Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  She’d attended about a hundred parties in this finely appointed home through the years, so one more was nothing. A series of rehearsed motions in a familiar setting.

  “What a bunch of bullshit,” she grumbled.

  “Pardon me?”

  Orienting to the world around her, Genevieve noticed the Town Car parked at the curb. Its rear passenger door yawned onto the sidewalk, very near where her Uber had dropped her off. In the mouth of the door, a woman with slender fingers covered in paper-fine opaque skin clung to the sleeve of her driver. Not because she needed to. But because—the woman had told her once—she liked the feel of a man in her arms. Even better if they were young and in her employ.

  “Mrs. Carter?” She nearly choked on the woman’s name. It didn’t matter that she’d likely heard Gen’s expletive. She’d learned a few from the salty broad, and that said something. No, that didn’t matter. Of all the people in the city, she hadn’t expected to see her this evening.

  “Genevieve, dear girl, I thought that was you.” Perry Carter’s mother lifted elegant French tips and beckoned her forward. Her feet complied without seeking permission. While she approached, the driver stepped with Mrs. Carter onto the curb and closed the car door behind him.

  “Hello.” She held the woman’s outstretched hand and stepped in close, placing a chaste kiss on her medically enhanced, ultra-smooth cheek. One day, she hoped to have skin so well doctored. Only her bank account, while robust, didn’t come close to rivaling the accounts of Perry Carter Sr.’s widow. “You look devastating, as ever.”

  “No harm in trying.” Beena Carter winked.

  “So long as you succeed.” Genevieve chorused the woman’s famous words along with her.

  “Damn right.” Beena smacked her cheek with a hand on one side and her full lips on the other. “Now, tell me why on earth you’re standing out here looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Because I’m afraid I might.” She straightened and flicked her gaze toward the house for a second to solidify her meaning. If there was anyone she could talk straight to, besides her girls, it was this woman. Over the course of the trial, Beena had become more of a mother to her than her own had ever been.

  “Dear, you know they are long gone from this cruel world. No chain rattling here.” She pointed at her son’s gorgeous home and then swung the sharp finger to her escort’s other suit-clad arm. “Now, grab hold and let Roderick do his job.”

  Of all the things she didn’t understand when it came to Perry’s mother, her ability to take the brutal murders of her daughter-in-law and grandchildren like a chuck on the chin baffled her the most. Maybe the loss of her husband to food poisoning after her son had graduated college shut down an integral part of her emotional availability.

  Sublimate much? Yes, yes, I do. So what if Beena does too?

  Then again, maybe Genevieve’s shrink was a dolt with no inkling of what she spouted. Her emotions were readily available to those for whom they were deserved.

  Genevieve slid her fingers around Roderick’s bulging bicep. His tanned hand smoothed over top, warming her skin on contact. He offered her a hint of his unique blue eyes and a flash of the vibrantly white teeth he kept hidden behind full caramel lips. While supporting both of their hands with his sleek, strong arms, he ushered them toward the cascade of concrete steps.

  “Such a good boy.” Beena rubbed his shoulder with her free hand.

  “Roderick, how long have you worked for Mrs. Carter?” And by worked, she meant fucked, and they all knew it.

  His gaze skittered to the older woman, seeking guidance. She nodded and gave a suggestive hike of her brow.

  “Twelve years.” His voice was deep, thicker than she’d expected for his fine facial features.

  “Wow, that’s the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.” The surprise timbre of his voice was the only thing that kept her from focusing solely on the electrical shock of his words. As it was, the man couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a century.

  “It’s certainly become full-bodied over the years,” Beena purred and walked so proudly beside him.

  Him, the child she’d molded into her personal sex slave.

  Gone were the overt jokes Gen had been teeing up for when they parted at the door. Gone was the far-off idea of being invited into a three-way with Beena and Roderick. Gone was all the respect she’d had for the spicy woman in a world that didn’t understand her. Who in their right fucking mind could understand her? Certainly not Genevieve.

  She’d had no problem with the disparity in their age. She still wouldn’t had Beena courted him when he was old enough to drink legally. Hell, she might even be okay with voting age, but this? No.

  Gen pulled her hand from the boy’s arm, slipped it into her clutch, and withdrew her phone. “Excuse me just a second.” Her fingers flew over the keys, typing into the girls’ group text the universal signal for just needed something to do in an awkward situation.

  Genevieve: What the actual fuck?

  The two continued their ascent.

  Libby: Ooh! Can’t wait to hear this one.

  Larkin: Seriously! Gen is NEVER in an awkward situation.

  She dropped the device into her clutch and managed to shuffle up the rest of the stairs without falling on her face or vomiting over the wide concrete railing. Knowing she’d make an even bigger fool of herself if she made a scene kept her focused. At this point, Roderick was a brainwashed man without a thought of his own. Where had Perry been when this guy was a kid? Why had no one spoken up about Beena’s inappropriate and most likely illegal relationship with a minor?

  The longer she lived in this world, the more she hated it and everyone in it. Except her girlfriends.

  A woman Genevieve had never seen before answered Roderick’s knock. She wore black pants, a starched white shirt, and a tiny bow tie. He hardly needed a full catering service for a dinner party with associates. Then again, Beena was here, which meant it wasn’t just associates like he’d promised.

  Anita, the family’s housekeeper and nanny, had been let go after Perry’s arrest. The woman at the door ushered the odd couple inside. Gen hung back until Beena dislodged herself from Roderick and sent him on his way. Now, she couldn’t look at the man without pitying him. How had his family not protected him from this predator?

  Good looks and money made the best camouflage.

  The prey didn’t know they were trapped until it was too late. And sometimes, the trap was so comfortable it didn’t feel like one at all.

  Time had a way of revealing the bars and barbs.

  Genevieve thanked the stranger and stepped inside, allowing her to close the door. She turned to the right toward the coat closet before realizing she hadn’t worn one. Nine times out of ten she covered her arms because nine times out of ten, she was in a business setting. Revealing too much arm along with too much cleavage and too much leg was frowned upon. But tonight was a casual gathering; a re-building of camaraderie after a frightful storm.

  Habits. Gen dismissed the closet, and her gaze drifted up to the ornate archway that led to the parlor. Her eyes locked on the banister, and she swore under her breath. She wouldn’t look into that room. She wouldn’t look for the children because they weren’t here. They were … away at boarding school. Could she make herself believe that? Her eyes opened, and Beena stepped into her path.

  “I startled you with my answer.” She raised a hand and stopped Gen’s response. “It’s okay.”

  No, it was most certainly not okay. Rage bubbled deep in her past and in the present standing in front of her, creating so much heat her hair might just spontaneously ignite.

  “The key happiness is to get them young and train them right.”

  “For pedophiles, maybe.” She spat the retort when all she wanted to do was scream it at the top of her lungs and add a prison yard’s worth of expletives.

  “Dear girl, were that the case, I’d be on my twentieth by now. I’m not. It’s only Roderick. And he
is only for me.” Beena flicked the air between them. “Besides, he was legal. Barely, but legal all the same. Though, certainly not everything I’ve done in my life has been legal.” The woman leaned in, exposing a hint of a facelift scar at her bottle-blonde hairline. “I’m quite sure you can say the same.”

  The words weren’t threatening, but her tone and the glint in her eyes said differently. As though Beena knew something Gen didn’t know … or knew something Gen didn’t want to know.

  A roar of laughter filtered in from the banquet room. It was loud, forced, and brittle as though the slightest gust could shatter the sound. It spoke of fear and discomfort but decorum above both. What a load. The more people expressed truth, the better the world. The volume also spoke of a crowd. One much larger than Perry had promised.

  Gen pulled her gaze from the hallway off the foyer, from the fake laughter, and aimed it at Beena. “I was told the party was just associates and partners.”

  “I bet you were.” Veneers glinted in the light of the foyer’s decadent chandelier. Beena moved past her and headed toward the noise.

  “Meaning?” Gen caught up to her.

  “Perry says what he needs to get people to do what he wants.” Her smile didn’t falter. In fact, it hiked to sharp peaks. “Why do you think I’m here when I could have spent my night otherwise entangled?” The woman didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she borrowed a deeply masculine affect and shook her fists. “Be here or else.”

  “Or else?” Her voice was a reed.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Beena chuckled. Her arms outstretched, framing Genevieve without touching her along with the width of the room. “My darling son, look who I’ve brought you.”

  Her gaze slung from the old woman to the formal living room that brimmed with people. Perry stood in the center. To his left and right stood the ever-present and rarely seen Cleary and McMellon, who made up the law firm of Carter, Cleary & McMellon. In near slow motion, Perry’s right hand formed a fist. It shot straight into the air, almost triumphantly. Her brain was still working on the calculations of what the hell was going on when the room erupted into cheers and whoops.

  The word, “Congratulations,” rang above the din followed by, “Partner.”

  Air vanished from the room, gobbled up by the swarm of people who suddenly surrounded her. Perry Carter was first and the most enthusiastic. Then it was McMellon. Then Cleary. The oldest partner’s wrinkles were so defined they seemed drawn on and highlighted like Beena’s eyebrows. Their arms clung. Their hands patted. Their mouths formed words of well wishes that sounded like shrieks in the desolation of night.

  They passed her around the room from one person to another. Maybe her feet moved, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe she said something in return. Again, she couldn’t be sure. A dizzying buzz started at her ponytail. Slowly and methodically, it worked its way around to her gaping sinus cavities. Someone placed a glass of champagne in her hand. She gulped it as though it were air. Air that refused to feed her lungs.

  Surprises. Of all the people who knew her, Perry knew she didn’t do surprises, and she sure as shit didn’t do ambushes either. She worked with facts and figures. Odds and outcomes. He should have told her about a partnership. More than that, he should have asked her. Proposed terms. Confirmed details. Given her time to decide.

  This was too much.

  Someone brushed past her, knocking her sideways.

  “Pardon me.” The words were cast her direction, but she didn’t catch them. She didn’t even know from which way they’d come.

  The room spun in a tight circle.

  One flute of champagne wasn’t enough to put her on her ass. A case of wine wasn’t enough to do the job.

  “Earth to Genevieve Holst.” Cold hands around her upper arms accompanied her assistant’s firm, chiding voice. The gruff and kind woman shuffled her backward. Something brushed her calves. “Sit and don’t you move.” Janney tapped her knee. “You need some water.”

  “I needed fair warning,” Gen croaked.

  “Well, I had about as much as you.” The woman huffed and shifted to walk away.

  Genevieve grabbed her hand, needing an anchor in the madness more than she realized.

  “What now?” Janney snapped. The rebuff lacked the teeth of her usual indignation.

  For the first time since Wrinkles Cleary, Genevieve focused. The woman’s scowl gave more comfort than it should have. “Aren’t you going to tell me congratulations?”

  “No.” A smile cracked the sullen façade. Janney’s hand squeezed back. She leaned in. “I might, after you decide whether you’re going to accept the position.”

  Genevieve let her gaze slip around the room. The crowd had divided up into small groups categorized to dispatch the most in personal gratification. Some hovered quite close, so she dropped her voice. “Oh, you think I have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice, and you always make it known.” Janney winked. “It’s the main reason I tolerate your filthy mouth.” She released Gen’s hand. “Now, let me get you that water.”

  She blinked her response to keep her head from swimming once more.

  Janney scurried off. In her absence was a direct view of the staircase.

  The staircase.

  Her gaze honed in on the eighth and eleventh slats in the railing. They’d been removed and replaced with new, perfectly varnished wood. The grooves that’d been clawed into them were gone.

  The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. At least it did to her. She stared at the spot as though the ties remained knotted in place even though they’d been removed and analyzed months ago. How the fabric was pulled so tightly over on itself had confirmed the coroner’s and her worst fear.

  Pamela had been forced to watch the killer work on her children.

  Inside Genevieve’s brain, the fabric knotted over on itself in an effort to get away from the facts. Her gaze dropped, and there was no escape. She sat on the sofa where the madman had brutalized young Perry Carter. Her fingers gripped the same linty fibers they’d found under his tiny fingernails. When she looked, she still saw dark merlot stains from the crime scene photos.

  Genevieve jumped to her feet.

  She should’ve run.

  Her gaze slipped behind her. The stains weren’t there, but sweet Perry’s lifeless, eyeless face stared up at her.

  At least he’d taken the heart first.

  That was what she’d told herself throughout the trial. Now, staring into the face of the dead, no amount of rationalization could help.

  She should’ve run.

  Her gaze skittered left, past the heels and skirts, suits and wing tips and landed on the other sofa. To Claire.

  Unlike her brother, the tiny girl had fought. There had been no neat puddle under her. Blood had spurted from the slice across her neck. It had been slung from wall to window to floor to ceiling. It dripped there now, setting Genevieve to quake.

  Any oxygen Gen had managed to find in the house of horrors vanished. Her fingertips turned numb. Every place she looked, blood and the faces of those she loved haunted her. She looked left, past the dissected portions of Pamela’s gagged and bound body to the hallway and nearest exit, and then right past the sea of people who’d celebrated and dismissed her in equal measure.

  Genevieve tottered on unsteady ankles away from Claire and Perry. A man called her name from the huddle of people in the threshold between the banquet room and parlor. She offered a curt wave but couldn’t bring herself to look in his direction. Her gaze locked on the makeshift torture chamber of the staircase, and for an instant, she was there, tied and gagged, forced to witness. Sorrow clawed at her ribs, seeking escape. The world would not see her cry. Long ago, she’d locked away tears. The useless things. If she didn’t get out now, the world might see her faint.

  She unhinged her arm, pried her clutch from under it, and fumbled for her phone; her lifeline.

  Six

  The SOS had been sent. East
42nd. STAT!

  Marlis and Larkin were out of town. They were co-hosting a social media convention in sun-soaked Cali. She would have known that if she were a better friend. Both girls texted that they were devastated they couldn't be there for her in her hour of need. After all, this was only the second time she’d ever tossed out the white flag, sent up the flares, and all the other dramatic life-in-the balance colloquialisms. This was the only time she’d ever truly meant it. The first time, she’d had a legitimate excuse, but she’d handled a similar situation on her own before. Before, when she’d been much younger, much less experienced, and much less equipped to handle the fallout.

  Genevieve had thrown down the gauntlet as a test. Would they still love her if they knew …?

  Yes. Yes, they would. And they did.

  Libby was on her way and would be there in thirty. At nineteen after, she shoved the exorbitant cab fare through the slot, peeled herself from the worn leather seat, and slammed the door. The car pulled away from the curb, leaving her on the sidewalk with the dim and unassuming lights of her haven. It wasn’t her apartment. She kept that place only to hold her wardrobe and a place to sleep. It wasn’t a friend’s home. They were all too upscale to offer much comfort—except for Libby’s, but who had time to go to Brooklyn these days. It wasn’t even a place she frequented.

  Hot, grease-laden air syphoned up her nostrils and filled her lungs. Somewhere between 52nd and 50th, the need to sob subsided. The clawing turned to pawing. Still insistent, but not nearly as painful. Staring at the silver exterior and pale neon lights, she eased up on the grip of her phone. Something about the curved edges of the walls and windows, counters and chairs settled her most manic edges.

  She hurried into the no frills 40s-style diner. A couple huddled into the same side of the first booth while a scornful group of older men traded war stories in the largest booth across from the lovebirds. Beyond them, a sporadic few hunched over the counter on swiveling stools.

  Thankful for the minimal crowd, Gen kept her head down and snagged the last booth in the corner. She placed her clutch and phone on the table in front of her and tried her best to refrain from texting Libby to find out where she was exactly.