Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  Restless, Cassidy walked around the room. When Zach returned, she’d brainstorm with him about trapping Miles.

  A photograph of herself stuck out of the manila folder Zach had set down earlier. She’d take a little peek in case it would make a good publicity shot.

  Cassidy opened the folder and gasped. Dozens of glossy photographs spilled out, all of her, both close-ups and wider shots of her signing autographs, jogging on the track, and working at the club.

  On second thought, her find wasn’t too surprising. They must be leftover from the newspaper series, though it seemed like a lot of wasted prints in the age of digital photography. Cassidy leafed through a stack of typed papers underneath the pictures, numbering more than fifty pages. In every paragraph, her name jumped out.

  Zach was a photographer, not a writer. What was this?

  As comprehension flowed over, Cassidy’s legs buckled and she grasped the side of the bureau for support.

  It was a diary. And the photos were a shrine.

  She had fallen for her stalker.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  She had to get out of there. Cassidy plucked her purse off an armchair and floundered for her car keys. She’d make up an excuse on her way out and head to the police department. As Cassidy swept one last glance around the now familiar room, a blow of crushing hurt merged with her tangled thoughts.

  Zach could have been someone special, but he’d lied. All that time he was supposedly helping her, he’d been her stalker. That disappointment stung more than losing SOS, more than the humiliation with Josh, more than anything in Cassidy’s recent memory.

  She gave herself a mental kick in the rear. If he was the stalker, there was a good chance he was the killer. She couldn’t chance hanging around.

  Cassidy strode toward the door at the same instant it swung open. In one fluid motion, she jerked her nine millimeter out of her purse and trained it on Zach.

  "Sorry about the interruption, it was the chief photographer at the paper," he said, stepping over the threshold and slipping the door shut. Confusion darted across his features as he registered the barrel pointing at his chest. "Cass, what-"

  "I found some interesting reading material on your bureau, Zach," Cassidy said. "Or should I say, Miles."

  Zach wavered back and held up his hands, his face paling a visible shade. "Cassidy, I'm not your stalker. I swear. But I have been hiding something. I was going to tell you when it was straightened out, probably in a couple days."

  "Tell me what?" Cassidy steadied her clammy grip into a vise, her legs fixed in a shooting stance.

  "Can you put that thing away? You’re making me nervous. You look pretty nervous handling it, too."

  "Not till you start explaining, cowboy."

  "It’s not what you think, Cassidy. I used to write for the Dallas Morning News, until I had a personality clash with my editor and burned out. After that, I freelanced for awhile, doing reporting and photography." He spoke in a mechanical voice, looking past her to the crooked oil painting of a fruit bowl. "A couple years ago, one of my editors got into book publishing and needed people who could write and take photos. It wasn't high-quality journalism, but it was a decent paycheck and I had stacks of bills."

  "What do you mean, it wasn't high-quality?"

  "Among other things, his company publishes unauthorized celebrity biographies."

  Cassidy lowered the gun to her side, the muscles in her jaw growing as hard as golf balls. Zach wasn’t terrorizing her. He was exploiting her.

  Her mouth twisted into a grimace as a different kind of betrayal seized her. "Are you saying, you came here to write a sleazy book on me?"

  "They assigned it to me as the third book of a three-book deal. I can show you a copy of the contract if you want proof." Head down, Zach pressed a crease in his jeans. "This book wasn’t just about you. I was profiling a handful of reality TV show celebrities and you were next. I contacted your local paper for a job, thinking it might give me an inside track.

  "Once I got to know you, I didn’t want to take the slant I was assigned. The publisher wanted gritty stories of what motivates people to go on reality shows and make fools of themselves with the whole world watching."

  Cassidy tried hard not to wince. Fool? Was that how Zach viewed her?

  "My editor considered you a hard luck story. Your dad taking off, your mom a waitress with three failed marriages, you growing up in a small town. He wanted to portray you as a victim needing approval and trying to get famous." Zach shot her a quick glance, twisting a handkerchief in his pocket.

  He might as well have been wrenching her heart. She’d trusted him, when all along, he intended to make fun of her hick town, hick family, hick life.

  "I won’t lie, some of the people in the book are flaky," Zach said. "A couple are even shallow. All they want is to get on TV, at whatever cost, but you’re not like that. Last week, I went to New York and gave my editor revised chapters, depicting you as strong and devoted to your family. Someone who’s smart and driven to protect people’s health. He wasn’t happy. Now with the SOS hype, they want me to explore your stalking and highlight Felicia, too. I'm trying to get out of the whole deal. I don’t want to do this type of journalism anymore."

  "If anyone was going to write about my life, it should have been me and you know it." Cassidy slid the Sig back into her purse, shaking her head. She didn’t need physical protection anymore, not from him. He’d already wounded her.

  "I can’t believe you were going to publish lies about me and then take the profits. Was our ‘relationship’ going to be a chapter in your book, too?" Cassidy’s cheeks blazed as her former emotions and desires saturated her.

  What was wrong with her? How could she have such bad judgment about men? First Josh, now Zach.

  "Of course not. You're the most important thing to me, Cassidy. I'll gladly give back my advance. I spent it all on my car, but I don't care, I'll figure out a way to pay them back." Zach squeezed her hand between both of his, but Cassidy slapped him away, a bottomless ache carving a hole in her chest.

  She had to calm down, act as if she didn't care. Wrath implied passion, and she wouldn't gratify his ego.

  "Write the stupid book and keep your advance," Cassidy said. "I couldn’t care less."

  She reeled to the door. Unshed tears hazed her vision, the yellowed fire emergency card blurring before her. Cassidy had to get out. She couldn't prevent an onslaught much longer.

  "I didn't lie about everything," he murmured in her wake. "I grew up in Texas. I had a horse named Dolly. My grandmother, Mary Gallagher, is in an assisted living facility, but it’s in Maine."

  "I don't want to hear the authorized biography of Zach Gallagher. I'm sure it's been edited by the author." She resisted the temptation to slam the door.

  Cassidy stalked to her car and wiped her damp cheeks. He didn't deserve her sorrow. He'd deceived her, made an idiot out of her. In five minutes, he'd call his publisher and save his deal, if he had ever reneged on it. Pain seared her chest. Maybe that had been a lie, too, a quick way to appease her.

  She froze in her tracks.

  Ivory wedding paper adorned a ruler-sized package on her windshield, the gold and silver embossed script swirled in elegant calligraphy: Love, I Do, With This Ring, Matrimony, Husband and Wife, To Have and To Hold.

  A thick dark cloud of oppression dropped over her. Cassidy peeled back the taped flaps of paper and tore off the wrapping. She raised the lid of a black velvet box, unsure what she would find, knowing she wouldn't like it. A gold necklace shone against the white satin strip. Iciness tingled up the base of her neck.

  She nudged a folded note off the chain, unveiling a gold heart. Dizziness rocking through her, Cassidy sagged against the side of her car. She stared uncomprehending at Felicia Fowler's locket.

  Bile swelled to the back of her throat. How many times had she seen Felicia wear this necklace, a glitter against her tee-shirt, or a peek of gold under her collar? She had likely
worn it as her murderer cut off her oxygen supply.

  Cassidy slid her finger into the crevice of the locket. The heart popped open.

  Emptiness filled its double compartments, the gold dull as if deadened inside. The maniac had discarded the picture Felicia had treasured. Cassidy swayed on her feet. Why was he giving her the locket? She unfolded the note and forced herself to read the familiar block type.

  "My sweet Cassidy, you disappointed me by leaving town, calling me a stalker, and taking up with that photographer, but I know you weren't thinking clearly. I know that together we can find happiness. I have gone to great strides to prove my love for you. Now it is time for us to be together. You need motivation to follow your heart and your destiny. I have your brother."

  Her pelvis constricted as if a steel band had been drawn tight. Oh, God. Not Bo. Not her little brother. She read further, her eyes burning.

  "I will release him once you are by my side and we are ready to embark on our life together. Meet me in the condemned mill on Stowell Street. We will be waiting. Until now, accept this locket as a gift of my love. I know you have a gun. I hate to threaten you, my darling, but don't attempt to bring it and do not call the police. Be assured that I will prove my love to you, and we will live happily ever after. Miles."

  She staggered into the front seat. A murderer had abducted her kid brother. The nut had strangled Felicia. Probably stabbed Reggie.

  Cassidy banged a fist into the dashboard. Why had she gone on that game show? She must have done something to attract this lunatic. It was all her fault.

  Desperate hope ambushed her. Maybe it was a ploy. She whipped out her cell phone, dialed Information and requested the number for the high school. A weary receptionist answered, the background chatter loud.

  "This is Cassidy Novak. Could you tell me whether my brother Bo Maguire is in school this morning? It’s an emergency."

  Please be there. Please.

  "Bo is on the absent list today," the woman said. "His father called him in sick."

  Stomach binding, Cassidy hung up without saying goodbye. She'd been with Glenn that morning. He had left for work as she was eating breakfast. He hadn't even talked to Bo. Miles had snatched her brother while he was walking or riding his bike to school, then called the office to avoid raising suspicions.

  As she disconnected, Cassidy glanced back at the motel. Maybe she should tell Zach where she was going.

  No. She couldn't trust anyone with Bo's life at stake. Only herself.

  Cassidy gunned the engine and veered out of the lot. She gripped the steering wheel, her shoulders and neck clutched up to her ears.

  She wouldn't need her contrived public appearances. Miles had flushed her out. He had scored the upper hand yet again.

  Cassidy jolted as she glimpsed her blotchy face in the rearview mirror, her complexion the color of modeling clay, tears leaking down her chin. She had to rein in her fear. Panicking wouldn't help Bo. He was depending on her.

  If Miles wanted her love and acceptance, he wouldn't kill her brother. Cassidy patted her breastbone in a circular calming motion. She would get them both out of this. She flashed back to the last few lines of the letter. Miles knew about her gun. He could confiscate it, leaving her defenseless.

  She would take the gun, but she needed something else up her sleeve. Literally. Cassidy drove to a drugstore a half-mile down the road. She combed the aisles for a roll of duct tape and eyeshadow. She waited in line five minutes, shifting from foot to foot, her watch ticking.

  Back in the car, Cassidy withdrew a switchblade from her purse and taped it to her stomach. The adhesive scratched her skin, the knife cold and bulky against her gooseflesh. She pried her pepper spray off her keychain and pocketed it.

  Don't let him search me. Please.

  Cassidy brushed her tousled hair until it gleamed down her back. She dusted brown eyeshadow into the crease of her lids, adding a hint of green. She wet her finger, erased the blackened mascara smudges off her cheeks and reapplied the copper lipstick that had smeared off from Zach's kisses. Cassidy examined her reflection in the mirror.

  Her appearance had improved, though she'd had better days. She had to look presentable and act flirtatious if she and Bo wanted to get out of this nightmare alive. Showing her disgust could kill them.

  Now to find Stowell Street. Her thoughts had cleared enough for her to gauge the approximate whereabouts. She had never seen the former textile mill, but she had read about it in the paper last year.

  After the owner neglected building code violations, the town had declared the mill condemned and ordered a couple dozen small business owners to leave the premises, or face eviction. Tenants filed a complaint, saying they needed time to move and find new rental space. Eventually, they received an extension and the businesses scattered throughout the area. The mill remained on a side street, an abandoned eyesore.

  Cassidy cruised to the northern end of town and located Stowell Street off the main route. She ventured down the twisting road, her tires bumping over potholes. Trees framed both sides of the street, yellow and orange splashing the leaves. The brown-tinted river seeped behind a shroud of greenery, pushing along the dirt banks.

  Unable to swallow, Cassidy rolled her tongue over her lips. She had hoped for houses or businesses in the vicinity. So far, nothing besides a red smokestack protruding through the treetops.

  She slowed as the mill loomed into view, a faded brick structure capped with a flat black roof and a buckling awning above the front entrance. The smokestack jutted into the sky, stained with decades-old soot.

  Her eyes raking the cracked facade for signs of activity, she drove to the back past rows of lacerated windows. Cassidy parked beside an unmarked white panel truck with sliding doors, the lone car in the oversized lot, and exhaled a shallow breath.

  She hooked the locket around her neck, anger billowing through her as she remembered Felicia's violent end. She rubbed the gold heart, tracking her fingers along the engraved initials she hadn't noticed. FLF.

  She'd nail this psycho for Felicia, Reggie and now for taking Bo.

  Cassidy left her car unlocked in case she and Bo needed a quick retreat and mounted a ramp flanked by rusted railings. Concrete mounds had tumbled from the awning and snowed on the gravel walkway. Fluorescent orange and yellow notices speckled the building with their bold warnings. "Condemned as Dangerous and Unsafe. Danger. Keep Out."

  She eyed the battleship gray double doors, curdles of paint flecking off the wood. Other entrances marked the front and rear of the mill, once leading into individual businesses, but her stalker had parked near this one.

  As she'd expected, the doors opened with a gentle push. Cassidy crossed into a cavernous corridor and let her eyes adjust to the dimness. Whatever safety codes the landlord had violated, the old mill had never been this dangerous.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cassidy shuddered at the whisper of coldness in the damp air. Water trickled through the ceiling onto warped oak floorboards. She inched down the hall, hand inside her open purse, locked around the back strap of her semi-automatic.

  Rotten planks bending with each step, Cassidy passed a row of abandoned offices, doors forever sealed, ghosts of company names etched in the frosted glass. B.L. Woodworking, Johnson Electronics, T & M Systems, Karate Central. She glanced up a moldering staircase. Silver cobwebs latticed the underbelly of the decayed railing.

  Cassidy continued deeper into the maze of converted office space and deteriorating corridors. Her heart nearly stopped as a gray mouse scuttled out from a pile of debris.

  She paused before an ajar iron door, detecting an almost inaudible, unidentifiable, sound. Cassidy stepped over the threshold into the stench of mildew. Her eyes roved one end of the spacious room to the other, sweeping over shredded tarps and pebbles of plaster littering the soggy wood floor, and the bird's nest suspended from the rafters. Duct tape secured plastic wrap to the hairline ceiling fractures. Weak rays of sunlight threaded throug
h baseball-sized gouges in the filth-encrusted windows.

  A slow drip trickled from above, water pooling into overflowed catch basins and puddling on tarps. That must be the noise Cassidy had heard. As she doubled back to the hall, snapping floorboards beneath her feet echoed in the silence.

  An icy claw pinching a knot in her spine, Cassidy halted at the fork in the corridor. Strains of ballroom music murmured down from the right.

  She followed the soft beat past a ladies' room with a faded handwritten "Do Not Use" sign dangling from the knob. Beside the bathroom, pink stenciled letters ringed a semi-circle on a white-painted door. Vanessa's Dance Studio, one of the exiled businesses.

  Please let us get out of this alive. Cassidy tightened her grip around the gun in her purse, steeled herself and entered the studio.

  Mellow tones of Moonlight Serenade floated from a battery-operated CD player on the dusty parquet floor. Darkened overhead fluorescent lights spanned a lowered renovated ceiling. Cassidy's pale reflection bobbed in the silvery sheen of wall-to-wall-mirrors. Goosebumps shot up her spine.

  She cried out at the image above the barre, Bo bound and gagged in a chair. The silhouette of a man pressed a knife to his neck.

  "Hello, Cassidy."

  Her brow creased at the familiar timbres of his voice. She pivoted to the back corner, the mirror image morphing into three-dimensional horror.

  Mitch Searles, her gym client, winked at her in a black suit. With his neatly combed graying brown hair and cream rose boutonniere, he could have been a dignified wedding guest, not a demented killer.

  Cassidy floundered, tongue-tied. My God. All those days she’d spent teaching Mitch back exercises, she had looked into the face of her stalker, the person who had killed Reggie and Felicia. Thoughts of escape tantalized her mind, but she couldn't flee without Bo.

  He grinned. "Surprised, darling? I tried to give you a clue. The 'm-i' in Mitch and the 'l-e-s' in Searles. My pseudonym was doubly meaningful. It also meant that I'd put fewer and fewer miles between us as I struggled to bring us together. I’ve traveled thousands of miles for you."