“Look around,” Regan whispered. “The room’s full of unhappy people desperately wanting to change their lives. He’s telling them what they want to hear.”
“He also gives them someone to blame instead of taking responsibility for their own behavior. Sophie was right. He does prey on the vulnerable.”
“I’m going to ask Aiden to fire Emily,” Regan said.
Cordie bolted upright. “Really.” She looked thrilled.
Regan repeated the conversation she’d had with the obnoxious woman. “What would you do?”
“Make Aiden fire her skinny little ass,” she whispered. “You should hire his next assistant. He’s obviously looking for the wrong type.”
“What type is that?”
“Young, beautiful, blond, thin . . .”
“What do you care what she looks like?”
Cordie shrugged. “I don’t care,” she said quickly. “You’re the one complaining.”
Regan sighed. “I can’t fire her. She doesn’t work for me. Besides, Aiden needs help . . .”
“So? Get someone else to help him.”
Shields’s volume increased as he finished his story. Applause followed. He waited for the noise to die down, then announced that the spontaneous session was over and to please mingle. Within seconds the psychologist was surrounded by women fighting for his attention.
“Is it raining?” Cordie asked. She lifted a strand of her long hair, sighed, and shoved it back behind her ear. “It’s raining, all right. My hair’s frizzing already.”
“Nonsense,” Regan said. “Your hair doesn’t frizz. It curls.”
Cordie dug through her purse, found a hair clip, and went to work pulling her hair into a twist.
“I’ll go get the car and pull up under the overhang. You find Sophie and drag her outside if you have to,” Regan said.
She gathered up her things, tucked the folder under her arm, and headed out. The mood in the room was still jovial, many of the participants laughing nervously and talking with one another. Such eagerness, such hope, she thought. She was sure she heard Sophie’s distinctive laughter. How in heaven’s name could she stomach being so close to Shields?
Regan seemed to be the only person in a hurry to leave. The lighting on the porch and around the building was abysmal. She could barely see her hand in front of her face.
If she had been a pessimist, she would have thought the rain had been waiting for her, because the second she stepped out from under the overhang, the soft drizzle turned into a downpour.
She sprinted across the parking lot, the rain pelting her face. Since she hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, she used the blue folder to try to block the raindrops so she could see where she was going.
By the time she reached the park, her knee was throbbing. She considered stopping and taking off her new, impossible-to-resist, sling-back heels, but it was only about fifty yards to the car, and she didn’t want to stop. She already had her car key out. It was attached to a bracelet chain. Regan had slipped the chain over her wrist so she could grip her purse as she ran.
She could have taken a shortcut through the grass, but then her beautiful, soft, buttery leather shoes would have been completely ruined. God, what an idiot she’d been to wear such high heels.
She was about twenty-five, maybe thirty, yards from her car when she thought she heard someone shout her name. Regan automatically pivoted toward the sound. Her left knee buckled, and she went down hard. Crying out in pain, she let go of her purse and the folder to brace against the fall. She was used to having her knee go out—it happened at least once a month—but the pain usually went away after a couple of seconds. This time was different. It was sharp and close to unbearable.
Half the contents of her purse scattered on the sidewalk. She knelt on one knee as she scooped up her lipstick and billfold. Someone shouted at her again. It was a high-pitched voice, or was that the wind playing tricks on her? She strained to listen for the sound as she stuffed the billfold back into her purse and staggered to her feet.
Nothing. Just her imagination, she decided. All she wanted to think about was getting out of the rain.
She heard him coming before she saw him.
Chapter Eleven
AWEEK HAD PASSED SINCE THE INCIDENT WITH THE RUNNER, and the police hadn’t pounded down his door and dragged him away. For seven days and nights he’d vacillated between stark terror and sheer joy. He’d wake up during the night and think, oh, God, what have I done? and he would hear the demon whisper.
We’ve gotten away with murder.
It was Friday, and the beast was stirring. He had to go hunting again. His last venture out had nearly ended in disaster, but he hoped he had learned from his mistakes and would do better this time, for he couldn’t afford to fail again. Yes, he would be better prepared tonight. In anticipation, he’d packed dark jogging clothes, a new baseball cap—he’d had to throw away the old one because of all the blood on it—and black running shoes. He’d stored the gear under the seat in the back of his car, along with thick, nonprescription, horn-rimmed glasses, a dark brown wig—shoulder-length and tied in a ponytail with a red-and-white bandana like a biker would wear—and the essential pair of new black gloves. He’d even purchased glue and a beard at a novelty store, trimming it just right, so that he wouldn’t look too much like Charles Manson.
He still felt he could subdue any woman, but he slipped a knife into his pocket just in case. He spent hours figuring out his approach, trying to cover every possible angle. When he was finally dressed and ready to leave, he took a minute to stand in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom and look at himself. He was pleased with what he saw. Why, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
The demon would be pleased too.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t return home with more scratches on his face and arms. He could lie well when he had to, but the scratches had drawn attention to him and that was inexcusable. He simply had to be more careful. Whenever he thought about that first deadly encounter, he broke out in a cold sweat. He had come so close to getting caught, so very close.
Tonight would be different. He had been lucky the last time, but he wasn’t about to rely on good fortune coming to his aid again. He had most assuredly learned from his mistakes. Blend in. That was number one on his list. And so tonight he was pretending to be a jogger. He was in wonderful shape, of course. All those nights at the gym—had he been preparing for this and not realized it? He had become a bit obsessive, but now he could see he had started his training when he’d lifted that first ten-pound weight.
Finding the chosen one turned out to be surprisingly easy. She practically strolled up to his car and tapped on his window. That’s how close she was. She walked out the door of the hotel with a friend just as his car turned the corner. And, oh, what a sight. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”
A car backed out of the alley across the street, so he was able to stop and stare at her without drawing attention. He even rolled his window down in hopes of getting a whiff of her perfume.
He was going to follow her and wait for his opportunity, but once again, he got lucky. He heard one of the attendants shout to another, asking if he knew the quickest way to get to Liam House. Her car pulled away, and he tried to tail her, but he lost her when she turned off Michigan Avenue. He drove on to Liam House, found a parking spot a quarter of a mile away, and then jogged back to the conference center.
Adjusting his cap over his wig, he circled the building twice, taking his time as he surreptitiously checked out the area. He’d hoped there would be a jogging path close by so he could pretend he was headed toward it, but there wasn’t. Just streets, parking lots, and a little park in between.
The lighting outside the conference center was quite poor, which he found to his liking, but light did spill out from several windows and the front door as men and women hurried inside. He hung back in the shadows of the trees. He was afraid his chosen one migh
t have gone inside while he was circling.
He waited another half hour or so and then he got nervous. Was she there? He backtracked once again, ran through the parking lot, and finally found her car on the opposite side of the park.
“Yes,” he whispered, weak with relief. It was okay. She was inside.
He didn’t have to wait much longer. He was looking for a better spot to watch the entrance of the building when, lo and behold, he glanced up, and there she was. Before the door shut behind her, she was surrounded by a halo of light. He actually gasped at her sheer beauty. He blinked, and for a second her face magically changed, and he saw his beloved Nina. He blinked again and saw now only the woman. What had caused his mind to play such a trick? Perhaps it was her dark hair. Perhaps, too, it was because she was the one, the perfect chosen one.
He felt the tightness gathering in his chest. Suddenly, he heard a sound behind him. He was clearly visible where he stood, and so he quickly knelt on one knee, pretending to tie his shoes, while the stranger, carrying a sack of groceries, passed him. He kept his face averted until the man disappeared. A clap of thunder ripped the sky. He knew he had to act fast. The wind had picked up and was howling. He pulled his baseball cap down farther and took a deep breath just as the clouds opened.
She was ahead of him now, her long-legged stride a sight to behold. He stepped out of his hiding place, oblivious of the wet slap of the rain against his cheeks, and watched her. Appreciated her. Her skirt was short, but not trashy short. In the misty light from the streetlamps her skin looked golden.
A golden girl, that’s what she was to him, the prize he would snatch in just seconds. He tried to savor every little detail about her. He wanted to remember everything, the way she held herself, the way she smelled, the way she felt when he grabbed her.
She had such beautiful strong legs. She was so like his Nina before the accident. Yes, just like her. Like his wife, she moved with elegant grace, her head held high, her hips gently swaying.
His mind rebelled against making the comparison, or was that the demon cautioning him not to think such dangerous thoughts? No, she couldn’t possibly compare to his Nina. There was business to be done. Quid pro quo. With that singular thought in mind, his hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers coiling around his new knife . . . just in case.
He took that first step toward her and shouted, “Wait!” She didn’t slow down, and so he ran at her and shouted again. This time he heard the fury in his voice.
She turned, her gaze catching him as she pivoted.
He stopped so suddenly he actually rocked on the balls of his feet. In horror, he watched her fall. Her left leg simply folded underneath her, as though her bone had melted. She crashed to the pavement and cried out in pain. He put his hands over his ears to block the sound. It all seemed to transpire in slow motion, just like the car accident of years past. Exactly like that. The tortured look on her beautiful face before the metal imploded on her legs.
His mind couldn’t take it in. What had just happened? He staggered back, then stopped. The poor thing. She was in pain, her leg useless now, and, oh, she was so like his Nina.
He should help her, shouldn’t he? He knew he wasn’t making any sense. Why did he have this nearly overwhelming desire to help someone he was determined to destroy?
He didn’t know what to do. He stood there looking at her. He backed farther away but continued to watch her struggle to get up. Twice she almost made it before she collapsed again. Poor, poor thing. He thought she might be crying, but the wind snatched the sound before it reached him.
He couldn’t stop staring at her, and she kept her eyes locked on him while she tried to get back on her feet. There was a connection between them. He felt it in his heart and in his soul where the demon lived.
She broke eye contact first, turned, and limped away like a wounded animal, her open purse dangling from her arm.
She was headed to her car. He could hear the demon’s voice chanting in his ear. Get her. Get her. Get her. He bolted after her. He could hear himself panting as he closed the distance.
He was almost on top of her when he was suddenly blinded by bright lights. What the . . . ? Ducking his head down, he turned, desperate to find the darkness again.
He hit something slick, went flying, and crashed into a tree, his right shoulder bearing the brunt. Cursing his own clumsiness, he looked down and saw what he had slipped on. It was a folder with papers spilling out. He bent down, hurriedly shoved the papers back inside, thinking he could use the folder to lure her out of her car.
He picked it up and shouted to her again, but she wouldn’t stop. Too late. He was too late. She was already backing her car out of the parking space.
Filth spewed from his mouth, obscene words he hadn’t even known were part of his vocabulary and he had certainly never uttered before. He found it impossible to stop the foul litany. He was losing control of himself, could feel himself slipping away, acquiescing to the demon.
Concentration was difficult, and he tried with all his might to focus. The car that had blinded him had its blinker on, obviously waiting for her parking space. His beautiful, golden prey had stopped. Why wasn’t she leaving? What was she doing?
He ran across the lot keeping her car in sight. The lights made him squint. He reached up to pull the bill of his baseball cap down lower. The cap was gone.
Could she see him through his disguise? Could she see his hatred? She wasn’t moving. What could she be doing? Oh, God, a cell phone. She probably had a cell phone and was using it right this second. She was calling 911. That’s what she was doing.
He panicked. He actually ran around in a circle while he tried to think what he should do. If she was calling the police, how long would it take them to get here?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The cap. He had to get his baseball cap back—it had his fingerprints all over it—and then he needed to get out of the park.
He raced back to the tree he’d crashed into, dropped to his knees, and began to search in the dark. What’s this? His hand curled around a silver cell phone, and his heart leapt with joy. She hadn’t called the police. When she’d dropped her folder, she’d also dropped the phone. Yes, yes, it had to be hers.
Relief flooded over him until he remembered he needed to find his cap. Where was it? Frantic now, his mind screamed hurry, hurry. And then he found it and let out a low, anguished sob. Jumping up, he started running to safety, clutching the folder and the cell phone and his cap in his hands, his mind in such a confused state, he could barely concentrate.
He couldn’t hear himself think. The roar of the demon blocked out all other sounds.
Chapter Twelve
HE CAME OUT OF NOWHERE. HE WAS RUNNING TOWARD HER. SHE could hear his footsteps on the pavement as she was turning. His face was twisted in rage. He was a big, muscular man. What was he doing? And why was he so angry?
Her mind tried to make sense out of why he was there. He was probably a jogger who just got caught in the rain. Maybe he was trying to get to his car just as she was trying to get to hers, and when she turned toward him, she’d so surprised him that he’d stopped.
No, no. There was something all wrong about him. Without understanding why, she knew the anger was directed at her.
Her instincts were screaming at her to get out of there. Fear, a powerful motivator, overrode the pain in her knee as she struggled to get up off the ground.
Her car key still dangled from the bracelet on her wrist. It was a miracle it hadn’t slipped off in the fall. The car was safety. Run, her mind screamed. Run.
The rain was pouring now. Head down, she stumbled to get to her car.
Was he coming after her? She dared a quick look back. Oh, God, he was running at her, closing the distance.
Wait. He was waving something at her and shouting at her to stop.
No, no, it was wrong. It was all wrong. Faster, she had to run faster. Her brother’s warning popped into her head. Spencer had always told her th
at when in doubt, go with your instincts, and her instincts were screaming at her to get to safety.
She finally made it to the car. The key nearly fell out of her hand when she pulled the coiled bracelet off her wrist, but she grabbed it in time. Her hands were slick from rain, and she was shaking so much it took her two tries to get the key in the lock.
He was almost there. She swung the door open, dove inside, threw her purse out of her way, and pulled the door closed. Twisting around, she hit the lock button down with her fist.
She didn’t take time to recover her breath. She shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine, turning the bright lights on as she backed out. Her foot slipped off the pedal.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. He was standing just twenty, perhaps thirty feet away. The light shone on his face, and his expression terrified her. He didn’t move. She frantically wiped the rain away from her eyes.
She blinked and he was gone.
She grabbed her purse from the floor and frantically dug through it, searching for her cell phone. Where was it?
A car behind her honked. Cordie and Sophie . . . they were waiting for her to pick them up. And the lunatic was out there.
She gripped the steering wheel and drove like a wild woman to the conference center. Aiden was right, she thought. She did need a new car, one with power locks and an alarm. It had been childish for her to hang on to the old clunker just to spite him.
Her friends were standing on the porch waiting for her. Regan put the car in park and slid across the bench seat to unlock the back door for Sophie. She rolled the window down and called out to Cordie, “You drive.”
“What happened to you?” Sophie asked, and after she got in, she scooted to unlock the driver’s door for Cordie. “Your face is gray.”
“I fell. Actually I—”
Sophie interrupted. “You hurt your knee again, didn’t you? Did it just give out on you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“You really should get that fixed,” Cordie said. She was adjusting the mirror.
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