Except her.
What does the stalker have? Nothing but his anonymity, and I intend to strip him of it using every resource in my fucking arsenal.
I take my laptop and coffee to the terrace. By the time I’ve finished my second cup, I’m six pages deep in Google’s search hits, and I know a hell of a lot more about Violet Chase.
The first part is easy. She’s a fantastic photographer, and her online portfolio is stunning. I see a mix of photojournalism-style street scenes, a few formal portraits, and a boatload of black and white nudes like the ones in her bedroom. They’re sexy as hell but not pornographic, more about form and texture, curves and skin and muscle and shadow, strength and sinuous motion.
Her website doesn’t tell me much more except that she earned a bachelor’s degree in fine art with a teaching certification. Her name pops up on a Brooklyn junior high school’s website about a student art show, listing her as the teacher sponsoring the exhibit.
I also find her name in a political article about school funding, but it doesn’t list Violet Chase as a teacher. She’s the eldest daughter of Bradford Chase, a conservative state senator who’s now running for congress.
“My father has been a tremendous supporter of public education standards and funding, and he’s seen the effects of good and bad decisions firsthand with all of us girls,” she told the reporter.
Several more search hits reveal that Violet spent a ton of time campaigning for her father and another guy, Brady Keller, last summer. I find a video clip of her speaking at a town hall meeting and I hear the slight nervous tremble in her voice. The blood rushes south in my body and my shorts tighten.
Even her voice affects me. Shit.
I switch to an image search and see her photography and pictures of her at a couple of campaign stops with her father. Brady Keller is there, grasping her arm, a gesture of ownership.
My teeth clench as I read the caption. They’re a couple. And this guy’s angling for more than just Bradford Chase’s daughter—he wants his seat in the state senate. I hate him on sight, his neatly trimmed dark hair and tailored suit, his gleaming smile full of teeth.
Is this the ex who exposed her? The one who took her pictures and posted them online? I seethe as I scroll through more political pictures, Violet and Brady together, Violet and her father.
Then I find her—the photos of Violet, bound and posted on the revenge porn site.
It’s worse than Violet realizes, because they’re spreading further. I copy and paste ten URLs for different sites where these pictures appear.
She might not be Rapunzel, and I’m no prince, but a visceral need to protect her, to vanquish these demons and guard her honor, overwhelms me. I jerk my phone from my pocket, search for a number, and dial.
“Leverda, Maloney and Probus,” a chipper voice answers. “How may I direct your call?”
“Gus Carson, please.” I clear my throat against the rising bile and force my eyes away from Violet’s pictures again. “Tell him it’s Jayce McKittrick.”
“Is he expecting your call?” The receptionist asks.
“No, but he’s going to want to take this.” It’s just after nine in the morning and if my old college friend doesn’t pick up, I’m going to harass the shit out of him until he does.
“Jayce? Dude, haven’t talked to you in ages! What are you up to?” Gus’s smile travels through the phone.
He’s a big black guy, a couple years older than me. We lifted together in college, locked in an unspoken contest for who’d outlast the other in the weight room, even when the rest of his football team had packed it in for the day.
“Not on tour right now, so I’m in the city. Just rehearsals and shit. You still lifting?” Gus was a kickass football player, and he was smart. He knew he’d never be big enough to turn pro, so he milked his scholarship for all it was worth and got a law degree. He also got a sweet job in New York, the only black associate among more than a hundred white guys.
With his size and attitude, I doubt they intimidate him.
“Here and there. Crazy hours, you know, but I’ll bet it’s the same for you.” Gus pauses for a moment. “I guess this isn’t a social call?”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s a tough one. I’ve got this—friend—and she’s got some pictures up online. Needs to get them taken down. You do that stuff, right?”
“That’s my division. Cyberlaw. The senior partners act like it’s not a thing, but our team’s got a ton of work. You want to have your friend come talk to me?”
I hear the taunt in that word but don’t rise to his bait. “That’s going to be tough. She’s…” I struggle with the right way to describe what’s happening with Violet, and the fact that she doesn’t even want to see me. “She’s pretty embarrassed. But I think if we could show her how to get her pictures deleted, she’d want it.”
“I can’t issue takedown demands without her backing it up,” Gus says. “But if you want to hire us for, say, research, we can at least get started and figure out what needs to happen.”
“Let’s do it.”
“What’s her name?”
“Violet Chase.” I give him a few more details about her and email him the links to the sites I’ve found. It kills me that another guy’s going to be looking at her body, but I trust Gus.
“She your girl?” Gus has always had a sixth sense about what’s left unsaid. It makes him a killer lawyer and a damn annoying friend.
“Not yet.”
Gus’s rich laugh bursts from the phone. “Look at you. Wanting someone you can’t have. That’s a first, huh?”
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I bite back another curse and focus on the other legal issue nagging me. “I also need a referral. Someone in entertainment law who can go over a contract with me. And I don’t need to tell you this needs to be quiet.”
“I can make an introduction. We’ve got a guy upstairs I respect. Quiet but wicked smart.”
I tell Gus that I’ll messenger over the contract I got from Viper Records for review, and a retainer deposit to cover both cases. Gus pencils in tomorrow afternoon for a meeting with Violet.
Now I just have to get her to come with me.
CHAPTER 24: VIOLET
My family is smotheringly nice, especially since my breakup with Brady, Dad’s wannabe Number One Son.
They ooh and aah over my Europe pictures on my laptop, and Katie squeals when she sees a VIIIM graffiti I found in Paris. At dinner, Mom tells us about teaching art to senior citizens, Sam declares she’s become a vegetarian after doing dissections in biology, and Brianna gloats about making it onto the varsity volleyball team.
It’s so normal.
Like a black cloud isn’t hanging over me.
We make it through ham and green beans and rolls and salad, through tea and cake (A two-dessert day! Winning!), and through perennial arguments about schedules and chores without mentioning Brady once.
I do dishes side-by-side with Sam and get a lecture about the revolting ingredients in chicken nuggets. As I climb the stairs back to my old room, I think I’ve dodged a bullet.
My father clears his throat from his office under the stairs. “Violet?”
I pause. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him. “Coming.”
I descend the stairs and pause in the doorway.
“Pull the door shut,” my father says, his eyes still fixed on a file in front of him. “We need to talk.”
Even though I’m twenty-three, I feel like I’m sixteen and facing a firing squad for breaking curfew or pulling a C in chemistry. I sit in the wooden chair facing his desk. He’s ensconced in a tufted leather monstrosity that my sisters and I call The Chair of Doom.
When Dad sits in The Chair of Doom, you shut up and listen.
You take orders.
You don’t talk back.
After a long moment of silence, he closes the file and looks up, his wide-set green eyes identical to
mine. I can see the strain of juggling a family, a legislative calendar, fund-raising, and a campaign in the fine lines around his eyes.
“So what are your plans for the summer?”
It’s a question I didn’t expect, and I fumble for an answer. “More photography, I guess. I’m working on that photo project about VIIIM, and I got the new shots in Paris, so I think I have enough to try to publish. I’m just trying to get an interview with the artist.”
My father tents his fingers on his desk. “None of this work is … lewd, is it?”
I scrunch my face. It wouldn’t matter if it was. “No, Dad. It’s nice stuff. Most of it’s happy. Like a picture of a girl finding a flower in a sidewalk crack. The words were, ‘Find your moment.’”
“But it’s vandalism, Violet. Are you sure you want to hold up something like that and call it art?”
“It is art.”
“But it’s your name. Our name. If you publish photos, you’re pretty much endorsing an illegal activity.”
I huff. “Dad. I’m not saying it’s OK to deal drugs or shoot people. But I am saying this is art, and it deserves attention. And linking my name to that is worth it.”
“I just want you to consider the fact that you’re linking our name to everything you do.” Dad filters through a pile of papers at the far side of his desk and I go cold, imagining how our name could be linked to my pictures online.
“You know I hate to pry, Violet, but can’t you just work this thing out with Brady?”
I snort a laugh. He loves to pry. “What?”
“I was hoping now that school is out, you’d campaign with us. Do the events like you did last summer.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” It’s the most terrible, horrible idea.
“Violet, it’s a great idea. You’re a perfect bridge between the two of us, and you’re picking up the demographics where we struggle the most—women, young people, and teachers.”
“I don’t … I don’t want to campaign anymore.”
My dad’s face is etched with disbelief as if I’ve told him I’m not a fan of breathing. “But you were so good at it last summer! People just loved you.”
“And I was terrified the whole time. And now it’ll be awkward, having to be around Brady the whole time.”
“Not if you don’t break up. Not if your little trip to Europe was just that—a little trip. Give him another chance, Vi. For me. You can dump him after the first Tuesday in November for all I care, but right now, we need this storyline.”
Storyline? I shake my head, almost too angry to speak. “And what about what I need? I’m not dating him just because it’s politically expedient. Brady’s a jerk, Dad. He was a jerk to me and he’s being a jerk now, and he doesn’t deserve someone like you sponsoring him, just so he can go jerk the Fifty-Eighth District around.”
Dad glares at me. “You can get away with saying that in this office, Violet. But nowhere else, you understand me? Nowhere.”
“I get it. No telling tales out of school.” My voice is sullen. I’ve devolved into that sulky sixteen-year-old who hates getting lectured and hates being told what to do.
“Then we understand each other.” Dad’s voice switches from pushy parent to smooth politician so fast it baffles me. “As a compromise, I won’t press you about making things right with Brady if you can commit to four town halls.” He slides the paper he’d been looking for across his desk.
Each campaign stop is neatly labeled with my presumptive appearance. Every stinking one has some connection to a school or education.
“I can’t.” My voice wavers. “I can’t do it.”
“You’re my secret weapon, Violet.” Now my father’s voice is pleading, conciliatory. “You can speak from experience about how we need to transform education, and how funding has trickled down to the classroom level. I need you in on this.”
“I told you I can’t.”
“You will.”
“If it were just a matter of wills, Dad, you’d win. You always win. You will it, and it happens.” I stand, sick to death of The Chair of Doom and my dad’s demands, and my voice rises. “But there’s nothing you can do about the fact that I’m not a teacher anymore, so I can’t be your special guest speaker. I can’t be your squeaky clean marionette and you can’t pull the strings.”
“You quit your job?” My father is rarely surprised, but this did the trick. “How could you do that without even consulting me first?”
“What? Like I didn’t check the poll numbers before I broke up with Brady?” I turn on my sarcasm full blast. “I hope it doesn’t mess up your campaign too much. You’ll have to write a new speech for a different daughter.”
I turn to storm out of the office, but my dad’s too-calm voice halts me.
“I’ll get you a new job.”
“No.” I say, still facing the door to go.
“I could give your old principal a call, see what your options are.”
“No!” I yelp. God help me if Principal Dash told my father the real reason for my firing. “I’m an adult. I don’t want you pulling strings again. I have to do this myself.”
***
Dad’s gone to the office and my mother’s out at her volunteer thing by the time I get up the next morning. Katie drives me to the DMV and then the bank to withdraw enough cash until my new debit card comes.
Some of that cash goes immediately to buying a new phone, and at the store Katie talks me into an argyle phone case. At least I can keep the number from the new phone Jayce gave me—the stalker doesn’t have that.
Our last stop is a local favorite burger bar, and I suck down half of a malted vanilla shake before Katie begins her interrogation.
“Who’s the guy?”
“What?”
“The guy you keep thinking about. Don’t say there isn’t one, because I know that look. Same as when you started dating Brady. Same as when you went out with that guy Craig.”
“Greg,” I correct her. But I can’t deny she’s onto me. What kept me tossing and turning last night wasn’t my argument with my father—it was the look on Jayce’s face when I forced him out of my apartment.
He only wanted to help me. Despite his man-whore reputation, that counts for something. It counts a lot.
“So spill,” Katie says. “What’s really going on, why you came home?”
I take a massive bite of burger and chew thoroughly to give myself time to invent a couple of good answers. But Katie’s sharp. She’ll see through them.
“His name is Justin.” That’s not a lie.
“And?”
“And he’s a … musician. I met him through Neil.” All true, but maybe not quite. He’s a rock star and I met him because Neil hooked me up with a freelance gig to take pictures of his famous band.
“So what’s wrong with him?” She steals one of my fries and dredges it in ketchup. “Too flaky? I mean, I don’t really see you with a musician.”
“He’s not flaky,” I answer quickly. “He’s … solid. Like, reliable. Protective.”
Katie snorts. “Are we talking about a boyfriend or a bike helmet? He sounds boring.”
“Not the littlest bit.” Jayce might be protective, but there’s that thin edge of danger that hangs with him too, a sense that he could snap if he was pushed too far.
Maybe I pushed him too far. I pushed him away because I couldn’t bear to let him rescue me one more time. I didn’t want him to see me weak, to feel obligated to protect me when what I really want is for him to want me.
Katie eyes me thoughtfully. “Bring him home with you next time, K?”
I shake my head. “I think I screwed it up. I told him to go away and leave me alone.”
“Sounds like third grade.” Katie waves her hand. “Justin’s not going to listen to that. If he wants you, he won’t care what you told him. Only that you changed your mind.”
But Katie is wrong. She drops me at the bus stop in the afternoon, and I dial his number three times
during the bus ride home.
He doesn’t pick up once.
CHAPTER 25: JAYCE
I stomp up the old warehouse stairs to Tyler’s loft in a thunderous mood, daring just one person to put their toe out of line, one guy to come at me.
After I got off the phone with Gus, I spent a good slice of my day trying to find Violet. No luck—she didn’t answer when I buzzed her apartment, none of her neighbors answered either, and I didn’t see her in any stores or coffee shops while I walked around the East Village.
But I found the coffee shop where she lost her camera bag, just a few blocks from her apartment. I showed the barista her photo and he recognized her.
I pressed him for details about what happened when a man approached Violet.
“She freaked out and left, and the guy did too,” the barista told me.
“Did he go after her?”
“No, he was too slow. She slammed out of here like a bat outta hell, but he kind of just wandered out.” The barista shrugged.
“So did he take her bag? The square gray gear bag she was carrying?”
“The one on the floor? No, man. Some other guy picked that up. I tried to stop him, you know, save it in lost and found for her, but he jammed out of here before I could even get around the counter.”
I grilled the barista about what each guy looked like. Both were white and thirty-ish, but the guy at the table had a paunch, while the guy who took her bag was slender, with longer brown hair.
It’s not enough. And now I’m questioning whether the stalker approached her in the coffee shop, or if the stalker was the guy who stole her camera bag. And how did either of these guys manage to touch Violet a few days ago?
After the coffee shop, I even looked up Violet’s roommate, Neil. She told me he was her connection to The Indie Voice, where she got her first freelance gig to shoot Tattoo Thief, so I went to the paper’s office.
Neil told me she hasn’t been home since Sunday, but he wouldn’t say where she is. Said he doesn’t know, but I don’t believe him. I raised my voice, got in his face, but he just scowled and reminded me I was drawing attention.
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