Deadly Obsession

by Jaycee Clark

  Trying to take the photos from him proved useless. He didn’t release them. Finally, her eyes met his, in what she hoped was a glare.

  "Can I have my pictures back, please?"

  "When you answer my question. Where did you get these?" He looked down and flipped through the ones he held. "Walking to your car, talking to a kid on a park bench, working in that antiques shop, eating at a restaurant and you looking over your shoulder at a red light. And here’s one with you and the little Kinncaid girl." His dark brown eyes leveled a look at her, and she almost squirmed.

  "Care to explain these?"

  "No." She stood and held out her hand.

  Sighing, he too rose and she realized he wasn’t much taller than she, not like Brayden. Morris was more along the lines of average in her opinion. In a pair of heels she’d look him in the eye.

  "Are these the only ones you’ve gotten?"

  "Yes." No, but he didn’t need to know that. She’d gone to the cops before and it hadn’t done her any good.

  One single brow cocked and his look said he knew she was lying. "Have you reported these pictures?

  That someone is clearly stalking you?"

  Christian propped her hand on her hip. "Are you always the cop?"

  He nodded. "Yes."

  Figures.

  "And as an always-cop, I notice you didn’t answer my question. So here’s some professional advice from my line of work: Report this. The sooner the better. Carry some mace or pepper spray with you, and always keep a cell phone handy."

  "I’m sure you’re making more out of this than--"

  "Don’t be stubborn. Have you taken any self-defense classes?"

  Christian sighed. Nothing would stop this man from her past, not mace or pepper spray or self-defense classes. She turned and put her key in her lock. Morris’ hand covered hers.

  "Do you mind? Call it occupational hazard, but I’d rather know that everything is as it should be inside, rather than let you waltz in there."

  She returned his stare. "You don’t have a wife or girlfriend, do you?"

  He smiled again, his square jaw softening just a bit. "Why, Miss Bills is that a come on? You’re not very subtle."

  "More subtle than, ‘let me check out your place for ya, babe’."

  He ignored her, shoved her door open, and flipped the lights, moving past her into the condo.

  Christian rolled her eyes. "Besides, I just meant you obviously don’t have a significant other, or you would know women don’t like to be ordered around. Do this.... Do that...."

  He walked out of the open living area and into the kitchen. Not that she’d admit it, but she was glad to know there was a cop not too far away and that he was looking to make certain no bad guys lingered in the shadows. As he came out of the kitchen, he took the stairs two at a time to the second level.

  Christian shrugged out of her coat, hung it in the closet and leaned against the wall. Morris bounded down the stairs and stopped in front of her.

  "Catch the bad guys?" she quipped.

  For a moment he said nothing. Then, "I saw two more brown packets in the living room and one in the bedroom. Not that I opened them, but I’m betting they hold the same thing that one in your hand does."

  Not a thing came to mind to tell him. What would she say?

  "This is serious, Miss Bills."

  Yeah it was. "I will handle it, Lieutenant Morris."

  "Call me Gabe."

  "As in Gabriel?" she asked.

  "Gabe," he answered.

  There they were in her entryway, she hoping he would leave, yet glad he’d check things out, and him studying her in an easy, yet sharp way.

  Finally, she cleared her throat. "Okay, Gabe, though I think Gabriel fits better."

  "I’m serious about reporting this."

  She shook her head. "It’s nothing."

  His gaze remained steady and it was easy to understand what some people meant when they said they could spot a cop. Something in his carriage, his stance was a warning. She shifted to her other foot as he stared at her.

  "If you knew how many times I stood over...." He shook his head. "Don’t be stupid. Report it, get some mace and be on the look out. Call the cops or even me." He dug a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. Looking around, he grabbed a pen off her entry table and scribbled on the back.

  When he handed it to her, she saw it was his home number.

  What the hell did she do?

  Looking him in the eye, she only said, "Thanks."

  The corners of his mouth hardened. "You’re done talking about this, aren’t you?"

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "Fine, but I warned you."

  He strode to the door. "You might think of having your locks changed. The pictures show he knows where you live, he could have gotten a key somehow."

  She hadn’t thought of that.

  He continued to stare at her. "If you change your mind about reporting this, give me a call. And at least get some damn mace."

  "Aye-aye, Captain!"

  His glare made her grin. He was easy to rile, in that he and Brayden were the same.

  "What do the Kinncaids have to say about this ‘infatuated’ guy?" He paused out on her stoop.

  At the door she said, "Good night, Gabe."

  "You haven’t told them, have you?" His muttered curse was colorful and inventive. "Why?"

  "Good night, Gabe."

  "What kind of game are you playing, I wonder?" he asked as he grabbed his laundry basket.

  She slowly shut the door.

  A deadly game. One she’d played and lost before, and was terrified she’d lose again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He leaned back against the cushions of the couch.

  The latest pictures slid easily from one to the next as he flipped through them.

  Josephine might have cut her hair and moved clear across the country; years may have passed, but he still knew just how to play her. What buttons to push, how to string the game along. Anticipation only heightened the experience. He knew the post card would tell her who he was.

  A soft chuckle escaped him.

  This picture clearly showed him his game was a success thus far. In it, Josephine was looking through some of his pictures when the cameraman snapped a photo. Frozen on black and white paper, her fear excited him.

  He had the power. He always had. Always would.

  She had just forgotten that.

  Anger flickered and glared within him, but he shifted past it because it only clouded thought and reason.

  Her time would come. But for now? Now, he was having fun.

  Looking at the clock, he noted how late it was and reached for the marker. Time to up the stakes. He only had two days before his flight back.

  Presentation was everything. Everything. Set the stage for his entrance.

  The hotel room was dark, save for the small desk lamp.

  A grin lifted his mouth.

  The Kinncaids definitely knew how to run a first class hotel. Only the best for certain guests, and he’d always liked the best of everything. He toasted their success with his watered scotch in his Highland Hotel crystal glass.

  Standing, he turned and looked out the window. He knew just what to do next, and it was certain to gag her into silence should she decide to tell after their meeting.

  And what a meeting it would be.

  He had years to make up for, and so little time to do it.

  He’d been given the opinion to just let her have an accident, something to end it cleanly. After all, truth was, Josephine was a threat to his career, but he wasn’t ready to let her go yet. He’d waited too long to find her. Now that he had, he wasn’t about to discard her. She’d been perfect once. Only and completely his. And she would be again. He was simply reminding her of that fact.

  Turning back to the desk, he picked up the black marker and set to work.

  * * * *

  Kaitlyn Kinncaid walked down the long hallway toward
the room she shared with her husband for well over forty years. As she passed Brayden’s hallway, she paused and sighed. Things simply were not the same anymore. Not since Christian left. Stupid boy.

  She shook her head, those two were meant for each other. She still had no idea what happened between the girl that had become their daughter and their son, but she was trying not to meddle.

  A sliver of light came from beneath Brayden’s door. Frowning, she walked up and gently knocked. She might not meddle, didn’t mean she couldn’t give a faint push when needed.

  "Yes?" his voice came from inside. "Come in."

  She eased the door open, propping her mug in one hand. He was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

  "What are you still doing up?"

  His mouth lifted in a rueful grin. "Couldn’t sleep."

  "Hmmm." She walked in, shut the door and sat in one of his chairs. Of all her sons, he was the most complex. Aiden, without a doubt had been the easiest, but both Aiden and Brayden had always shared a serious, deep streak that the others didn’t possess. "Have you talked with Christian?"

  He startled. "Mom."

  She shrugged. "I just thought you might have learned what was bothering her." She took a sip of her tea and pushed a graying strand of hair back. "Do you think I should color my hair?"

  "What? Why?" And just like that, he looked as baffled as his father.

  Kaitlyn laughed and waved a hand. "Never mind. So tell me, what’s bothering you?"

  He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Nothing."

  Time for the nudge. "I went by to see Christian yesterday and she doesn’t look good. Of course I met her hunky cop neighbor."

  He whirled around from the window he’d been looking out. "What?"

  "Morris. You remember him? Nice gentleman. He stopped by and talked with her for a few minutes."

  Now that she thought about it.... She frowned. "He seemed very protective."

  Brayden walked past her to his desk, then back to the window. He stopped, turned to her, then walked back to the desk.

  "Do you miss her at all?" she asked softly. "I don’t mean to be like your father. He tends to get a bit in his mouth and that’s all he sees." Like with Brice and Aiden. Or years before like Brice and Ian.

  "What? Miss her?" He sat heavily in the other chair, his eyes closing as he leaned back. "Yes, Mom. I miss her."

  "Then what, pray tell, are you going to do about it?"

  He sighed.

  "She’s not JaNell, Brayden." JaNell Thomas had been Tori’s biological mom. The woman had been nice and sweet and had given the baby to her father. And for that alone, the woman would have Kaitlyn’s thanks. But JaNell had also ripped Brayden’s heart out. He was old fashioned with old-fashioned ideals.

  And he’d been madly in love with that young, driven girl. JaNell, had died in a plane crash not two months after Tori’s birth. Worried about stability for his baby daughter, Brayden had sold his apartment in town and had moved back out to the family mansion in Seneca, Maryland, with his parents. The family home, was just that, a family home. And Kaitlyn was full of love and gratitude and so much pride for her son and the wonderful father he was.

  On a frustrated sigh, he raked his hands through his hair. "I know that. I’ve never really thought she was JaNell."

  Kaitlyn cleared her throat. "Maybe not intentionally." She rose and patted his hand, yawning. "God only sends us so many blessings. It’s up to us to recognize them, and if we don’t, He rarely sends them again."

  "Mom, sometimes you talk like a damn fortune cookie."

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "We mothers are wise souls." She caught his grin as she walked to the door. There she saw he’d picked up his laptop and was grinning at it.

  "I’m not the only one up," he said to her.

  So her other heartsick one was up as well.

  "Tell Christian I said hello. And to make certain she gets enough rest and a good breakfast."

  He nodded. "Yes, Mom."

  She shut the door and walked to her room. Inside, their apartments, her husband sat leaning against the headboard, his white hair standing in disarray. "You bring me anything?"

  "No, I thought you were asleep."

  "As long as we’ve been married and making love, you’d think you’d know by now I like a snack after loving my wife."

  She grinned and handed him a cookie from her robe pocket.

  "What took you so long?" he asked, pulling her down into the crook of his arm.

  "Nothing. Brayden’s up."

  He humphed. "You wouldn’t be meddling now, would you?"

  Kaitlyn decided not to answer.

  * * * *

  Christian rubbed her eyes. She’d typed up her latest acquisition reports for several clients and still needed to do the bid proposals for the North Carolina estate being sold next week. She’d gotten behind since her theater class started rehearsals.

  She didn’t exactly have the time, but theater was a love she just couldn’t seem to let go of. Though this particular play, about a stalked woman who comes back as a ghost, stirred up old memories she thought she’d finally put the past in the past. But that was before the notes, the photos and the midnight calls.

  How the man got her number she would never know. She was unlisted, but still he called. There were hang-ups on her machine, breathy whispers in the dead of night and always that stupid opera in the background. A shiver danced down her back.

  If she believed in fate or karma she’d think she was just royally screwed.

  His Angel.

  Something popped against her window and she jumped. Her hand flew to her chest as chills raced down her spine.

  Damn her nerves. Before long she’d be on Prozac or Xanax. Either one would be fine with her. That’d be good. She could smile when she found the next batch of photos, and who knows, she might actually get some sleep. Or at least do some day-to-day things without feeling like a cold hand hovered just above the back of her neck.

  God she was tired, but in sleep, the past mixed with the present and the nightmares were as exhausting as staying up all night. She signed onto her messenger.

  Oldshopkeeper popped up with a message.

  A soft sigh escaped and she grinned.

  Brayden.

  Clicking on the message, she answered.

  Broadway_Babe: What are you doing up at this hour?

  Oldshopkeeper: I asked you first.

  Truth or lie? Better yet neither. Simple.

  Broadway_Babe: Couldn’t sleep.

  Oldshopkeeper: Obviously.

  For several seconds she looked at his message and could imagine him sitting in his bed, the notebook propped on his lap. What she wouldn’t give to be there at Seneca with him, sitting in his room talking about anything, everything, or nothing at all.

  Those days were over. If Brayden hadn’t pushed her away before, she’d be pushing him away now.

  She had to.

  He had found her. Her phantom to his angel, like in Leroux’s classic. And when he was around, those close to her died.

  But God, she missed Brayden, the way his voice soothed even though it was roughened and gruff. How his eyes could cut a person in half with just a look. She missed that smile that totally transformed his serious face into a charming rascal.

  She missed him, Tori, everyone. Kaitlyn came by yesterday and pounded her with questions. Why wasn’t she eating? Was she not sleeping? And Kaitlyn had seen the inhaler. That launched a lecture and a dozen questions on stress and health and overall well-being. Christian missed her family. Now more than ever.

  This I’ll defend. The Kinncaid motto echoed in her mind. She could tell them what was going on, move back home and they’d do everything in their power to help her.

  But.

  She wasn’t about to do that to them. The man stalking her, terrorizing her, was selfish and dangerous.

  Christian couldn’t bear it if something happened to them because of her. Like before.

>   The last photos.

  There had been a family picture and on all their faces he’d marked an ‘x’. Christian wasn’t stupid. She knew what it meant. Stay away from the Kinncaids, or they’d get hurt. Because of her.

  Like he had hurt Danny.

  Like he’d hurt Susan and her whole family.

  Oldshopkeeper: Hello? Are you still there or did you go to sleep on me?

  Emotions that she didn’t know how to handle warred within her. Finally she typed back.

  Broadway_Babe: No, I’m here, just thinking.

  Oldshopkeeper: About what?

  Chaos. Hell. A living nightmare. She wished she could talk about this with him so she’d know what to do. She raked her fingers through her hair. For a moment she didn’t do anything.

  Broadway_Babe: Have you ever taken a turn and couldn’t figure out how to get back to where you were going?

  Oldshopkeeper: Yeah, I turn around and go back.

  Go back? To the past? Not that she had to. It was coming to her in spades.

  Oldshopkeeper: Can I ask you a question?

  Broadway_Babe: What?

  Oldshopkeeper: What’s going on with you? And not just us, or this thing with us, not music, or work.

  It’s something else. You’re afraid of something. What?

  Her breath huffed out. How in the hell could the man figure that out an hour away on a computer and not realize his emotions or how they tangled with hers when they were in the same house? Not that the latter mattered anymore.

  Broadway_Babe: I just have lots on my mind lately.

  Oldshopkeeper: Lots of what? Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to bring on asthma attacks. To isolate yourself from your family. We haven’t seen you much lately.

  Isolate yourself. Isolate.

  Isolation.

  He wanted her isolated. All to himself. Just like before.

  She leaned up on her elbows, her hands on her mouth. Either way she lost.

  Separate herself from those she’d die to protect and do what he wanted. Or, ask for their help, their belief and run the risk of them not believing her or worse, of something happening to one of the Kinncaids.