by J. Kenner
“Hi, to you, too.” Gracie looks between us, her expression confused. “You work with your niece?”
“Niece?” Pierce says, then points between me and Gracie. “You two know each other?”
“We’re going to go talk in the conference room,” I tell him. “Gracie, right this way. And, ah, let me know when my ten o’clock gets here, okay?”
Kerrie’s eyes are wide. Because even if Pierce doesn’t realize who Gracie is, Kerrie is now caught up with the situation. I lead Gracie down the hall to the small, window-lit conference room, then close the door. Both because I want privacy, and because I don’t want her to overhear the clusterfuck of a story that Kerrie is undoubtedly sharing with Pierce and Connor at this very moment.
I gesture to a chair, and she sits. I can’t seem to manage that, though, so I stand by the window, willing myself not to pace.
“Should I not have come?” Her hands twist in her lap. “I was in the lobby when I realized it was you. I almost didn’t come up. Because, you know, of the way you left last night. I wasn’t sure if you were leaving for good or just for the night.”
“Wait. Wait, back up. What do you mean you were in the lobby when you realized it was me?”
She runs her fingers through her hair, sending golden waves tumbling. She’s wearing a retro-style flowered dress, and she runs her palms nervously over her thighs.
“Last night when you mentioned you work in security, I almost told you that I was planning on hiring a security company to help me out. I’d seen an ad for a firm located right across the street from the hotel, and I told myself I was going to do it. I was going to finally take serious steps to get this asshole off my back.”
“You didn’t say a word.”
She shakes her head. “We were having a good time. I thought mentioning some creep who’s been harassing me would kill the mood, you know? And I didn’t want you to offer to help.” Her smile is wistful. “You’re a really nice guy, Cayden. And I was sure that you would, and I didn’t want you to feel obligated. So I let it go. And then we went to the hotel, and, well, you know the rest.”
“And this morning?”
“I walked over here after breakfast and I was in the lobby looking at the directory. Your name’s listed. Cayden Lyon. And that’s when I realized that the ad was for your company. So I almost walked away.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I admit, though under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t say a thing.
She releases a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“What’s going on? A stalker?”
She nods. “Creepy gifts left on my door. Phone calls. Angry letters if I so much as have coffee with a guy. He’s watching me.” She twists her hands together, then looks into my eyes. “So, can you help me?”
I should say no.
Technically, I’m now staring at the very pretty face of a massive conflict of interest. But I also have a niggling suspicion that there’s more going on here than I’m seeing yet. So I make the leap and say, “Yes. Of course I will.”
Her face glows with relief. “Thank you.”
“Let me get my partners in here, and then I want you to tell me the whole story.”
She nods, and less than five minutes later, Connor and Pierce have joined us and we’re all sitting around the table. Gracie takes a deep breath, then looks at me, and that trust I see in her eyes both humbles me and lances me with a hot cord of guilt.
“Just dive in,” I tell her, focusing on her, not me. “However is easiest, just tell us the story.”
“It’s been going on for a couple of years,” she says. “Or, rather, it started a couple of years ago. I thought it was over. But now he’s back.”
“Who?”
She shakes her head. “He’s tall and skinny and he has dark hair. I—I see him sometimes, watching me. And in LA, where this started, we actually got him on the security camera at my apartment complex. But not his face. Just a view from the back. He—” She licks her lips. “He was peeking in my window while I was sleeping.”
She shudders, and I don’t blame her.
“When he sends me things—flowers, candy—he signs the notes Your True Love. And on my Instagram account, he had the same account name. I blocked him, and now he pops up under different names, but he uses a hashtag—YTL—and even though I can’t prove it, I know it’s him.”
“You have your phone?” Connor asks. “Can you show us?”
She nods, then opens the app on her phone and passes it to him. He scrolls through, frowning. “Lots of posts from men—and lots from him. Racy,” he says, looking at me and then Pierce. “And possessive.”
She nods, and he keeps scrolling.
“Nothing from you. No replies?”
“No. Years ago I’d interact with fans. Now, not so much. I stay on social media because it’s a tool, but now I’m mostly offline.”
“And private messages?” Pierce asks.
“Lots,” she says. “And ninety percent from him. And I can’t block him because he just keeps getting new accounts.”
“Obsessive,” I say. “Obsession can be dangerous. Was that why you left LA?”
She nods. “The police were sympathetic, but they never made any progress. And after he broke into my apartment—or, at least, I think it was him—I decided to move.”
“Why do you think it was him?” I ask. “A gut-feeling? Or did he leave some specific indication?”
“He didn’t take anything except my underwear. Every single pair of panties I owned.” She shudders, then hugs herself.
“So I moved here. My aunt lived here before she died, so I used to visit in the summers. I’ve always loved Austin, and I was sick of LA—or, he’d tainted it for me—so I just packed up and came out.”
“But you stayed on social media,” Connor says.
“I have a job, and it’s expected when you’re a model. But I don’t post anything with locations anymore. Unless it’s an out of town job. Then I figure why not? Maybe it’ll throw him off the trail.” She frowns. “It worked for about a year. But I must have slipped, because he’s here. I’m certain he’s here.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling sick but knowing I have to confess everything. “He is.”
Chapter Nine
“What are you talking about?” Gracie asks. “How do you know?”
“I have a hunch,” I say. “I want to show you something.” I cross to the door, then turn to all of them. “Field trip. Follow me.”
All three look baffled, but I’m not in the mood to explain, and when I leave, they follow. I lead them like a trail of ducks down to the basement. I see Connor and Pierce exchange glances, but Gracie just frowns, her forehead creased and her arms crossed tight over her chest.
When we reach the door to the security room, I knock twice, then step in. One of the perks of actually being in security is that you tend to make friends with the building staff. Leroy is sitting in front of the monitors that show the lobby and each floor’s elevator alcove and stairwell in a series of rotating images.
“Cayden, guys—and gal—what’s up?”
“I need a favor. The lobby. Around ten. Can you pull that up for us?”
“Sure thing. What are we looking for?”
“If he’s there, we’ll know.”
Gracie steps up behind me. “You really think he’s—”
“We’ll find out.”
As we watch, Leroy rewinds the relevant tape. We see a wide shot of the lobby entrance, including the directory on the wall. People come and go, and then Gracie walks in and heads for the directory.
“There,” I say, pointing to the skinny man who walks through the glass doors, then stops short, his eyes on Gracie. For a second, I think he’s going to turn around and leave right then, but he stays there, his gaze locked on her.
She doesn’t notice, but heads into the elevator alcove, leaving this camera’s field of vision.
“Want me to follow the girl?” Leroy asks.
/> “No. Can you pull in closer on his face?”
Leroy cocks his head. “Have you met the landlord? We’re lucky the video actually records.”
I frown, because even if I have him download the image, I doubt I could pull a good picture of her stalker’s face. Blow it up, and it would be way too pixelated.
As we watch, he turns, then hurries toward the door. “Freeze that,” I say, then turn to Gracie. “Can you tell? Same guy from LA?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Probably. But how did you—”
“He saw you were here. He assumed I figured it out. And so he turned tail and ran. At least, that’s my best guess.”
“He,” she repeats, her voice wary as she takes a step back. “He, who?”
“He called himself Thomas Peterman. And he hired me,” I tell her, my voice lifeless and flat. “He hired me to prove that his fiancée was cheating.”
“Oh, God.” Her words are barely audible, and she clutches her stomach. “That’s why you—” She turns away, and I see Connor and Pierce looking between us, their faces a combination of shock and compassion.
“Why don’t we go back upstairs,” Pierce begins, but Gracie shakes her head.
“No. No, I think I’ll just go.” Her eyes cut to mine. “I just need—to go. I really just need to get out of here.”
And then she’s hurrying out the door, and though I start to rush after her, the guys hold me back. “Give her time,” Pierce says. “And then let me go talk to her. I don’t think she’s in the mood to see your pretty face.”
I yank my arm free. “I need to explain. I need to tell her—”
“What?” Connor asks, and I realize that I was about to say, how I feel. And that revelation shocks me into silence. Because the truth is, right now it’s not Peterman that’s on my mind, it’s me. And it’s Gracie. And it’s the horrible fear that I’ve lost her forever when I’ve just found her, and where in the hell did that thought come from?
“Right,” I say, calm now. “Upstairs.”
“Good. Come on.”
They open the door, and I blast past them, then sprint up the stairs to the lobby. The building’s entrance is on Congress, and I blow out the door, hook a right, then an immediate left on Sixth Street. I pause, looking down the block for her. The Driskill is across the street and about a block down, and I’m certain she’s heading that way, and I really have to talk to her. I don’t see her, but I at least know her room number, and so I jog toward the corner.
That’s when I see him. He’s rushing out of an alcove toward a group of pedestrians waiting for the light to change. I see a flash of her blond hair, and in the space of an instant I realize that he’s planning to push her into traffic.
“Gracie!” I shout, and both Peterman and Gracie turn toward me. Her eyes go wide, and she rushes sideways and to safety. Even if he did push her now, she wouldn’t end up in the street. Rather, she’d simply be slammed into the side of the delivery truck that fills the loading zone.
But he’s not going after her anyway. Instead, he’s sprinting eastward, dodging pedestrians, zipping between cars as he crosses Sixth Street, ignoring the squealing of brakes. He races up a side street, turns down an alley, and by the time I reach the corner, he’s gone.
I curse, then go back to the corner where I left Gracie, only to see that she’s gone, too.
This time, I curse even louder, because, dammit, I do not want her alone right now. Then I hear my name, and when I turn around, I find her leaning against the facade of the Littlefield Building, tears streaking her makeup.
“Was he trying to kill me?”
“Hurt you, for sure. Kill you, maybe.”
She nods.
I take a step toward her, and she shrinks back against the stone. I freeze, feeling lower than dirt. “I know a lot of guys in the business. Talented men. Dedicated. Any one of them can keep you safe. Help you track down this guy. And I’ll help whoever you choose however I can.”
Again, she nods, taking it all in.
“Do you want to come back to the office? We can make a few calls. Or we can go to your room. But I’m not leaving you alone, so you’re stuck with me until we find someone else.”
“What if I don’t want someone else?”
Her voice is so soft, I’m certain I must have misheard her.
“Or, is that not okay?”
“You’re serious?” I ask. “I didn’t think you’d want me around.”
She lifts a shoulder and takes a single step toward me. “Jury’s still out. But maybe. I don’t know. Start by telling me everything, and we’ll go from there.”
“I can do that,” I say. “I think I can even tell you most of it on the way.”
“The way where?”
“The Kleinman, Camp & Richman Law Firm.”
“Why are we going there?”
“We’re going to go pay a visit to one Mr. Thomas Peterman, Esquire.”
Kleinman, Camp & Richman takes up seven floors of the Frost Bank Tower, which is located on Congress Avenue between Fourth and Fifth Streets. It’s a pretty quick walk from the intersection where Gracie almost met her demise at Peterman’s hand, but we’re not going there right away.
First, we’re popping into Starbucks.
“I need the caffeine hit,” I say when she protests. But really I want to give her time to catch her breath before we—hopefully—confront the man who’s been stalking her.
And I want time for my friend Landon to get here. A detective with the Austin Police Department, Landon Ware is a solid cop with a good bedside manner. If anyone in the police can make Gracie feel safe, he can. And I want him with us when we go find the fucker at Kleinman.
I’m also waiting on a still image from the lobby security cameras, something Leroy assures me he’s doing right this second, and will text over as soon as he’s pulled the best image.
Most important, though, I want to tell her how Peterman ended up as a client, and I want to do that while we’re sitting, not walking. Because I want to see her face as I run her through the details, and I want to watch her eyes when I go back over the parts involving her.
“So that’s why you were at the bar that first night,” she says after I’ve told her everything. “You were scoping me out.”
I nod. “At first, I thought you might be picking up the bartender.”
She laughs, and I consider that a good sign.
“And when you walked me to my room, it was all just part of a job.”
“No,” I say. “Not all.”
“And The Fix?”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “That was pure coincidence. Totally off the clock.”
“No thought at all for your assignment?”
I rub my temples. “It wasn’t planned. I was having fun with you. Christ, Gracie I wanted—”
“What?”
“You,” I say boldly, though I’d intended to avoid the admission. What the hell, right? Go big or go home.
“Oh. I—well, okay, then.”
I’m not sure how to interpret that, but I don’t ask. I want to hold onto the fantasy that we’re going to move past my royal screw up and return to a world where she wanted me, too.
She frowns, and I wonder for a second if that plan is already blown. Then she meets my eyes and says, “What about the shoot?”
“Peterman told me about it.”
“I figured. But how did he know?”
“At the time, I assumed he learned it from you. So, maybe you posted about it on social media?” But even as I speak, I know she’d be too careful for that. “I guess we’ll ask him when we see him.”
As I speak, my phone dings, and I look down to see that Leroy has sent over the still image. Another piece of ammo in the bag. “And there’s Landon,” I say, waving from the table we’d grabbed by a window as the tall, black detective comes in, looking like a badass with his scalp close-shaved and just the hint of a beard. His eyes, however, are kind, and when I int
roduce him to Gracie, I can tell that his confidence and demeanor put her at ease.
“So if he’s there, you’ll arrest him.”
“If we arrest him, the clock starts ticking, and we have to try him quickly. You up for testifying?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says.
“You?” he asks me.
“Cayden can testify against him?” she asks. “But Peterman hired him. Isn’t there like a privilege or something?”
“He dragged me unknowingly into his criminal scheme,” I tell her. “I can testify. And it will be my pleasure.”
“Oh.” She sits up a little straighter and smiles at both of us. “Well, this is great.” She glances toward the door. “Should we go?” She looks at Landon. “Can you arrest him now?”
Landon meets my eyes with a smile, then returns his attention to her. “Let’s go,” he says, and we start walking that direction.
When we reach the quiet, wood-paneled reception area for the firm, Landon goes to the pretty girl manning the desk, flashes his badge, and—as her eyes grow wide—asks to see Mr. Thomas Peterman.
“Oh. But, oh. Hold on, please.”
She picks up a phone, whispers something, then smiles at Landon. “Ms. Clairmont will be right here.”
Gracie and I are standing a few steps behind, and I want to argue that we don’t want Ms. Clairmont, and shouldn’t someone block the exit stairs? But Landon seems chill, and so I relax, my hand going protectively to Gracie’s back.
She tilts her head up, steps away, and my hand falls uselessly to the side.
Apparently we’ve established a truce, and absolutely nothing more. That reality sits like a rock in my gut, but I’m soon distracted by the arrival of a woman who looks old enough to know shorthand. “I’m Ms. Clairmont, how may I help you?”
“You work for Mr. Peterman?” Landon asks. “We need to see him.” Once again, he flashes the badge. “I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
“Oh, my.” She makes a tsk-tsk sound. “I can certainly call him, but he’s in Dallas in depositions. I suppose he could come back.”
