by Camryn King
Kennedy’s heart seized up. What did a heart attack feel like?
“Said he was wearing a bright orange ball cap.”
Her heart muscles loosened enough for blood to flow. The guy she’d seen across the street was wearing a black Yankees ball cap. She’d immediately recognized the logo and committed it to memory. Still, she felt lightheaded. Was it conceivable that if someone indeed had been in her mom’s home that they’d been there looking for her? Or the flash drive? Rushing to check emails before the parade, Kennedy had stashed her computer bag beneath the couch instead of taking it back to the guest room. She reached beneath the desk, snatched up the bag and quickly checked the inside pocket. The drive was there same as always. But had the Chicago condo burglar been in Peyton on the Fourth?
“That’s crazy, Mom. I don’t remember anything out of place when we got back home, did you?”
“Come to think of it, I did notice something, but at the time it wasn’t a big deal. But when we got home and I pulled out the food, I remember removing the foil from the chicken and noticing some had gone missing. You weren’t in the kitchen when I asked who got into the food?”
“No, I didn’t hear that.”
“Nobody owned up to it and I didn’t press. The food was there to be eaten, so like I said, it was no big deal. But I had a funny feeling when I saw the chicken like that, like someone had just reached in with their hands and snatched pieces off.”
“I’m going to go home for lunch and have another look around. Maybe the man wasn’t in the house, maybe he just crossed our patio and came from behind the house, which from Mrs. Skinner’s angle would look like he may have come from inside.”
“Did she see the car he drove?”
“She said he was walking. She followed him all the way down, said he turned on Tenth Street. She made a mental note of it, but said she went inside after that.”
“Then maybe you’re right. Maybe it was somebody who cut across the back lawns. But call me when you go home for lunch, okay, to let me know if anything’s missing or out of the ordinary.”
“Okay. I’ll call you back.”
Kennedy was in a meeting and missed Karolyn’s call back, but once she was out, she returned the call.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry I missed your call. I was in a meeting, a lot to learn.”
“Sounds like the new job is agreeing with you.”
“It’s perfect. I’m really happy to be working there. So . . . you went home for lunch?”
“I did.”
“And . . .”
“Everything was normal. I didn’t see anything suspicious or out of place. I visited Mrs. Skinner and assured her that everything was fine, that it was just someone cutting across the lawn.”
“Hopefully that made her feel better. I know she lives alone. It’s understandable that she’d be concerned seeing something like that.”
“You ask me, I think it’s all those crime shows she watches, and movies on Lifetime. Still, I appreciate her keen and thorough observations of everything going on within a four-block radius. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same without her.”
“I’m glad you were able to make her feel better. I feel better, too.”
“Good. You need to focus on your own problems rather than worrying about what’s going on down here.”
“Mom . . .”
“Oh, I know you’re going to deny it. But I know what I saw, the frown that would creep up in unguarded moments when you thought you weren’t being watched. It’s alright, baby. You know your mama wasn’t born yesterday. Doesn’t take too much for me to know that one way or another, it involves a man.”
They chatted from when Kennedy left the office until she found a place to park on the street near the apartment. Getting home when she did, finding such a spot was a nightly challenge, one of the few things she disliked about living here. But her roommate Lydia was cordial and for the most part minded her own business. Knowing someone else was in the house was a comforting feeling, as was believing that she’d shaken whoever was following her and removed any way they could find out where she lived. The cloak of anonymity had settled around her shoulders, and felt pretty good right now.
* * *
Not far away, curious eyes followed a blinking red dot as it travelled across a map on a screen. The red dot stopped. The viewer waited, then smiled, enlarged the map and took a screenshot of Kennedy Wade’s current location.
16
She told herself it was silly, that there was no way anyone followed her home last night. Yes, she’d been talking to Karolyn, but Kennedy remembered periodic checks in her rear and side mirrors. Whoever was after her and the pictures didn’t know she’d traded cars. Even if they’d learned that she’d moved, there was no way they could know her current address. Since revealing the situation to Tamara and employing her help, there wasn’t even a bank trail on her anymore. Checks from Chicago Sightings were endorsed over to a non-profit run by Tamara’s aunt, the money then transferred to Kennedy’s account set up in Grand Cayman. All of Kennedy’s business was conducted via cash or the cash Visa card the non-profit set up. For Kennedy to add money, she didn’t need ID. But last night she’d dreamt that that was exactly what happened. It was in color, and detailed, and felt so real that when she woke up her heart was racing. A reminder to her that even though she felt safer she wasn’t totally out of the woods. She needed to stay vigilant and take all precautions.
As soon as she arrived at the office on Tuesday, she pulled Monica aside.
“What’s going on, KW? Those magazine layouts giving you the heebie-jeebies? You looked scared.” After a beat Monica added, “I’m joking.”
Kennedy didn’t laugh. Instead she walked over and closed the bedroom door.
Monica’s mood changed. “Uh oh. Something’s really wrong.”
“Nothing to do with work.”
“That’s a relief.”
“But I do want to share something that’s going on. Something personal that I’d hoped had been resolved, but now believe may not be.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I might have a stalker.”
“KW, oh no! Are you sure?”
“Not sure that he was who I believe followed me last night, but definitely sure about the problems I’ve had in the past.”
“Is this an ex-boyfriend?”
“You could say that.”
“Ah, man. That sucks. I’ve been in those shoes and they do not feel good.”
“You’ve had a stalker?”
Monica nodded. “Years ago, when I was in college. You know that guy your parents warn you about?” Kennedy nodded. “I dated him. He was controlling, possessive, and when I finally got up the nerve to end the relationship, he wasn’t ready to let go. Late night visits. Hang up calls. Things got ugly.”
“What did you do?”
“My parents finally had me get a restraining order.”
“And that stopped it?”
“That and his next victim. Have you tried a restraining order yet?”
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Plus, I have no real proof of his identity. But it’s gotten serious. My home was burglarized.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” Monica got up from her chair and gave Kennedy a hug. “I feel so badly for you. Hey, is that why you’re going to use the KW Wright pseudo as a byline signature instead of the more well-known Kennedy Wade?”
“Yes.”
“Geez, kiddo. Did you call the police?”
“For what it was worth. They came and took a report, but other than that there wasn’t much they could do. A few stolen items is no match for waves of violent crime.”
“No doubt. And you think it was your ex?”
“I can’t be sure. But I don’t want you to think this will have any impact on my ability to do the job. It’s just that for the next few weeks, if it’s okay, I’d rather not do late nights here.”
“That’s no problem. If there’s anything that needs discu
ssing, we can either Facetime or talk over the phone.”
“Thank you, Monica.” Kennedy let out a relieved breath.
Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in imminent danger?”
“It’s probably closer to the truth to say I’m insane. Last night after leaving here, I felt as though I was being followed. I kind of freaked out, took either the real or imagined person tailing me on a wild goose chase. Again, it was probably nothing but . . .”
Monica reached out and squeezed her arm. “It was something. Even if it was nothing, it’s something because it upset you. Don’t be dismissive about what happened. Trust your gut. Do you carry any kind of protection, pepper spray or something like that?”
“No, but I’ll look into it.”
“Please do. We want you here, and we want you safe.”
“Thank you, I really appreciate it. And Monica, do you think that this can stay just between us?”
“Of course.”
When Kennedy left work that day she didn’t go home. Earlier she’d gotten a text from Gwen to meet her and Logan for dinner. So she headed to a Mediterranean spot near the Chicago Star offices, ready to enjoy a good meal.
Gwen was there when she walked in, and easily seen in the near empty dining room texting on her phone. Kennedy gave her arm a playful slap. “Hey, sis!”
They hugged. Kennedy sat down. “Where’s Logan?”
“He’s not going to make it, decided to work overtime.”
“I wonder how his music project is coming.”
“Really good,” Gwen said, putting down her phone. “I’ve heard a couple tracks, one with a girl with a voice like Mariah Carey singing in the background. You know he moved the studio from his bedroom into a building over by the warehouse.”
“Really? He’d just gotten it set up in his bedroom.”
“Yeah, but after that burglary things were never the same.”
Kennedy nodded, understanding all too well.
“Plus, they needed a bigger space. They’re doing it up large, for real. He’s so proud of the new set up. The production going on there is all he talks about. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”
“I haven’t talked to him since going home on the Fourth.”
“How was that? How’s family?”
“Everybody’s good. The trip was fun. I enjoyed it.” Kennedy shared the highlights and kept the phantom Jack sighting to herself. “What about you? How’s your internet dating plan working? Any fireworks besides those lighting up the sky?”
Gwen smiled, shrugged.
“Ooh, there is. Don’t sit there and act all coy about sharing. That’s probably why you called me down here.”
Kennedy sat back as the server set two waters on the table and accepted the menu given.
“Something actually did jump off, and it was totally unexpected.”
“That’s usually how it happens.” Kennedy leaned forward. “I’m glad at least one of us has a date life. Well, tell me all about him. What’s his name?”
“There’s probably not much I can tell you that you don’t already know.” At Kennedy’s frown, Gwen continued. “Me and Low are hanging out.”
Kennedy’s jaw dropped. “Shut. Up.”
“Are you mad?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because y’all used to flirt around all the time. I thought you liked him.”
“When he tried to flirt, I saw a little brother.” Actually, she’d begun to catch a glimpse of something different, but it was too late to act on that now. “I can see you two together, Gwen. I’m happy for you.”
* * *
An hour later, Kennedy left the restaurant in a hurry to get home. She was glad for the long summer days, still light after eight, but the parking situation on her street was crazy. The other night she had to park her car almost three blocks away. While looking for a space she thought about tonight’s dinner conversation. Gwen and Logan. She hadn’t seen that match coming and reexamined her feelings to make sure there was no regret. There wasn’t. Logan was fine, and a nice young man. But the emphasis was on young. She was almost home before she realized what the niggling feeling was about those two together. Her secret. Gwen knew things about Kennedy and the pictures that she hadn’t shared with Logan and vice versa. For whatever reason in certain areas they were both in the dark. The rationale might be shaky, but somehow she felt they’d be safer not knowing at all. She thought about the flash drive that Logan said was hidden at his house. How safe was it, now that he spent so much time working and away at the studio? Maybe she should send the one he had to Tamara in Grand Cayman. Something about having a copy outside the country felt like a good move.
She entered the apartment to the smell of spaghetti and the sound of cooking coming from the kitchen.
She passed by the dining room on the way to her space. “Hi, Lydia.”
“Hi, Kim. There’s an envelope for you on the dining room table.”
Kennedy’s hand froze just over the doorknob. “For me? Are you sure?”
Lydia crossed from the kitchen to the dining room wiping her hands on a towel. “It has your name on it.” She picked it up and checked it again as she walked toward Kennedy. “Well, not exactly.”
Kennedy let out a breath.
“It says Kennedy and your name is Kim. Close enough is what I thought. It’s definitely not Lydia.”
The knot jumped back in her stomach, and tightened. “Was it in the mail?” She asked this rather casually, but her voice had risen a notch.
Kennedy accepted the envelope from Lydia, eyeing it carefully. “Oh, never mind.” Her question was answered. There was no postmark. Which meant whoever delivered it came right to the door. “Thanks, Lydia.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, it’s impossible to make a small quantity of spaghetti. You’re welcome to have dinner if you’d like.”
“I just came from having dinner with a friend. But it smells delicious. Thanks for the invite.”
Kennedy managed to keep her voice light, despite the fact that her insides were shaking. They’d found her. Whoever they were, the faceless ghost after her because of the pictures, that followed her to Peyton like the phantom Jack. The face that was there and then gone in the span of a second. It might not have been the man who’d drugged her in the Bahamas, but there was no doubt this was connected to the pictures she took. She felt it in the now ice-cold blood that ran in her veins. She entered her room, and leaned against the door, willing herself to be calm, and slowly scanned the room, similarly to what her mom had done just last week, she imagined. Was it time to go to the authorities, let someone know that someone had invaded her life? But who? That’s the first question law enforcement would ask her. Why, would be the next question. And then, where’s the proof?
She sat on the bed, wearily stared at the flat, letter sized manila envelope, turned it over in her hands, studied the block printing—KENNEDY WADE—and beneath the address to the place she now sat. Maybe it’s nothing. She knew the thought was a lie. After retrieving a letter opener from the desk, she stilled shaky hands, picked up the envelope and made a careful slit. Inside was a single sheet of typing paper and two photographs. The ones she’d taken of the very conservative, very married media mogul’s homosexual tryst?
She removed the photos. Her heart hit the floor, along with the envelope and the paper inside. They indeed were pictures, but not of Van Dijk. They were of her, taken in the room she’d occupied in the Bahamas. Her face was clearly visible. Her eyes were closed. And she was totally nude.
17
It was just past one a.m. when Zeke used a master key card to enter what the general public thought of as secure buildings and made his way to the second floor of the four-story structure. Having continued surveillance on the target off and on since she returned from the Bahamas, made easier after breaking in to take her computer and leave cameras behind, he knew that Logan fancied himself a hip-hop producer and would be at a studio across town all night long. He
also knew that his plan had worked, and that paying a couple of thugs to burglarize his place for the flash drive had been at least partly successful. They hadn’t found the drive, but they had pulled the blame in a different direction. Still, Zeke needed to up the ante. So far, his special delivery to Kennedy’s new residence had not garnered a response. Now Van Dijk’s right hand man, Theodore, was breathing up his ass. If that flash drive was anywhere in the apartment, Zeke planned to find it.
He opened the door to the stairwell with the stealth of a cat, took the stairs two at a time and slipped into Logan’s apartment unnoticed. Breaking into homes like these was almost too easy. Most Americans would be surprised to learn how truly vulnerable they were, how often their rights and privacy were violated and what was known about them by people they didn’t know at any given time. That was by a regular criminal’s standard. Given all the tools and information the government had at its disposal, chances of privacy were zero and none.
Zeke removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket as he surveyed the room. The place looked like a home inhabited by two twentysomething males. Big flat-screen TV. Check. Game console. Check. Several pairs of athletic shoes strewn around. Check. Blunt roaches in the ashtray. Check. He eased down the hall and opened the door on the left. The room was surprisingly neat, with a ton of sports memorabilia. But no recording equipment though, not Logan’s room. Zeke crossed over to the other door and opened it. Clearly the room was used more for recording than sleeping. A small mixer, a computer and microphones were set up on a desk, jammed against the wall. A clothes-strewn futon anchored the other side. Walking to the bed he picked up random articles of clothes, checking pockets for anything the size of a flash drive. He continued to the closet, and over to a plastic stacking unit that served as a dresser. On top of it was a picture of Logan with a woman. He picked up the picture and studied it closely. It wasn’t Kennedy in the picture. Why did the woman look familiar? Then Zeke remembered those first days of surveillance and seeing Wade, this Logan kid, and another couple exiting a restaurant. He eyed the picture again. This looked like the other girl. So was he dating her instead of Kennedy? If so, had he given the drive to her?
