Shiver

by Suzanne Wright

  “What’s wrong?” asked Blake.

  Blanking my expression, I turned back to him. “Thought I heard someone call my name.” I rolled back my shoulders. “My break’s over. See you around.” I brushed past him and walked straight into the bar, relieved he didn’t follow me. Blake Mercier might be walking, talking temptation, but he wasn’t for me.

  Collecting empty glasses, Sarah frowned at whatever she saw on my face. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “No, it’s not. And you’re going to tell me why.” That fierce expression was one I’d seen plenty of times before—it meant she wasn’t going to back down. So it was really no surprise that she turned up at my apartment later that day. She practically stormed inside as she said, “Something’s going on with you. Don’t say there isn’t, Kensey. I won’t buy it.”

  With a resigned sigh, I sank into the sofa and curled my legs under me. Honestly, it would be a relief to tell someone about the Smith situation. The stress of it had weighed on my chest. I hadn’t initially mentioned it to anyone for two reasons—one, I was used to shoveling my own shit. Two, I hadn’t properly absorbed what was going on; it simply felt too surreal.

  Surreal or not, it was happening and I couldn’t ignore it. “You have to promise you won’t repeat this to a single soul.”

  A little mollified, Sarah nodded and made herself comfortable on the armchair. “Okay, tell me.”

  I licked the front of my teeth. “A week ago, I received an email. Well, my penname received one. It was from a reader, John Smith. It contained a link for a website that’s an internet community for writers to share their stories. One of his stories … it was about me, Sarah.”

  She tilted her head. “About you?”

  “Pretty much. The character’s name was Kelsey Irons, and she wrote horror books under the penname ‘Tina Bowden.’ Kelsey’s father, not her stepfather, was a serial killer. There were so many details from my life—the bullying, the goth phase, even the time I was held at knifepoint by a mugger. No real names were mentioned—not even Michael’s. But it was my life.”

  Sarah blew out a stunned breath, her face strained with lines of worry. “There’s more,” she guessed.

  “The end of the story was beyond weird.”

  Swallowing, Sarah rubbed at her throat. “The situation itself is weird enough.”

  “The story ended with my death. In the last chapter, I died when I was held by knifepoint. As you know, that was two years ago. In the story, I didn’t escape with only a slice on my lip. I was stabbed to death multiple times.”

  “Motherfucker.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “Do you think Smith is the person who did that to you? That they wish they’d killed you that night?”

  “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think so. When I fought back that night and the mugger cut me, they freaked out and did a runner. I still believe that they only meant to rob me.”

  “But it’s possible that Smith—if that’s even his real name, which is unlikely—wishes you’d been killed that night.”

  “Or he’s just trying to scare me. Personally, I think it’s that.”

  She rubbed at her thighs. “Have you been to the police?”

  “To say what? ‘Hi, someone wrote a story about me.’ You really think they’ll care? Even if they did, what can they do? There’s nothing illegal about writing a story that’s similar to my life story. I thought about contacting the website to have it taken down, but the story doesn’t violate any of their conditions, so they won’t care either.

  “Besides, going to the police would mean exposing that I self-publish books. It would leak that Michael Bale’s stepdaughter writes horror books—Joshua would make sure it did.” My delightful half-brother worked for the police department. “I don’t want my personal shit to touch the books.”

  “If Smith knows a lot about you, he’s either someone who lives here or a stranger who’s been hanging around, asking questions about you. Have you noticed anyone loitering?”

  “Nope. This is the only communication I’ve ever received from him, and the email contained nothing but praise for my books.”

  She leaned forward. “Read the email to me.”

  I dug out my phone and logged into my email account. “Here it is …

  Dear Nina,

  I wanted you to know just how much I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your books. Reading is my escape, and through you I was able to escape to an amazing—if terrifying—world. I don’t usually write reviews, but I enjoyed your first book so much that I left a five-star review. I’ve included the link at the bottom of this email. Please, please, please read it. And please keep writing, and I’ll keep reading.

  Best,

  John Smith

  I put my phone away. “The name he uses on the writer community is Shadow.”

  “Shadow,” echoed Sarah, brow creased. “It could be that Smith isn’t obsessed with you, he’s obsessed with Nina Bowen. He could have been trying to find out more about her and then somehow discovered it was a penname—maybe he then traced it back to you as opposed to him invading your life and finding out about Nina. Either way, it’s bad, because it means he’s obsessed with someone.” Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. “Did you reply to the email?”

  “Hell, no.” Even if I was strongly tempted to tell the weird motherfucker to get a life. “He obviously wants my attention—I’m not giving him anything.”

  She twisted her mouth. “Can we trace him through his email address?”

  “Unless you possess hacking skills, no, because I sure don’t.”

  Sarah’s shoulders sagged. “Do you think Smith could be one of the Assholes?”

  “Possibly. They don’t acknowledge me as one of them—I’m Bale’s kid, in their eyes, just like in Smith’s story.”

  “Joshua would enjoy making your life hell.” Frowning thoughtfully, Sarah pinched her bottom lip. “If the obsession is with you and not Nina Bowen, I have to wonder how they found out you’re a writer. You know me, your mom, and my family would never breathe a word of it to anyone. Smith found out some other way. Could he have broken into your apartment and gone through your laptop?”

  “I sincerely doubt it. I hide my laptop and my notebooks somewhere safe.” The neighborhood wasn’t low in crime. “They wouldn’t be impossible to find, but I’d be seriously surprised if anybody did manage to find them. After reading the email, I went through the entire apartment. Nothing has been moved or taken—I’m obsessive enough to have noticed a while ago if they had been. There’s no sign that the lock was ever messed with either.”

  “How else could they have found out?”

  Sighing, I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “Maybe they went through your trash outside. Is it possible that you could have thrown something out that would have given them a clue? I’ve heard that stalkers do stuff like that.”

  I blinked. “I don’t have a stalker, I have a creepy dickhead intent on pissing me off and scaring me—not the same thing. As for searching through my trash? Maybe. I don’t know.” I pinned her gaze. “We need to keep this to ourselves, Sarah. Clear cannot find out about this. She wouldn’t deal with it well, and I don’t want her reaching for anxiety pills again. Your family would completely overreact. Unless this situation escalates, we keep it quiet.”

  “I won’t say a word.” She worried her lower lip. “Are you going to tell Michael?”

  “Yes.” I ran a hand through my damp hair. “I need to ask him if any of the people who write to him expressed an interest in me. If the only reason I have Smith’s attention is that I’m Michael’s stepdaughter, he may have contacted him.”

  Sarah did a slow nod. “When will you next see Michael?”

  “Saturday. In the meantime, all I can do is be vigilant.”

  “I’ll do the same.” She frowned, as if something just occurred to her. “You don’t think Smith is Blake Mercier, do you? I mean, he doesn’t
strike me as the type who’d do this kind of thing, but there’s something dark about him.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “No, I don’t think it’s him. When Sherry introduced me as Kensey Lyons, he seemed genuinely surprised. I wasn’t what he was expecting at all. And when he was talking to me earlier today, I got this horrible feeling that someone was watching me from behind.”

  Her brows drew together. “What was he talking to you about?”

  “I couldn’t work out whether he was trying to make conversation or to just plain annoy me. I was trying to concentrate on the scene I was writing, and he seemed to find my preoccupation with it as me snubbing him. He said I shouldn’t get in a funk just because he doesn’t think it’s great for me to be working at the bar.”

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “A funk?”

  “A funk. Oh, and he kept pressing me over Libby’s lie that I slit my wrists. Even grabbed my wrist and checked for a scar.”

  Sinking back into the chair, Sarah pursed her lips. “He wants you. That’s a no-brainer. And so he should. You’re stunning, even with your freaky mismatched eyes,” she teased.

  I snorted. “Leave this alone, Sarah. I know you well enough to know that you’re thinking of doing some matchmaking, but this guy isn’t for me. And right now, I have enough going on.”

  She sobered. “We’ll find out who Smith is, Kensey.”

  “Yes, we will.” And then I’d stomp on his spine. Repeatedly. Preferably wearing ski boots.

  After Sarah left, I locked the door and then slid the window shut. The sky was beginning to darken, casting shadows everywhere. I carefully scanned the view below me, but there was no one in sight. Honestly, I doubted that Smith was out there, but I was betting that he wanted me to worry that I was being closely watched. Like I’d let some asshole who cowardly skulked in shadows instill any fear into me. Hell, fucking no. When you’d been face-to-face with a murdering sociopath, there wasn’t a lot that could scare you.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fresh out of Tylenol, I stopped by the convenience store on my way home from work on Friday. My head had been pounding for most of the day, and now I was grumpy as hell. Cade always laughed at how I lived in the world of ‘too’ when I was grumpy. Everything was either too much of this, or too little of that. Right then, everything bugged me—the air conditioning felt too cold, the background music was too loud, and the scent of the citrus cleaner was far too strong.

  Really, the headache was no surprise. I hadn’t been sleeping great. My mind wouldn’t switch off at night. I had too many questions about Smith racing around my brain. It was lacking answers that bothered me most. The only thing that gave me any relief was writing. I could disappear into another world, where there was no Smith.

  I’d fully completed the first draft of my new book, which was mostly just the skeleton of the story. Now, I needed to flesh it out. Give it organs and muscle. But first, I needed some pain relief.

  My shoes squeaked on the tile floor as I wandered down the aisle of medicinal items, scanning the shelves for signs of … aha. I plucked a box of Tylenol from the shelf and then grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler at the back of the store.

  As I was on my way to the till, I noticed a frail, graying and very familiar man. I smiled. “Hey, Bill.”

  He turned from the rack of newspapers and magazines to look at me. The local baker was married to my old—and favorite—teacher. He flashed me a huge grin. “Kensey, darlin’, how are you?”

  “Great. You?”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Well enough. Sylvie would love to see you, if you get a chance to stop by.”

  “I will.” With the bottle tucked into the crook of my elbow, I idly tapped the pill packet on my palm. “How is she?”

  “Fine, fine.” Brow furrowing, he stepped closer. “Listen, I wanted you to know … a man called Blake Mercier was asking questions about you.”

  “Was he?”

  “Oh, yes. He wanted to know if I knew you; what impression I had of you; whether you were in contact with Bale; if I knew you had a drug habit. I snorted at the very idea of that.”

  Hmm. It would seem that Blake either doubted Libby’s claims or he was digging for the kind of dirt that could justify me being fired.

  “I told him that if he had questions, he should ask you,” Bill added. “I don’t suppose you know why you’ve caught his interest?”

  “He bought Skinner’s half of both CCC and the bar. He wants info on all the people working there.”

  “Ah. Oh, there was something else. I forgot about it until Blake came poking around. He’s not the only one who showed interest in you. A guy came to the bakery a few months back and claimed he’d met you in a club and lost your number, so he was hoping to track you down.”

  “Really?” I drawled, stomach twisting. I didn’t give my number to random strangers.

  “He seemed innocent enough and he talked about you in a way that made me think he did know you, but something about him was just off. I don’t think he was a reporter. He didn’t mention Bale. He was only interested in you.”

  The knot in my stomach got tighter. “What sort of stuff did he want to know?”

  “Apart from asking where you lived, he didn’t really outright ask questions. He’d say things like, ‘oh, I’ll bet she was a wild child’ or ‘I’m guessing she had it hard growing up.’”

  “Prompting you for information.”

  “Yes. I played dumb and said I didn’t know you well. But I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.” I patted his arm. “What did he look like?”

  “Thick dark hair. Squinty eyes. Had a lot of acne scars. I’d say he was in his late twenties.”

  I forced my expression to remain blank even as cold fingers trailed down my spine. “I’ll keep a lookout for him, just in case he decides to make a reappearance. You take care now, Bill. And tell Sylvie I said hi.”

  Still feeling sick to my stomach, I went to the counter and paid for the pills and water. Done, I swallowed two Tylenol and then stuffed the packet and the bottle in my purse. I needed to call Sarah, I thought as I left the store and headed to my car. She would—

  A car smoothly pulled up, engine purring like a panther. It was a familiar black Maserati. Well, damn. My pulse spiked, and my stomach bottomed out. I froze as the automatic window lowered. And there was Blake. He looked at me, eyes unreadable. “Get in.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “We need to talk.”

  I sighed. “Look, I know you’re not thrilled about me working at the bar, but—”

  “This isn’t about that.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Like I said, we need to talk.” He jerked his chin toward the passenger seat. “Get in.”

  Was he high? “No.”

  His brow arched—there was a dare there. “Nervous?”

  “No.” I was proud of just how convincing I sounded, considering it was a total lie. “But I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with guys I don’t know.” Even if part of me was curious to know what this was about.

  He stared at me, a muscle in his cheek ticking. Then the engine cut off, and the car door swung open. My heart slammed against my ribs. He gracefully unfolded out of the car and stalked toward me. That good ole sexual energy ignited between us. Warmth bloomed in my lower stomach and flooded me.

  I forced my muscles not to tense and somehow kept my breathing steady. It was hard, because while he loomed over me with his eyes fixed on my mouth, I felt … threatened. Not physically threatened—I didn’t believe he’d harm me. But threatened as a woman. He was dangerously seductive, and a deliciously dominant trait seemed encoded in his DNA.

  “Get in the fucking car, Kensey,” he whispered. His minty breath fanned my face.

  “Not happening.”

  His mouth tightened just a little. His eyes flicked around and then settled on the diner. “Then we talk in there.”

  I should tel
l him no. I should get in my car and just drive off. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Dammit, I was curious. Why was he here? What did he want? If I walked away, the whole thing would play on my mind for the entire day because, yes, I was that much of an idiot.

  I followed him to the diner. He pushed open the door and gestured for me to enter first. I stepped inside and found myself surrounded by the scents of coffee, meat grilling, and onions frying. There weren’t many people. A cop, a few truckers, and a mother with two kids.

  With his hand on my lower back, Blake guided me to a booth. As he slid onto the cushioned seat opposite me, I cursed myself for letting him take charge. I should have chosen the booth myself, I thought. Too late now.

  I doubted that diners were his usual scene, but he didn’t look out of place or uncomfortable. As I watched him sitting there, looking so totally and enviably at ease in his own skin, I wondered if anything ever made him uncomfortable.

  The waitress quickly appeared. I knew Nancy from school. She flirted as naturally as she breathed and could suck the air from the room with her bubbly personality, but she was harmless. And married.

  The smile she shot Blake was so bright it probably would have knocked him on his ass if he’d been standing. “Hi there, what can I get you?”

  He didn’t look at her as he answered, “Just coffee.” He lifted a questioning brow at me.

  Nancy finally seemed to notice me. “Hi, Kensey. What would you like?”

  I jerked a napkin out of the holder and used it to sweep away the bits of salt from the tabletop as I said, “Just coffee, thanks.” I waited until Blake and I were alone before I asked, “Why are we here?” Conscious that I was unnaturally still, I forced my muscles to relax.

  “You didn’t answer my question properly the other day. I asked who Cade is to you.”

  I sighed. “Like I said, he’s important to me.”

  “That can mean a lot of things.”

  “You’re right, it can.”

  He curled his fingers around my wrist and damn if it wasn’t like having an electric shock. “Hurts just a little, doesn’t it?”