Damn it, he knew where she was. Deep inside, though, she wasn’t surprised. Coming here had been on the spur of the moment; on Sunday night she’d called Archer and gotten Daniel’s information, told Stacia she was leaving, packed her bags and slipped out of the apartment before dawn Monday morning. But she’d known RememberMe would figure it out. He knew everything she did.
Swallowing hard, she pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. He made her feel so damn vulnerable. There had been times when his messages were almost sporadic, a few weeks when she hadn’t heard from him at all. She’d readjusted to life quickly, neglecting to be wary when she was out, to look over her shoulder or to search for familiar faces in unfamiliar places. Then, when she’d thought he’d moved on, that some other woman had caught his fancy, another email had found its way into her inbox, or a text to her cell phone, or a card to her mailbox.
RememberMe. When the first emails had come, she’d thought the name was cute, a friendly question without the question remark. Hey, remember me? After what had happened to Kyle, she knew there was nothing cute or friendly about him.
And she didn’t have a clue in hell who he was or what he wanted besides frightening her. She didn’t know why he was fixated on her, how he’d gotten her email address or her cell number or her home address. She didn’t know how he tracked her down every time she changed jobs, where he watched her from, what he wanted from her.
What was the point of his sick game?
Right now it didn’t matter. All she had to do was warn Daniel. Have that conversation he so clearly didn’t want to have. Give him one more reason to hate her. She would do the same with her other two exes—she was still searching for them—and then she would find herself a hiding place so far away that RememberMe would never find her.
She closed her email and stared at the screen a long time before opening the browser. Cedar Creek was a pretty little town, but she needed to put it in the rearview mirror as soon as possible. Vulnerable wasn’t a pleasant way to feel, and she wanted it done.
It wasn’t likely that a town the size of this one had more than one bowling alley, and a search showed that was true. She’d discarded her wet shoes when she came in from the diner and hadn’t brought another pair that went so well with the dress, so she changed into jeans and a button-down, put on chunky-soled boots that should keep out the worst of the water, grabbed a raspberry-colored slicker and her bag, and left the room.
Claire Baylor, proprietor, manager and housekeeper of the Prairie Sun, was sitting behind the grand oak counter, a book propped open on the desk. When she closed it, Natasha caught a view of the cover. The Unlucky Ones.
“I’ve heard that book will give you nightmares,” she commented.
Claire came to stand in front of her. “It makes me unbearably sad.”
“I haven’t read it. These days, if it doesn’t make me laugh or give me the thrill of adventure, I don’t read it.”
“It’s disturbing but hopeful. She survived horrible things and went on to live a good life.” Claire glanced past her to the wet street outside. “Are you heading out?”
“Yeah. I was wondering where to find Highway 97.”
“Main Street, a couple blocks west, becomes 97 when it leaves town. Anyplace in particular?”
“The bowling alley.”
The woman winced. “I had to take a physical education class in college, and I chose bowling because...well, let’s face it. I’m not a physical sort.” She patted her rounded hips. “Luckily, the instructor graded on effort, because I don’t think I threw a single ball all semester that didn’t go into someone else’s lane.”
“I’ve never tried the game. I just can’t see the point of heaving a twelve-pound ball at a bunch of pins that far away. Of course, I never got the point of golf or tennis, either. Hockey—that makes sense to me. Pounding people who get in your way.”
Claire’s laugh was hearty and easy, as if it was second nature. “I’m with you, sister. Anyway, just go up to Main, turn right and it’s a couple miles north on the right side of the road. Have fun.”
Claire left the desk and walked with Natasha to the rear door, where the hour and the weather kept the lot dimly lit. “Feel free to park on the street out front when you come back. Your key unlocks both front and back doors, and after talking about that book, the front’s just less creepy.”
“Thanks.” Natasha jogged to her car and locked the doors as soon as she was inside. There’d been a time when that had instantly made her feel safer. Not any longer. Even a thorough look around the vehicle didn’t inspire confidence. She didn’t know what skills RememberMe possessed. He’d found her new email address every time she’d changed it; within twenty-four hours of her changing her cell number, he was calling again. She’d moved from an apartment in her own name to one in her cousin’s name, and flowers had arrived at her doorstep the next morning. Was tampering with her car beyond him? Was anything beyond him?
The tears that had put a quaver into Kyle’s mother’s voice last weekend answered that question effectively.
But the car started fine, and when she turned on the heat to dispel the chill, nothing noxious poured from vents. This was one of the problems of a stalker: he frequently made her lose sight between reason and paranoia. At the moment, she wasn’t convinced there was a difference.
The gutters along First Street were overflowing, spreading into the street and sometimes bubbling onto the sidewalks. With no oncoming traffic, she drove, straddling the dividing line to stay out of the deepest water. It wasn’t seven thirty yet, but it seemed hours past her bedtime. The clouds, the constant flow and splash, the damp and the chill all combined to convince her winter was on its way in a place where it mattered. Not the mild few months they got at home but real cold, real snow, real ice.
Thunder Lanes couldn’t be missed. It sat in a mix of industrial and residential structures, the only business open now, its blacktop parking lot full. Natasha was lucky to find a space near the front as another car backed out. She swooped in, sat there gripping the steering wheel for a while and then forced herself to let go. Open the door. Take off her seat belt. Get out. Close the door. Walk to the main entrance and...and...
She actually decided to leave but got caught in the shuffle when two customers left and four more came in at the same time. Before she got untangled, she was on the other side of the doors, with escape behind her and loud music and loud voices ahead.
She wasn’t intending to talk to Daniel tonight. She would just walk inside, keep her distance from his group. How hard could it be to avoid a bunch of cops, deputies and firefighters? She would get a snack and find an out-of-the-way place to watch him for a bit. See how he interacted with the others. See if he was still angry.
See if he’d brought that girl, Taryn.
The lanes were busy. The food counters weren’t. She got a beer and a corn dog, a glob of mustard and napkins and scoped out the best place to go unnoticed. The arcade was mostly empty, and only a couple of kids played in the enclosed toddler playground next to it. A narrow counter and chairs lined one side of it so parents could keep watch.
Only one woman sat there, dark-haired, pretty, the messy remains of hot dogs and pop to one side, along with a mountain-sized pile of dirty napkins. She caught Natasha’s look and smiled drily. “Silly me. I thought it would be hard to create disaster with a bun, a wiener and a spurt of ketchup. Who knew?”
Natasha left two seats between them and sat to the woman’s left, where she would have an excuse for looking toward the first responders at their side-by-side lanes at the far end. “Your kids?”
“Oh, no. Samwell is my husband’s cousin’s child. He’s spoiled rotten, throws temper tantrums at least once an hour and thinks he will absolutely ‘diiiieeee’ if he doesn’t get his way every single time. The girl who ignores him and plays so politely is the daughter of one of the firefight
ers over there.”
“You don’t bowl?”
“I only come for the popcorn. Who are you with?”
Natasha’s face flushed. “I only came for the corn dog and the beer. I’ll have to try the popcorn next.”
Briefly taking her gaze from Samwell, the woman smiled. “I’m Mila.”
“Natasha.” She dipped the entire end of her corn dog in mustard and was taking a big bite when Mila made an interested sound.
“Are you the Natasha?”
Mustard went down her throat the wrong way, and bits of breading tried to work their way up and out her nose. She covered her face with a handful of napkins, spitting and wheezing at the vinegary burn, so lost in her little fit that she barely heard Mila say, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Followed by, “Ooh, I’ll take that as an even bigger yes.”
Natasha swiped the tears from her eyes and wiped her face clean before looking toward the lanes where all the good-looking guys were. Had been. One was weaving his way around benches and bowlers toward them.
And he didn’t look happy.
Chapter 2
“What the hell are you doing here?” Daniel saw Mila arch one eyebrow, then heard his choice of word too late. Too bad. Heck just didn’t get the emotion over.
Natasha coughed to clear her throat. “I heard the popcorn here is the best around.”
His gaze flickered at the corn dog on its paper sleeve. The popcorn was good. The corn dogs were like every other corn dog found in the freezer case at the market. “Why are you following me?”
“Judging by all the writing on your screen over there, you’ve been here a while. I just came...” A tiny hesitation, an offer of a smile. A sure indication she was about to lie. “For the food.”
“You need to leave.” His voice wobbled before he got it under control. “You need to leave the bowling alley, the hotel, the town and the entire damn state, and you need to go now.”
Mila was keeping an eye on the kids while discreetly following the conversation, and Daniel knew without turning that they had an audience back on the lanes. He didn’t often give them anything to talk about, other than how often he got hit on by the females he came across on the job. He didn’t want them talking about this, either, not even if he had to bodily eject Natasha from the bowling alley.
Which he had zero grounds for doing, especially with more than half of the county’s law enforcement officers looking on.
Natasha’s discomfort was palpable as she pushed back her chair. “Talk to me—listen to me—and then I’ll go.”
He clenched his jaw, though he managed to keep his hands flat and loose at his sides. He hated being outmanipulated, outwitted or outgunned. It wasn’t anything his fathers had drummed into him, though they both had competitive streaks a mile wide. It was just something he expected of himself. And he especially hated being undone by Natasha. Mila, Morwenna, Taryn—they were okay. Cheryl and Lois, the first-ever and still-serving female officer in Cedar Creek—it was a given they could undo him without even trying.
But Natasha? The idea made his stomach turn sour.
He glanced at Mila, whose attention was still on the kids, but a faint smile touched her face. She was his boss Sam’s wife, survivor of several assaults and murder attempts a year ago. In the beginning, he hadn’t cared a thing about her other than her ties to the case, but since then, they’d become...distant friends, maybe, or close acquaintances. He liked her, respected her, and when she gave him a tiny nod, he struggled not to grouse.
If listening to Natasha was the only way to get rid of her, he would listen.
“Fine.” He directed the response to Mila—he didn’t want to see the triumph on Natasha’s face—then pivoted and returned to the lane to change into his boots and get his slicker.
“Jeez, he even gets hit on twelve lanes away by the prettiest woman in the place,” Cullen Simpson muttered, then shot a look at Sam. “No offense, Chief.”
“None taken,” Sam said before pointing his beer at Simpson. “If I thought you were spending your time thinking about how pretty my wife is, I’d have to pound you into the ground.” Before Simpson could stumble over a denial that could only get him in hot water, Sam turned to Daniel. “I’m guessing you won’t be back.”
“Probably not.”
“You’re awful damn close to a perfect game.”
“I’ve had plenty of perfect games.”
Ben clapped him on the shoulder, practically knocking him off balance. “You gotta love the boy’s modesty, don’t you?”
“Just stating a fact. I’ll see you in the morning.” As he stalked back toward the play area, Daniel pulled on his slicker, making sure to cover his pistol and badge, then waited in the broad corridor for Natasha to dump her corn dog and beer in the trash.
She walked toward him with the long, fluid strides that had always seemed more than just a form of locomotion to him. Her jeans clung snugly to her thighs, and her shirt did the same with her upper body. She had gained a few pounds since he’d last seen her. They gave her body a softer, more womanly look.
Not that he cared. He was just appreciating a fine form. Jeffrey had always encouraged him to appreciate beauty.
Archer had taught him that sometimes it could be deadly.
When they reached the vestibule, they both stopped. He supposed it was best to decide their destination before stepping out into the deluge. There were plenty of places open, just none that he wanted to go to with Natasha. Her hotel was out of the question, and so was his house. There was no way he could let her in there.
“There’s a McDonald’s on South Main,” he said shortly. The micro-change in her expression showed that she remembered he wasn’t a McDonald’s fan—all those kids and all their oblivious parents with their cell phones. Better to go someplace other than usual, right?
“I’ll follow you.”
His car was parked in the row nearest the highway. Hers was twenty feet from the door. He jogged to his vehicle, the hood of his slicker down, cold rain running down his neck. By the time he got inside and started the engine, Natasha was waiting near the exit.
There wasn’t any traffic to speak of, nothing to delay the moment they would reach the restaurant. As he crossed the street that would lead to his house, he sent a mournful look that way but continued south.
Daniel waited for her in the parking lot—it was the polite thing to do—and held the door for her. They both ordered black coffees, each paying for their own, and carried them silently to the table farthest from other customers. It was a bench, actually, with stools for chairs. He felt like he was hunkered at the kids’ table, like his knees might bump his chin.
Natasha looked as if she perched on the most elegant chair ever imagined.
She sweetened her coffee, stirred it, then gazed out of the streaky window at a scene so saturated with water that everything overflowed: the street, the gutters, the sky itself. “Is the weather often like this?”
Irritation flared at the pointlessness of her comment. “No. Sometimes it rains really hard.”
Her gaze jerked back to him, her lips turning up in a startled smile before it faded beneath his scowl. “Sometimes I forget you have a sense of humor.”
Her comment gave him the same fleeting startle. Sometimes he forgot, too. He hadn’t laughed at anything lately. There was nothing lighthearted about his job. Usually the grimness of cases rolled off him—he’d learned coping mechanisms when he was a little Harper—but the past few days, they’d seemed a little harder to shake.
Maybe a portent of the shake-up to come.
Man, was he shaken.
“What do you want?” he asked before that admission had time to unsettle him even more.
She opened her mouth, closed it and wrapped her fingers tightly around her coffee. Her nails were polished pale pink with tiny flec
ks of hot-pink glitter. She’d always been such a girly-girl, no matter what she wore. Even in one of his dress shirts and nothing else, she’d looked like a princess ready for the ball. Now, when he felt like a drained rat, she was beautiful.
After a minute, she eased her grip on the cup and raised her gaze to him. “I’m sorry about the way things went.”
For a moment, he thought that was just a start, that she would go on with some crappy explanation, but when she didn’t, he stared at her. “That’s it? That’s what you came all this way to say?”
“No. I came to tell you...”
He knew how to conduct interviews, how to get a reluctant person to talk, how to sort through everything a talkative person said to get to the important details, how to get his instincts at work on determining truth versus lies versus obfuscation. He knew the best action was to be silent and still; soon enough, she would talk just to fill the void.
He knew all that and ignored it. Instead he stood up, reached into his pocket and slapped a business card down on the table. “There’s my office number and my email address. If you ever decide to actually say what you came to say, you can leave a message. Once that’s taken care of, I assume you’ll be getting the hell out because that’s what you do, isn’t it?”
He hadn’t managed a single step when she spoke. “I think you might be in danger, Daniel.”
* * *
Saying the words out loud was hard. Hadn’t she already provided enough upheaval in his life? But she couldn’t have not said them, not if she wanted to live with herself. She felt so bad about what had happened to Kyle, and she’d had no advance warning. Finding out that one of the others had been injured or even killed when she’d made no effort to stop it would have been too much to bear.
The incredulous look he was giving her wasn’t easy to bear, either. It made her face hot, made her want to squirm on the ridiculous stool where she loomed like a giant over a doll’s table. Slowly, he sank back onto his own stool, his hands gripping the table in front of him, his fingers pressing tightly like he was imagining them around her throat. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Those were his first outward symptoms of frustration, a habit she’d rarely seen directed her way but was still familiar with. Did he know he’d picked it up from Jeffrey? Except Jeffrey didn’t pinch. He just pressed two knuckles to that spot between his eyes.
Killer Smile Page 3
