as an expensive hotel. He sipped it, savoring the rich flavor.
He glanced over from time to time to see that she was picking at her food, and by the time he’d finished, she had eaten only a quarter of her plate and seemed to be slowing down.
“You should eat more,” he told her, his gaze fixed on the letter he was holding in one hand, a slice of half-eaten buttered toast in the other.
“I think that’s the first time since I signed my contract that someone has actually urged me to eat more!” Ella said with a small laugh.
Conrad lowered his letter and took a good look at her. She was attractive, but she’d be absolutely stunning with a few more pounds on her to help accentuate her subtle curves.
“You’re under stress. You need more calories,” was all he said, blocking her from his line of sight with the letter again.
“The irony is, now when I need food, I have no appetite.” She smiled wryly.
“Try!” he huffed. She made an effort to eat more. When she finally put her knife and fork down, she had eaten about three-quarters of her plate, which satisfied him.
“What has you so engrossed?” she asked as she picked up her teacup, looking curiously at him over the rim.
“I’m trying to figure out what kind of stalker you have,” he replied.
She blinked, setting her teacup aside carefully.
“Those are his letters?”
He ignored the slight quiver in her voice. “Yep.”
She was silent for a moment, and he expected her to drop the subject.
“What kinds of stalkers are there?” she asked instead, tilting her head as she watched him.
He looked over, and while he could see the fear in her eyes, he could also see determination.
“There are five basic types,” he explained. He’d been required to learn them for his ill-fated bodyguard job. “The rejected stalker is the most common and is usually a former partner who is bitter about a breakup. It can last for years. The stalking either becomes a substitute for the relationship and allows the stalker to feel close to his victim, or it’s a way of punishing her so he can repair his damaged self-esteem.” His eyes wandered to hers, assessing her, looking for a clue as to which type resonated. “They’re the most likely to be violent, and only prison and close supervision will stop them.”
He ticked a finger and began describing another variety.
“Next is intimacy seekers. They’re lonely people who want an intimate, loving relationship with their victim. They tend to idolize their subjects, believing them to be better than they are. Many have erotomanic delusions and believe their victim is already in love with them. Legal sanctions don’t bother them, and only prison or forced therapy can help.”
He noticed Elle start to shrink. She pulled her limbs in a little and started to slouch, making herself a smaller target. He understood the impulse, even if it had been trained out of him.
“Like the intimacy seeker, the incompetent suitor is lonely, but he doesn’t want an emotional connection. He just wants a date or sex, but his social ineptitude makes that complicated. They usually lose interest quickly and actually aren’t intending to hurt or frighten their target; they see their stalking as an attempt to court their victim. In cases where they’re persistent, there’s often some underlying issue that makes them blind to the distress they’re causing.”
“Like date rapists?” she asked with a frown.
“Possibly, but it usually doesn’t get that far, they’re far too socially awkward to get a date and they usually choose people well out of their league. It’s things like learning their victim’s schedule so they can accidentally on purpose run into them five times a day. Or looking up a person’s confidential details so they can send flowers to their home address, or worse, turn up in person. Usually it’s relatively harmless behaviors that they don’t understand are creepy.”
“Okay.”
He could tell that type didn’t resonate with her.
“Then there are the resentful stalkers who feel slighted or humiliated in some way, and they hate you for it. They’re after revenge, and they feel completely justified in what they do. Sometimes it’s something you’ve done to them personally; sometimes they just pick a random target who symbolically represents the people they resent. Legal sanctions usually anger them further and lead to escalation.
“Predatory stalkers are sexual deviants. They tend to focus on strangers who are usually completely unaware they’re being stalked. They often have prior convictions for sexual assault. Stalking is a way to gain information about a victim prior to assaulting them, although it also gives them a sense of power over their victim, so it can go on for quite a while. While they don’t tend to revisit a prior victim, there’s no cure, no treatment, and incarceration is the only way to stop them from doing it again.”
“And which type do I have?” she said quietly, as if afraid to ask the question.
Conrad sighed. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “These letters sound like a rejected stalker. He’s really bitter about something, but David assured me you’re on good terms with all your exes.”
“I am,” she confirmed.
“So if any of them walked through that door now, you’d what?” He lifted a questioning brow.
“Give them a hug and ask how they’ve been,” she said without hesitation.
“No bitterness?”
“I haven’t had a relationship for the last eighteen months, so while I was hurt after my last breakup, I’m over that now. We weren’t compatible, and it would have ended one way or another.”
“You’ve seen him since?”
“A couple of times.” She sounded more confident now, and he realized that she felt better when given something useful to think about. He understood that. He was better able to function in terrifying situations when he could keep his mind occupied.
“Where?” he asked. He’d investigate all her exes, no matter her answer, but she was relaxing more with each answer, so he continued.
“In town. The first time was awkward. We’d only been broken up about a month. The second time was about five or six months ago, and I was happy to see him. He had a new girlfriend with him. She was nice, and he seemed happy.”
“Who ended it?”
“He did.”
“And the others?”
“Same.” She shrugged. “It took me longer to forgive Jack—he cheated on me, but that was years ago.”
“Have you upset anyone recently? Complained about bad service or something, that might have got someone fired?”
“No, I hate complaining.” She shrugged. “It’s easier to let it go.”
“Anything at all? Any disagreements or arguments? Did someone accuse you of taking their parking space? Did you discuss something on the internet, and it became heated? Anything. Even things that seem minor?”
The frown line between her brows showed she was thinking, but she was slowly shaking her head, unable to come up with anything.
“I’ve had a few disagreements with my producer when he wanted to take my songs in a different direction, but there were no raised voices. He’s a good guy.”
“What about Marcus? He keeps using your stage name. Is there a story behind that?”
“He says he thinks it suits me better, and it’s not worth arguing over.”
“And David—he’s been keeping these letters and emails away from you. Have you argued about it?”
She nodded. “But David wouldn’t do this!”
“Don’t rule anyone out,” Conrad cautioned, although he did agree with her.
“He wouldn’t have asked you to protect me if he were behind this, would he?” she asked slowly. She was at least considering people carefully.
“It could be a bluff to make himself look innocent,” he prodded.
“Still, let’s put him as our least likely suspect, okay?”
Conrad conceded the point with a nod.
“I know you don’t suspect them, but I need a list of your ex-boyfriend’s names, dates of birth and last known address, that should be enough.”
“It wouldn’t be one of my exes.” Elle shook her head, but now with the slightest bit of doubt.
“You’re probably right, but it can’t hurt to check.”
“How will you check them?”
“Best you don’t know.” He looked away.
“I want to know,” she insisted.
“It’s not exactly legal.” He leveled a hard stare at her. She sat back, wondering how far past legal he would go.
“Could you get into trouble?” Her concern was evident.
That question surprised him. “No,” he assured her. It was a possibility, but only very slight, and he’d always been pretty adept at sliding out of trouble.
“So how will you check them out?
“I have some contacts, they can run background checks for things like criminal records, and comb through bank accounts for any charges made near where you were. Phone data like GPS can tell us where they were when you were attacked. If they’ve turned the GPS off, if they made a call we can find out what tower their call was routed through. It’s is not as specific as GPS, but it’s more than enough to determine if they were in the area last night.”
“And they’ll never know?”
“They won’t have a clue,” he promised her.
“All right.” Then she sighed. “It kind of feels like I’m the one stalking now.”
Conrad conceded her point with a small, wry smile. “If it helps, I’m actually the one directing it.”
She appreciated his attempt to soothe her and offered him a small smile.
“So can I see the letters?” she asked.
He hesitated. Initially, he’d been inclined to share them, but some of the writing was so awful, he was starting to understand why David had kept them from her.
“I have a right to know what I’m facing,” she argued. “David thought shielding me from this was best, and I ended up getting blindsided last night!”
She had a point. He put the letters back in a pile, then gave her the top half, which were the earliest. They got worse over time, so these were the easiest to read. If she was okay with them, he’d give her the others.
“Thank you.” She gave him a brave smile. “I’ll just put these things in the hall”—she indicated the breakfast tray—“then I’ll get started.”
He let her pile their plates and accouterments back onto the tray but stopped her as she went to pick it up.
“I’ll do that.” She looked confused by his offer, so didn’t let the tray go. “We don’t know who might see you,” he elaborated, and she released it at once, looking chastened.
He actually liked that she questioned him, especially when he offered to help her. He had been so certain that she would treat him as if he was there to serve her—her reluctance to let him was endearing.
After taking a quick glance around, he left the tray outside the room and came back in, closing the door quietly behind him.
Elle had seated herself on the sofa to read her pile of letters but as he settled back at the table, he couldn’t help but glance over at her occasionally, wondering how she was doing. It distracted him from reading his own pile of letters, which irritated him, but he’d already been through them all twice. Besides, she was the target, so maybe she would notice something that he had missed.
When she finally put the last letter down, she took a deep breath and got up, heading to the mini bar. He hoped she wasn’t going for a shot, he hadn’t considered that she could be a drinker. Luckily the only thing she cracked open was a water bottle, although she did down half of it in a few mouthfuls.
“Whoa, slow down!” he cautioned, worried she’d choke.
She turned to him. “Sorry, those letters literally left a bad taste in my mouth,” she said with a grimace. “But I’m ready for the rest.”
“What you’ve read is just the start, they only get worse from here on out.” He cautioned. He wasn’t going to tell her she shouldn’t read them, but he felt it only fair to give her a warning.
She screwed the bottle lid back on with vigor, as if steeling herself for what was to come, then she marched over to him. He might have felt intimidated, if she wasn’t 5’2” and about as big around as his wrist.
“I’m ready.” She held her hand out for the letters, and he handed them over.
He didn’t make any pretext of being busy now. Instead he watched her for signs of distress. The letters almost became stories, sick and twisted stories of power, cruelty, torture and . . . well, very nasty stuff. The writer was clearly becoming more unhinged as time passed.
He cocked his head as he wondered if, in fact, the letters were stories, and if so, perhaps they’d been published somewhere else? If he could find an account or blog where they’d been published, he might be able to track that back to the source and find this creep.
He pulled out his phone and texted David, asking him to forward all the emails to him, then he got his laptop out and set it up. The messages hadn’t come through yet, so he began composing a message for his hacker friend. Well, he said friend—really, though, he knew nothing about the man other than his screen name, Jed. Conrad suspected he had a team working with him; Jed had too many clients to work alone.
And he was damn good at finding information.
The emails came through, and he forwarded them on to Jed, copying the message over.
Before he could hit “Send,” however, he heard Elle make a noise, and the next thing he knew, she was flying into the bedroom.
He knew why seconds later when he heard her retching.
He winced and collected her water bottle. There was tap water, but this was still cool from the mini bar.
He resisted the urge to kneel down beside her and rub her back, instead he leaned against the door frame and waited for the heaving to stop. She lowered the lid and flushed, although she didn’t get up yet.
“Which one was it?” he asked.
“The one where he blinds her—I mean me.” Her voice was raw, and he handed her the water bottle, which she accepted with a grateful nod.
“No, think of it as her, someone else he’s writing to who just happens to have your name, which is not uncommon. I mean, tons of people are named after Superman.”
She offered him a wobbly smile, and he offered his hand to help her up. She accepted.
“I know this is hard, and I know those stories . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve seen horrors first hand, and those things even got to me!”
“Where does that sort of thing come from?” she asked before she began to clean her teeth.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I know there are monsters in this world, but quite how they get that way.” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine anything would make someone enjoy doing those things.”
She rinsed with the cool water, then wiped her mouth with a hand towel before turning to him.
“Thank you for showing me. I’m glad I know what I’m facing, but unless there’s anything else you think I should know, I’m going to take David’s advice and not read the rest.”
“I think that’s a good decision, but when you’re ready, I have some questions about their content . . . while they’re still fresh in your mind.”
She took a swig of water, downing it like a shot of vodka, and took a deep breath with a nod.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
She followed him back into the living room and got herself a fresh bottle of water, asking him if he wanted anything. Mentally prepared, she sat opposite him at the table again.
“Okay, now when you were reading, did any turn of phrase strike you as familiar?”
“I think there were quite a few—the early letters were filled with clichés.”
“True, but I’m asking if you know anyone who uses similar clichés.”
She thought for a while but soon began to shake her head. “I don’t think so, sorry. Although . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I did notice he said mute point somewhere rather than moot point.”
“Does that matter?” he asked brusquely.
“No, it just struck me as odd, that’s all. It’s an archaic phrase at the best of times, so I just . . .” Her words trailed off, and she pulled her feet up onto the seat of the chair. “Sorry.”
Now he felt bad for being curt with her, and he intentionally softened his stance.
“No, feel free to point out anything you notice that’s odd. It might not help, but it might, and I won’t know unless you tell me.”
She nodded and chewed on the side of her thumbnail. He paused.
“Do you know anyone who uses that phrase? Have you heard someone say mute instead of moot?”
“No . . . I don’t know.” Her brows drew together as she tried to remember.
“Did anything strike you as odd about the letters?”
She took a breath but didn’t speak.
“What?” he queried.
“I don’t know. Something about the tone feels off, I guess.” Her hands spread in a bewildered gesture.
“Off how?” he pressed.
She hesitated for a moment as she tried to put it into words.
“It’s like . . . like those letters are a love story for a serial killer or something. He starts them with something personal: My darling girl or My dear, sweet, innocent child. And sure, they’re twisted but . . .” She sighed at her inability to describe her feeling. “The break-in at my house is the same. It’s sick, but like you said about one of the stalking types—the incompetent suitor?—it’s almost like a kind of courtship. He broke in and left semen as a ‘present’ and a ‘love letter,’ like some kind of secret valentine . . . who’s also into torture and snuff films.”
“Go on.” He nodded, unsure where this was going but sensing that she might be onto something.
“But the attack last night—that was efficient and cold. He ran up, struck me twice, threw the blood, but he didn’t say anything until I kicked him. Shouldn’t he have said something to acknowledge the relationship he thinks he’s built with me?”
He frowned as he realized she was right. The tone of the letters and this latest attack were very different. Could there be something else going on here?
“Do you think he was going to kidnap you?”
“He didn’t say anything like that. He just hit me twice and threw me to the ground. If he were going to kidnap me, wouldn’t he have wanted me on my feet?”
“Unless he wanted to play with you a bit more.”
“Judging from those letters, he has plenty of ideas for how to ‘play’ with me in person.” She shuddered at the thought. “You don’t think I could have two stalkers, do you?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” he said to reassure her. Conrad had also wondered if it was a random attack, except for the blood. What kind of random attacker poured blood on their victims? Acid, yes; there were many cases of that, but blood was harmless.
“Maybe he’s a Carrie fan,” he mumbled, and Elle actually chuckled. It was a delightful sound, one he’d like to hear more of . . . If they weren’t working together.
He asked her a few more questions, then she needed to get ready for her interview with the blues magazine. He left her to change. She emerged about an hour later, her hair hanging in a sleek black mane to the middle of her back and her makeup light but sensual. She wore a long black velvet dress that was cut just low enough to incite interest without being indecent. She had also grown a few inches in height.
He swallowed, feeling rather like the geeky teenager he’d been when he picked Annie Harper up from her house for his first school dance when he was fifteen.
As he stood there staring at her, she grew self-conscious and turned away. She leaned on the bedroom doorframe and picked each foot up, pulling the platform shoes off.
“I think I’ll break my neck if I try to walk too far in those,” she said as she disappeared back into the bedroom.
She emerged thirty seconds later with the shoes in a drawstring bag and flats on. Well, he presumed she was wearing shoes. Her dress was so long it dragged on the floor now.
“Okay.” She collected her large handbag with the same hand that carried her shoes, grabbed a handful of her skirt, and headed toward the door. “Ready?”
“Just one second.” He held out a small can of hairspray. “Contingency plan, in case anything should happen to me.”
“What am I supposed to do with hairspray, make sure I die with great hair?” she asked with amusement.
He couldn’t help but smile a little at her gallows humor as he replied, “Ever gotten hairspray in your eye?”
She flinched, because hadn’t every woman?
“Then you know it hurts like a son of a bitch. Keep that spray handy and don’t be afraid to use it on someone if you feel threatened. It has no lasting effects, trust me, but it will sting long enough for you to run away.”
She nodded and put the shoe bag into her large shoulder bag, which wasn’t large enough, so about a third of the drawstring bag stuck out the top. He wondered what she was doing until she swung her handbag over her shoulder, which allowed one hand to hold her skirt up and the other to hold the hairspray. She was taking this seriously.
“Ready when you are,” he assured her, pulling a light jacket on. He wasn’t particularly warm, but it had plenty of pockets. He’d put things he might need in it, like an extendable baton, pepper spray, and a Taser. They were all illegal in the UK, but he’d argue legality after he’d saved her life.
“Let’s go,” she said with a decisive nod.
She’d heard him order a car from reception, but to her surprise, he took her left out of the room, not right, into the lobby. She didn’t question it, and they came out at the rear of the hotel, into its small parking lot. Parked there were a number of high-end cars, the sort that could probably buy you a decent house for the same price—outside of London. There was also a selection of four black town cars with tinted rear windows. One of these idled near the exit, and the valet held the door open while they got in.
“They have an arrangement with a chauffeur service, and we’ll be charged through the hotel, so our driver won’t know our names, and there’s no paper trail to follow,” he explained before she could ask.
That was cool but freaky at the same time. “People actually have to do that?”
He gave her a pointed look, and she sagged a little when she realized that she was now one of those people.