by Shandi Boyes
“You’re right. This isn’t your fault. I should have never made out it was, but I stand by what I said about you knowing who this is. Everything before that was bullshit. You’re not to blame—”
“Yes, I am,” Regan interrupts, her voice strong enough to break through the tension teeming between us. “I am to blame, just not in the way you’re thinking.”
Her knees clash when she pivots around to face me. She's on the verge of tears, making my guilt bone-crushing.
“I don’t circulate dick pics, nor am I nasty to admirers. I merely keep my distance. Some men are okay with that. Others. . .” she peers straight into my eyes, ensuring I know I am in the “others” category, “. . .have a hard time with it. They don’t understand why I don’t demand they call me in the morning, or they introduce me to their parents. They want me to care about them when I don’t. I don’t sugarcoat anything, Alex. If I want you, I’ll tell you. If I don’t, you’ll know that just as quickly. If this is the reason I am being stalked, then you can drop your investigation. I’m not changing who I am because one man’s ego got bitch-slapped. I’ve done that once in my life. It didn’t end well. I’m not doing it again.”
Pretending her last comment didn’t pique my curiosity, I say, “I can’t drop this case, Rae. I won’t let him get away with this.”
“Why, because you’re a PI, and investigating people is in your job description?” The sneer of my job title tells me she doesn’t believe I’m a private investigator, but for some reason, she’s not calling me out as a liar. This time, anyway.
I shake my head. “This has nothing to do with my job description and everything to do with you.”
The fire in her eyes reveals I answered as she hoped, but that isn’t why I said what I did. I am being straight up honest.
“You have the right to turn down whoever you want without worrying about the repercussions. The idea of you with anyone agitates the shit out of me, but if you want to walk out of my life right now and head straight into the arms of another man, there's sweet fuck all I can do about it. That’s your right.”
“You’ll let me leave if I want to?” She sounds as pained to ask her question as I felt hearing it.
I swivel my tongue around my mouth, easing the dryness inside before answering, “If that’s what you want, I’ll let you go. But I’m not dropping this case.” My eyes dance between hers, which are greener than usual. “Is that what you want, Rae? Do you want to leave?”
She deliberates for barely a second—it seems like a shit load longer—before gingerly shaking her head. I try to rein in my delight; my attempts are borderline. She may need protecting from me more than anybody, but I’ll never let anyone harm her—not even me.
“Can I show you something?” My voice is less angsty than earlier, more understanding.
When Regan nods, I direct her back to my living room. Her unease makes the usual three strides from the door to my couch double the length. She’s not accustomed to giving in without a fight, although I’m not really sure she's giving up. Her defenses are still up, primed and ready to pounce if necessary.
After clearing the fruit platter Regan unknowingly served me for breakfast, I gesture for her to sit. Although I pigheadedly requested she make me breakfast, I never expected she actually would.
Regan dips her chin, scarcely concealing her grin. I stare at her, stunned. She heard my thoughts without even looking at me. Who the fuck is this woman?
Shrugging off my desire to drill her for more information, I gather the evidence Brandon amassed overnight. From the number of photos in the file, his investigation was extremely thorough for a rookie technician.
“Can you look through these and tell me if anything is out of place? It could be a missing item or something added.” Regan’s eyes dart up to mine during my last confession. She seems more creeped out about being left a parting gift than having her possessions stolen. “It could be the most unexpected item, so you need to be diligent. . .”
My words trail off when Regan advises, “A photo frame is missing from my mantel.” She points to a group of photos nestled above the open fireplace in her bedroom. “They rearranged the frames to make the gap inconspicuous, but there's a photo missing.”
“Are you sure it isn’t in another location?” When she shakes her head with certainty, I suggest, “Scan the rest of the photos just to make sure.”
She huffs, somewhat frustrated by my lack of trust. I trust her; I just know how discombobulated your brain becomes when you’re panicked. That’s why I acted so poorly this morning.
“It’s not in any of these photos,” Regan advises a short time later, placing the paperwork on the coffee table. “It’s not a picture that can be easily missed. Luca stood out in a crowd. He never faded into the background.”
The possessiveness in her tone annoys me, but since she’s talking in past tense, it isn’t as notable. The man she's referencing isn’t my competition—not right now, anyway.
After scanning my spotlessly clean apartment, Regan returns her gaze to me. “Did I pack my purse? I have a duplicate of the photo in my purse.”
The pain in her eyes intensifies when I shake my head. “My priority was getting you out of harm’s way, so I didn’t grab your phone or purse.”
Ignoring the jealousy in my tone that she carries another man’s photo with her everywhere she goes, she asks, “Can I borrow your phone then. . .?” Her question falls short when she recalls me demolishing my phone against the brick wall. “What about a laptop? Surely you have one of those?”
My backside lifts an inch off my couch before I remember there's no way she can use my laptop. It isn’t just brimming with information on her employer and his scheming ways; there are numerous images of her splashed across the monitor—ones not used for investigative purposes.
“Ah. I don’t own a laptop.” I curse a million times inside my head for my weak tone before adding on, “Well, I do, but it’s at the shop. I got a virus last week. Destroyed the mainframe or some shit like that.”
Regan’s glare pins me in place—she knows I am lying. Regrettably, her stare doesn’t have the same paralyzing effect on her legs. She charges across the room at the speed of a bullet. Her pace is so fast, she’d barely create a blip on the radar.
When I follow after her, I’m once again torn between being a man and an agent. With her satin slip discarded on the floor, she's standing before me in nothing but a scant pair of panties and an impenetrable ability to destroy me. Her body is downright faultless. Smooth long legs, curvy hips, tiny waist, and breasts Hugh Hefner would have liquidated the Playboy mansion for to feature in his magazine. She's perfect—nothing less than pure fucking perfection.
I stop staring at the swell of her bountiful bosoms when she asks, “How many blocks away is the internet café we drove past last night?”
She tugs a tight pair of designer jeans up her thighs while she waits for me to answer. I stare at her, unmoving and unspeaking. She can’t seriously expect me to carry a conversation while her tits are out, staring at me, begging to be consumed.
I’m drawn from my inappropriate thoughts when Regan drags a satin shirt over her head. You’d think being denied the opportunity to gawk at her naked breasts would snap my focus back to the task at hand. It doesn’t. Her nipples are budded against the satin material of her shirt, and the fit is so snug, if it weren’t for its purple coloring, I could pretend she's still naked.
Regan clicks her fingers in front of my face. She appears stunned by my braindead response. I don’t know why. I’m neither an agent or a man in her presence. I’m a bumbling idiot.
“What would you prefer?” When I stare at her, fucking lost, she fills in, “The internet café or my apartment? Which is the safer option?”
“Neither.” I’m not talking with my cock. I’m being straight up honest. Her stalker isn’t a standard run-of-the-mill crazy. He’s dangerous. So, until he's apprehended, I’d rather she stay right here, preferably with a
similar amount of clothing she was wearing thirty seconds ago. Perhaps even a little less. Her panties were tiny, but they still hid a treasure trove of goodness.
Regan’s rolls her eyes. “We’re doing one or the other, Alex, so pick quickly, or I’ll choose for you.”
Ignoring my beet-red cheeks warning of my growing anger, she heads back for the living room. She doesn't stop like I expect. She crosses straight through it, her focus on my outdated kitchen. The black knee-high "fuck me" boots she put on sometime during my coronary attack click the tiled floor as she seeks something apparently hidden in the bare bones of my kitchen cupboards.
When she discovers nothing but tubs of frosting and the occasional condiment, she pivots around to face me. I can tell she's curious about my apparent obsession with calorie-laden foods, but with her focus on other matters, she reins in her need to know everything. Barely.
“Where are the pennies you referenced last night? I’ve got no purse or phone, which means I have no way to fund my campaign, leaving the task to you, my campaign manager.”
Before I can voice an objection, she spots my wallet sitting on the dining nook separating the living room from the kitchen. I push off my feet, beating her to my wallet by half a heartbeat. I’m not worried she’ll fleece the handful of bills not depleted by our taxi ride last night. I don’t want her seeing my ID. Not yet.
Regan’s top lip forms a snarl when I slip my wallet into my back pocket. Hoping to evade an interrogation on my sudden backflip on a trip to a cafe, I caution, “You should reconsider your shoes. The café is at least three blocks from here.”
Although I declared minutes ago that she's safer here, with her standing mere inches from my working and unlocked laptop, a morning adventure sounds mighty enticing right now.
“Puh-leeze. I can walk miles in these babies.” Even with enough room between us to park a train, Regan’s chest somehow scrapes mine when she scoots past me. “It’s only when they’re digging in some random guy’s ass do issues arrive.”
With a growl, I follow her giggling frame out of my apartment, striving with all my might not to react with the same idiocy I used last night. Let me tell you, it's a fucking hard feat.
Chapter Seventeen
I turn away from Alex when I feel tears pricking my eyes. I haven’t scrolled Luca’s Facebook page in nearly two years. I thought as the years moved on, so would the number of posts added to his wall each day. I was wrong. His page is as up-to-date today as it was the day his life perished nearly eight years ago. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was loved by many, even though he was only truly known by one: me.
After eradicating the nerves from my face with a few sharp breaths, I divert my focus back to the computer monitor. The image I am looking for is concealed by many, but just as I told Alex earlier, Luca could never fade into the background.
I locate the photo I am looking for in under a second. It's imprinted in my mind as indelibly as Luca engraved his name on my heart.
“This is the photo missing from my apartment,” I advise Alex, pointing to a picture of Luca wearing a bright orange jumpsuit with a bunch of leaves woven through his dark locks. “Someone called him a fruitcake at a school dance. He apparently missed the cake part of his statement. Determined to stop bullying, he wore an orange suit for a week. If it wasn’t for his mother demanding to wash it, who knows how long his protest would have gone on for.”
“How many times was his head flushed in the toilet that week?” Alex asks, somewhat amused, somewhat apprehensive.
“None,” I reply with a smile, wordlessly assuring him the sheen in my eyes isn’t from bad memories. “Everyone loved Luca, just as he loved everyone.” My smile fades at the end of my sentence.
Nodding, Alex jots something down on the notepad he borrowed from a waitress after she took our order. If she had it her way, I’m confident Alex’s request for a straight black coffee with three sugars wouldn’t be the only dish she’d serve him today. She’s cute, but her clumsy, look at me, you’re so pretty I’m falling over my feet routine is lost on Alex.
I heard his back molars grind together after her second “accidental” drop of dishware had her bosoms scraping his thigh, and I’m fairly sure he was two seconds from combusting when his request for a refill had more than a coffee pot thrust in his face. The waitress wants to believe my presence is the sole reason Alex has rejected her numerous flirtations, but I know that isn’t the case. Alex wants a woman who challenges him. That’s why I didn’t bolt the instant he gave me permission to leave.
Bickering with him has been the most entertaining thing I’ve done the past five years. Working for Isaac is great. My extensive knowledge on business acquisitions and keeping his assets away from the prying eyes of the IRS in a legal manner has kept my bank account well nourished, but nothing can replicate the high of bantering with someone as equally stubborn as you. It's the reason Luca and I immediately clicked. We were similar, yet so very unique. It's just unfortunate his baggage was a lot more complicated than mine.
I stop glaring at the waitress’s impromptu grind of a stool when Alex asks, “Do you recognize anyone besides Luca in this photo?”
I drop my eyes to the photo. “To be honest, until now, I didn’t notice anyone milling around in the background. I’ve only ever saw Luca.”
Alex grinds his teeth for the second time in under twenty minutes. His jealousy is utterly ridiculous. Luca is dead—he can’t come back from that—but even if he could, they would never be in competition. Jealousy cost Luca his life. I won’t let that happen again.
Pretending I can’t feel my heart whacking my chest, I appraise the photo more diligently. There are over a dozen people snapping Luca’s picture during his protest against bullying. They’re all smiling at him. . . all except one.
“Who’s that?” Alex asks, spotting Danielle’s slumped lips as rapidly as me. “How tall is Luca? She seems around the same height as him.”
I shake my head. “The angles in the photo are off since Luca is standing at the top of the quadrant. Danielle was so much shorter than him, everyone always joked she’d need a chair to kiss him.” My breaths shorten as fading memories trap me. “She brought a foldable stepladder to prom.”
Recalling what Alex said earlier, I lock my eyes with his. “I never picked on her, but I didn’t stop the ridicule either. The last time I saw her, she barged past me, clearly distraught.”
Alex reaches out to touch me, but something stops him. “I doubt she's your stalker, Rae,” he advises, lowering his eyes and hands back to the computer we’re commanding. “The assailant is approximately five-eight. You said she's short.”
I shake my head so sternly, tears nearly tumble down my cheeks. “No. I said she was shorter than Luca. He was six-foot-four. That’s nearly eight inches difference. It could be her.”
When Alex’s lips twist, revealing he needs convincing, I take up the campaign. “You said the assailant had feminine hands. That he was on the small side—svelte or slim or whatever the fuck you said. Why can’t it be her?! Not all stalkers are men.”
“Rae. . .” He clasps his hand over mine, gaining the attention of both the waitress and me. “Why would Danielle threaten you now? Stalkers don’t wait decades to put their notions into play. They act impulsively, often before fully evaluating their plan of attack—”
"Not when they're clinically insane!" My words instantly stop Alex's crusade to calm me down. They also gain the attention of every customer in the café.
After a few deep breaths, I explain myself better, “Danielle had. . . issues. Instead of handling Luca’s rejections with dignity, she often lashed out violently. Luca took it in stride. I wasn’t as willing to let things slide.” Alex listens intently, not once interrupting me. I don’t know him well enough yet to decipher if that's a good or bad thing. “After an incident that involved my car being spray-painted, I sought help from a third party.”
“You contacted the police?” Alex asks, hopeful.
Alex's brows stitch, seemingly unaware of the consequences of bringing someone's faith into question.
I use his silence to my advantage. "He divulged private information—stuff I wasn't to mention to anyone."
“Things you told Luca?” Alex asks, finally clueing in.
I nod.
“And Danielle discovered you were his source?”
My nod turns into a shake. “That’s when things took a dangerous turn. Luca wouldn’t tell Danielle anything. It shifted her obsession from manic jealousy to . . . this.” I wiggle my finger at the photo we are discussing.
Alex jots down a few more notes. "How long after the photo was taken did Danielle arrive at prom with a stepladder in tow?"
It sounds even more ridiculous coming from an outside source, but I still answer, “Around six months.”
Alex purses his lips. “So something must have happened between this photo and prom to switch her focus back to lust so quickly?” Because he's more summarizing than asking a question, I don’t answer him. “We just need to discover what it was.”
"So you believe me? You think Danielle is responsible for the incident last night?"
“I didn’t say that.” Standing from his chair, he gathers the half dozen pages of notes he scribbled down the past hour. “But we’ll never find out here. We need to gather more evidence.”
My wide eyes dance between his. “Evidence? From where?”
My heart launches into my throat when he nudges his head to the photos scattered across the computer monitor. They all featured Luca and me at our favorite hangout spot when we were seventeen: the football field of our local high school.