He said it without accusation, but she felt guilty just the same. “Because of me.”
He looked her square in the eye. “Yes.”
Eve set this most recent declaration aside for later consideration, focusing instead on the timing. “Monday, at two in the morning? You’d just found Martha, Christy was still alive, and nobody knew about Samantha yet.”
“Except my team.” He looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. “He was following me even before the serial killer story broke.”
“In a very personal way. I told you he didn’t look quite sane. He said I wouldn’t think you were a ‘good guy’ after I saw these. I think he’s after you and I just got in the way.”
Noah massaged the back of his neck. “Why would he be after me?”
“I don’t know. Do you know him?”
“Not before this. I’ll report it to Abbott. Fine timing, just as we get a serial killer running around. And yes, I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”
“That it’s no coincidence.”
“Our reporter just got a whole lot less sane. He threatened you and he’s hanging around my family. I need to call Brock, make sure Trina and the boys are okay.”
He rose, piled the files on the floor, then paced as he dialed. He cursed and dialed another number, then a third. “Nobody’s answering at home or either of their cells.”
“Then go, make sure they’re all right. Call me when you know.”
He shrugged into his coat. “Brock and Trina are both cops. I’m sure they’re fine.”
“I’m sure they are, too. I’ll lock the door and call you if I hear so much as a rustle.”
He paused at the front door, his expression intense. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Believing I wasn’t the kind of man to cheat with my cousin’s wife.”
“You’re welcome. Noah, call me about Rachel Ward?”
“As soon as I hear from the cruiser. I promise.”
“Thank you. Be careful.” She locked the door behind him, more hollow than relieved as she sat in her chair to wait for his call. She’d told him to go, but she missed him already. I could get used to having a man in my house. In my life.
She thought about his admission, that he craved a drink after going to Sal’s to see her. He’d risked a great deal to watch her all those months. He was stubborn. He’d probably call it determined. Either way, he wasn’t going to give up.
“I’ll just tell him the truth,” she said quietly. “Then he’ll leave on his own. It’ll be for the best.” And when he was gone, she’d have her work. “If I’m not expelled.” She still had Dr. Pierce’s card. Perhaps it was time to start damage control on her career.
Wednesday, February 24, 1:45 a.m.
It was anticlimactic, actually. He stood staring down at Rachel Ward with a frown. She was sitting rather docilely on the counter stool he’d dragged to the middle of her basement floor. He hadn’t needed to sedate her to strap her in the straitjacket and tie her to the stool. She’d had so much to drink it was a wonder she’d made it home.
She’d been a road menace, weaving lane to lane. Thankfully they had encountered no police and Rachel had managed to stagger into her house. Pushing her through her front door had been child’s play. It was a disgrace. No more bars. Insist on coffee.
She was staring up at him, her eyes glazed. She should be coherent, conscious, ready to be scared to death. But she was nearly asleep, goddammit.
He could just strangle her, set the scene and get out, or he could wait for her to sober up. He might have something in his kit to speed her up. So to speak. Half the fun was in seeing their fear and he didn’t want to give up his fun without a fight.
Wednesday, February 24, 2:10 a.m.
Eve put her cell phone on one arm of her chair and settled in, her computer on her lap and her hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. Buckland had unloaded her gun. Why? Had he planned to attack her and wanted her helpless? Or had he just wanted her to know he was there? That he could get close to her wherever she was?
“Just to fuck with my mind,” she murmured. Who was this guy? And what self-respecting newspaper would hire him? Buckland was a stalker. He needed to be stopped before he hurt someone. Too late. She rotated her wrist. He hurt you.
He had. And if she hadn’t worked in a cop bar and if Jeff Betz hadn’t been right there, eavesdropping, he could have hurt her much worse.
Setting her mug aside she googled Kurt Buckland. And frowned. He was legit, with bylines on the Mirror going back years. Local stuff, neighborhood news. Of course the inside scoop on a serial killer could catapult him from Metro to the front page-and had. His “Red Dress Killer” article had been at the bottom of page one of Tuesday’s paper.
With a start she realized he’d written the article on Martha’s suicide she’d shown to Donner. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t noticed the reporter’s name. Tomorrow she’d report his assault to the police. And to his boss. He had to be stopped.
A flashing tab at the bottom of her screen caught her eye. It was the open Shadowland window. Someone was talking to Greer. Poor Greer. Eve had left her sitting at the bar in the cabaret, waiting for Rachel’s avatar to show up. Eve toggled back and saw the bartender was scolding Greer for loitering.
Buy another drink or leave.
I’m sorry, Eve typed. I’m waiting for someone. Maybe you know her. Delilah?
That trash? She’s not here tonight.
He said no more and Eve had Greer transfer a few Shadowbucks to the bartender’s tip jar. Money talked in any world. I need to talk to her. Who might have seen her?
The bartender avatar hesitated, then shrugged. That one over there, with the purple hair. The dancer’s nude body was painted with tiger stripes that clashed with her purple ’do. They sometimes sit together at the bar while they’re waiting to hook up for the night.
You mean, like meeting guys? To take home? Does Delilah do that often?
Do you consider ten or twelve times a night often?
Ew. She’d never understood the lure of virtual sex. Thanks, she typed and added a few more Shadowbucks to the tip jar, then sent Greer to the stage. Excuse me. Miss?
The dancer was wrapped around a pole, hips gyrating in an intriguing move Eve was sure took at least as many keystrokes as salsa dancing. I don’t do girls. Go away.
I don’t want to hook up with you, Eve typed. I’m looking for Delilah.
She ain’t here. She don’t do girls neither. That one over there does.
Eve shuddered. Ew. I don’t want to hook up. l need to talk to Delilah. Where is she?
She had a date. The gyrating hips bucked lewdly to the beat of cymbals. IRL.
Eve’s heart beat faster. IRL? Did she say who with? Somebody she met here?
The dancer frowned. I’m a businesswoman here.
Grinding her teeth, Eve transferred Shadowbucks to the dancer’s garter belt. Well?
Don’t know his real name. Here, he goes by John. Gonna be a one-night stand.
You ever hook up with John, here in the World?
Nah, not my type. Too bookish. Get enough of that on my day job. Now go away. I can’t type and dance at the same time and my set’s almost over.
Thanks, Eve typed, then backed Greer out of the casino and dialed Noah’s cell.
Wednesday, February 24, 2:15 a.m.
Noah parked his car in Brock’s driveway, reining in his panic. They still weren’t answering his calls. They’d better have a damn good explanation for this.