“They might. I'll let you know either way. Will you be home all evening?”
“No plans,” he said. “If they accept the counter, why don't you come by instead of calling? We'll have a drink or two to celebrate.”
“I don't think so,” she said.
“I'm really not bad company, once you get to know me.”
“I'm sure you aren't. But I'm not interested, Elliot. I told you that at least twice.”
“Women don't always mean what they say. Or say what they mean.”
“I do. And I'd rather not have to say it again. Now, can we please get on with the business at hand?”
He shrugged and said, “Sure thing.”
She had been holding herself in check with an effort; it was a good thing he'd relented. If she blew up at him—and she might well have if he'd kept pushing—it would likely blow the deal, too, and the dubious satisfaction of telling him off wasn't worth that. He was carnal and irritating, but he wasn't the worst Mr. Macho around. Good God no, he wasn't. Besides, he seemed finally to have gotten the message. He left her alone as she wrote up the counteroffer. And when he signed it and stood to leave, his handshake was brief and formal, even if his smile wasn't totally impersonal. Good-bye, Francesca, thanks again. Good-bye, Elliot, I'll talk to you again tonight. And he was gone.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat sipping it at her desk. Tom came in and congratulated her on the evident sale. But what he really wanted to talk about was Eileen and what had happened at Blue Lake. She let him do most of the talking. Tom Birnam, friend, employer, confidant for more than fifteen years—and she no longer felt at ease with him, no longer quite trusted him. Was even a little afraid of him at moments like this, when they were alone together.
It was a relief when the phone rang and he left her alone to answer it. “Francesca Bellini,” she said into the receiver.
“Hello, Francesca. This is Louise Kanvitz.” The chilly voice had warmth in it today, the crackly warmth of anger. “I think it's time you and I had another talk.”
SEVENTEEN
When she heard Kimberley yell, “Hey, look out!” Amy instinctively brought her foot down on the brake pedal. She saw the red light then, the cars starting to scream across the intersection in front of her, and braked hard. There was the screech of tires; the Honda tried to stand on its nose as it slid halfway through the crosswalk.
“God, Amy, wake up.”
“Sorry.” She put the transmission in reverse, backed up a few feet. Her heart was pounding.
“What's the matter with you?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Where were you anyway? Mars?”
“Just thinking too hard.”
Kim sighed. “About Bobby Harrell, I'll bet.”
She hadn't been, but she said, “Yes.”
“I keep thinking about him, too. It's just such a shitty thing.”
The light changed. Amy eased down on the accelerator, paying attention to her driving now. Going slow.
“You hear anything more about his brother?” Kim asked.
“Kevin's out of danger. But still critical.”
“Burned like that, sixty percent of his body … jeez. You think he'll have scars?”
“I don't know.”
“Can they fix burn scars with plastic surgery?”
“It depends on how bad they are.”
“What if they're really gross? What if he ends up looking like Freddy Krueger or something?”
“Kim, for God's sake.”
“Well, it could happen. He was so cute for his age. Better looking than Bobby, even. Jeez.”
Amy didn't say anything.
“How's Mrs. Harrell?” Kim asked.
“Still the same. My mom went to see her yesterday.”
“I'll bet it was a bitch for her.”
“It was.”
“Are you going?”
“Yeah. Up to see Kevin, too, when he can have visitors.”
“I couldn't stand it,” Kimberley said. “I hate hospitals. I mean, they just totally gross me out.”
“They're better than cemeteries.”
“Anything's better than cemeteries.”
Amy turned into Kim's street, pulled up in front of her house. Kim said, “You want to hang out later, after you get off work?”
“I don't think so. Not tonight.”
“Well, call me if you change your mind. And take it easy, okay? Driving, I mean. Bobby Harrell dying is, like, awful enough. I don't want to lose my best friend, too.”
If you lose me, Amy thought, it won't be in a car accident. She waved, drove away slowly. Still paying attention to her driving, but she couldn't keep the thoughts from running around again inside her head.
For the hundredth time: He can't be the one.
Not him.
It was so hard to imagine any of Mom's male friends, anybody they knew, as a stalker. The whole thing was just totally nuts. But Mom believed it, and after all that had happened, she believed it, too. Crazy things went down all the time. People killed people just to steal their car, or for no reason at all. It could happen to them the same as anybody else. It was happening to them.
“Be very careful, Amy,” Mom had warned her. “Promise me that. Until we know who's doing this and why, don't trust anybody. No matter how well you think you know him.”
Not even him. Especially not him, because what if he weren't really attracted to her the way she was to him? What if it were all a trick to win her confidence, get her alone somewhere so he could kill her like he'd killed three people already?
It wasn't. But it could be.
Cool it for now, then. What choice did she have? She didn't want to die. Cool it until they found out who the stalker really was, and then—
Then.
She was downtown now. She turned into Water Street, the narrow alley that bisected the block behind Hallam's Bookshop. There was a little parking area back there for employees; she parked in the space closest to Hallam's back entrance, locked the car, and hurried inside even though there was nobody around in the alley.
Mr. Hallam had her work the front counter until four o'clock. Then UPS brought in several boxes of books, both new and used, and he asked her if she'd mind unpacking them, checking the contents against the packing slips, and shelving the books. She did mind; that was the part of working in a bookstore she disliked, being a box person and stock clerk. But Mr. Hallam didn't like you to argue with him, so she said okay.
She did the used books first. There weren't many of those and they were mostly nonfiction trade paperbacks from a bookseller in the Midwest that Mr. Hallam traded with from time to time. There was a big box from Sunset—new gardening and home improvement books. Easy. She separated them by subject, checked the packing slip, then lifted an armload of titles to take out front.
When she turned around, he was standing there in the stockroom doorway, smiling at her.
Seeing him like that, unexpectedly, startled her; her step faltered and she almost dropped the Sunsets. He jumped forward and steadied the load, his fingers brushing her bare arm and wrist. Most of what the contact made her feel was like before, a kind of tingly excitement, but there was something else, too, this time: fear. His touch made her a little afraid.
“Let me help you with those,” he said.
“No, I can manage. You're not supposed to be back here.”
“Well, you weren't in front. I thought this was where I'd find you. Sure I can't help?”
“It's my job,” she said. She tried to smile at him, but the stretching of her mouth felt crooked and thin. “Um … excuse me, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, and stood aside.
She carried the Sunsets out to the gardening section. It was at the rear of the shop, not far from the stockroom; there was nobody else close by, just Mr. Hallam and one customer up by the register. She put the books down on the floor and began to shelve them.