by Julie Kenner
I held up a hand, silencing him even as I sagged down into a nearby chair. I understood the ramifications. I hardly needed Stryker’s blow-by-blow explanation of why he thought my ex-boyfriend was playing this deadly game with me.
No passport, no Todd, and no blood. It definitely didn’t look good. All the little bits were falling into place. The only thing that was missing was why.
I asked the question aloud, hoping that Stryker would have a theory. Without a motive, I could still believe that it wasn’t Todd behind this. Could still believe that my ex wasn’t fucking with my mind…and my life.
Stryker didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at me with sad eyes.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, my words spilling out to fill the void. “He was there when I got the message. I saw his face. He was totally perplexed.”
“People can act.”
“Not Todd,” I said, feeling surly. “And why would he? I mean, yes, we broke up, but I’m not that much of a prize. I mean, it’s hardly like me leaving is going to prompt him to go postal on me.”
The corner of Stryker’s mouth turned up. “I don’t know, Mel. I think you underestimate your appeal.”
My cheeks burned at the backhanded compliment, but I wasn’t inclined to be distracted. “I’m serious, Stryker. Todd doesn’t even play online games.”
“Maybe he started and didn’t tell you.”
I frowned at that but kept on. “But why kill me? And flee the country? That’s what you’re thinking, right? Because of the passport? Why do that? He’s got a great career here. He’s with a huge firm. He’s saving money like crazy so he can buy a place.” I swept my hand around the apartment. “Not bad for a studio, but he could afford a lot more. He’s saving every dime so he can buy into a co-op.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“Yeah.” I frowned, something in Stryker’s voice giving me pause. “Why?”
He pulled open the middle desk drawer and took out a yellow pad of paper and what looked like a credit card statement. I took the statement first, gasping when I saw the balance—over fifty thousand—and realized that the last payment reflected was less than the minimum. Keep that up, and Todd was never going to pay the thing off.
“He must’ve hit a rough patch,” I said. Stryker was holding out the yellow pad. Reluctantly, I took it.
“Very rough,” Stryker said, nodding at the pages I now held.
I glanced down, then closed my eyes, as if that could block the truth of what I was seeing: a list of creditors, each with a five-digit amount next to it. And the finance company for the Jaguar was listed right along with everything else.
Stryker waved the credit card statement I’d looked at earlier. “This is just the tip of the iceberg.”
I grimaced. I’d had no idea Todd was in such bad financial shape.
“It gets worse,” Stryker said.
I found that hard to believe, and I wasn’t about to ask. I kept my mouth closed and just looked up, sure Stryker would tell me whether I wanted to hear it or not.
“Flip the pages,” he said.
I did, at first finding nothing at all. Just blank yellow sheets. I riffled down toward the bottom of the pad, and a bit of black ink caught my attention. I slipped my finger in and marked the spot, then turned the top pages away. I was staring at a full page of doodles. Someone (presumably Todd) had taken a black felt tip and drawn typical doodle-type things. Mazes and concentric circles. Phone numbers turned into three dimensional designs. And there, among the fat, bold pen strokes, was something else. Something I really didn’t want to see.
In one corner: PSW
And in another: MLP
I swallowed, numb.
“At least we know a little bit more about our enemy,” Stryker said. He wasn’t being unkind, just practical. Didn’t matter. His words still cut me like a knife.
“No. This can’t be right. He must have been framed,” I whispered. “Someone left this stuff in his apartment to make us think…I mean, I just can’t believe Todd did this.”
“It’s possible,” Stryker said. “But—”
“You don’t believe it.”
“Honestly? I don’t know what to believe. Someone’s running this show, though. That much I know for certain.”
“I want to get him,” I said. My voice was low, and I hardly recognized myself. “Whoever’s behind this, I want to nail his ass to the wall. You’ll help me?” I said to Stryker.
“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “I’ll hold him down while you kick the shit out of him.”
And that, I thought, sounded like a pretty wonderful plan.
Chapter
44
M el. Come on, Mel…
Something sticky. My hands and face were in something sticky, and Todd filled my head. I’d seen him, shaking hands with Lynx. Sitting behind a computer monitor in a dark room, the light from the monitor elongating his face and giving him an evil cast and a greenish pallor.
No. No, this couldn’t be right.
Mel…
Sticky. Blood. Sticky blood…
“Mel!”
That time, I bolted upright, and a piece of pancake fell off my cheek. “What the…?”
“Welcome back,” Stryker said. He was sitting across the booth from me, nursing a cup of coffee.
“I…what? Where…?” But I didn’t finish the question, because I remembered. We’d left Todd’s and gone around the corner to an all-night diner. We’d had coffee, then spent the night moving from diner to diner, all with the aim of losing anyone who might be following us. When we reached the fourth or fifth diner (I’d lost count) we ordered pancakes, then analyzed every minute of the last day in meticulous detail. When we were sure we hadn’t missed anything, we’d dissolved into a silent funk. I don’t know what Stryker was thinking about, but as for me, I’d been wondering what in my life was real and what was fake. I’d just been shot at, jumped off a balcony in a glorified James Bond maneuver, and had learned my ex might have betrayed me. I mean, come on. This wasn’t my life. Had I suddenly turned into Sydney Bristow for real, only without the cool hair?
“Feel better after your nap?” Stryker said with a grin.
“Yes, thank you,” I mumbled. I was absolutely mortified. I usually wore Bobbi Brown or Lancôme on my dates. Not maple syrup. Of course, we weren’t actually dating(despite that glorious liaison in the shower), and I did have other priorities.
Besides, I already knew Stryker thought I was attractive. Surely pancake face wouldn’t change that….
I dipped my napkin in my water and tried to clean my face.
“Good,” he said. “You obviously needed the rest.”
I grimaced, but the truth was I did feel refreshed. Even more, I felt jubilant. I’d found the antidote with hours to spare. I was still running for my life, but at least I was no longer racing against an unknown toxin in my own blood.
At least, I didn’t think I was.
“That really was the antidote, right?”
“I think so,” Stryker said. “It wouldn’t make sense to send you on a wild-goose chase and then give you sugar water.”
“You’re right,” I said. “As much as anything in this nightmare makes sense.”
“Or unless you weren’t poisoned in the first place,” he added.
I considered the point. We’d already entertained the possibility that the whole thing had been a bluff. “I guess I’ll never know,” I said.
“There’s no point in dwelling on it,” Stryker said, signaling for the check. “We need to keep moving. We need to figure out what the next clue is.”
“I think I know,” I said. I dug into the pocket of the jacket and pulled out the bottle the antidote had been in. “Do you know what this is?” I asked as I passed it to him.
“A pink bottle.”
“You poor ignorant man,” I chided. “It’s so much more than that. This is the bottle for Very Irresistible Givenchy.”
&nb
sp; “Which is?”
“Only the most awesome perfume,” I said. “But that’s not really the point. Why put an antidote in a perfume bottle?”
“Because the bottle is the clue,” he said.
I touched the tip of my nose. “Bingo.”
He turned the bottle over in his hand. “Other than the DRINK ME, I don’t see anything except the name of the perfume on this metal band.” He handed the bottle back to me. “What do you think?”
“I think Givenchy’s the clue.”
“The brand?”
“Designer,” I said. “Brand sounds like K-Mart.”
“I stand corrected. So how is the designer the clue?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But Givenchy is my absolute favorite designer. Todd knew that. The game does, too.”
“Your user name,” he said. “GivenchyGirl.”
With a start, I remembered something else. “Todd gave me a pair of Givenchy pumps,” I said. “Right before this whole thing started.”
Without bothering to wait for the check, Stryker stood up and tossed a fifty on the table to cover what was probably a twelve-dollar tab. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going back to your apartment.”
Chapter
45
I t took us thirty minutes to get down to my apartment. We took it slowly getting in, Stryker checking every nook and cranny in the building, then doing the same once we were safely inside.
When he was satisfied that we were alone, he shut the door and locked it. “Where are the shoes?”
I’d brought them back with me from our first trip to Todd’s and had left them on a counter in the kitchen. I grabbed them now and carried them to the sofa. Stryker settled in next to me, and I handed him one of the shoes. We each examined our shoe, then traded and inspected the other just as carefully.
“Nothing,” I said, disappointment washing over me. I’d been so sure.
“What about the box?” he asked.
“Oh! Good idea.” I got up and went into the bedroom, finding the shoe box in the closet I shared with Jenn. I opened it up and poked through the tissue paper inside as I walked the short distance back to Stryker.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Not yet.” We divided the tissue paper between us, carefully smoothing out each piece. As far as I could tell, the paper was simply that—paper. “I’ll start peeling off the wrapping paper,” I said.
Todd had given me a wrapped box, but the pieces had been wrapped separately, so I hadn’t needed to rip through the wrapping paper to open my present. Now I took the lid and carefully peeled the tape free, revealing a box top labeled with the Givenchy logo and a large rectangle of pink wrapping paper. Other than that, though, I saw nothing.
“Nothing here,” I said, glancing over at Stryker, who was doing the same thing with the bottom portion of the box. “You?”
“Nada.”
“Well, shit.”
“There’s one more possibility,” he said, looking pointedly at the shoes.
At first, I had no idea what he meant, and then the horrible, horrible truth hit me. “Oh, no,” I said. “No way.”
“Mel,” he said gently. “We have to.”
I nodded slowly. He was right, of course, but I just couldn’t bear it. I took a deep breath, then passed both shoes to him, then moved toward the window. “I don’t think I can watch.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “But stay away from the window.”
I sighed, once again struck by the magnitude of what I’d been thrust into. Assassins lurking outside of windows, the destruction of my favorite pair of shoes. Nightmare-quality stuff. What, I had to wonder, would come next?
Chapter
46
“I ’m sorry,” Stryker said. We’d left my apartment and taken the subway uptown. Now we were walking along Madison, moving toward 63rd Street.
“It’s okay,” I said morosely. “We had to know for sure.”
He’d taken the shoes apart bit by bit, and I swear he’d ripped my soul apart when he’d pulled out the sole. And when he’d tugged the heel free from the base, he might as well have kicked me in the gut.
My poor shoes. Destroyed for nothing. No clue. No nothing. Just a pile of destroyed leather. I almost cried just thinking about it.
After that, we’d decided that the clue had to be at the boutique.
“What time is it?” I asked as we hurried down the street.
“Right at ten,” he said.
That was good news, at least. Givenchy is open from ten to six. At least we wouldn’t have to break in.
“Any idea what we’re looking for?” he asked.
“Not a clue,” I admitted. “I’m kind of hoping we’ll know it when we see it.”
I love Madison Avenue. It’s like another Fifth Avenue, only the tourists haven’t discovered it en masse. As we rushed along, I peered into the windows of the various shops selling shoes, handbags and the most fabulous outfits. One store even had a display of V bags, including the much-coveted Sonata. I’ve always wanted a V bag, but they’re not exactly in my budget.
Givenchy is located on the corner of 63rd and Madison, right next to Jimmy Choo, which, in my mind, makes it about the most perfect corner in all of Manhattan. The store is classy and spare, with stylishly trimmed windows capped by beige awnings marked with the store’s name and logo. I paused deferentially and looked at the window display—shoes and purses suspended in midair surrounding a single mannequin. The mannequin was decked out in Givenchy evening wear, a simple silver chain with a medallion around her neck instead of the diamonds you’d expect with a dress as exquisite as that one. Everything in the window had an oversize pink tag on it, like a price tag, but with witty sayings instead, as if the window dresser had spent hours plowing through fortune cookies looking for the very best sayings.
“Look,” Stryker said, his voice urgent.
I followed the angle of his finger, my gaze landing on the tacky silver necklace. “What—”
And then I saw it. The purple price tag tied onto the necklace. Not a pithy statement. No, this one had three simple initials: PSW.
“We need that necklace,” Stryker said.
“No kidding,” I said. “Is it for sale?”
“We’ll find out.”
He held the door open for me. I took a deep breath and stepped inside, leaving the hustle and bustle of Madison Avenue for the calm aura of Givenchy. The store was empty except for two saleswomen folding scarves at the counter. Immediately, one of them, a lithe brunette in a perfectly fitted gown, drifted over. Her gaze took us in from head to toe. I’d done my makeup on the subway, but there was only so much damage control I’d been able to do, and I firmly expected the woman’s disapproval. Instead, she simply smiled and asked if she could help us. God, I love this store.
“There’s a necklace on the mannequin in the window,” Stryker said. “We’d like to see it.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid those items aren’t for sale. But if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you what we do have available. You’re looking for necklaces in particular?”
“Could we just—” I began, but Stryker cut me off.
“Actually, we’re more interested in shoes,” he said. “For her.”
I gaped at him, but he just smiled.
“Of course. What size?” she asked, turning to me.
“Um, eight.”
“We’re looking in particular for a red pump. The edge is wavy, like this,” he said, indicating with his fingers.
“A scalloped edge, yes. I know the shoe.” She gestured to a chair. “Please take a seat. I’ll be right back.”
She headed into the back, and I took Stryker’s arm. “What are you doing?”
“Returning your shoes,” he said. “And getting her out of the way.” He cocked his head toward the window. “Now go get the necklace while I distract the other one.”
He was buying me shoes! I couldn’t believe it. I’d have my beautiful shoes back
. Life was good (except for the obvious bad parts), and I hurried to the window and waited for my chance. It wasn’t long in coming. Stryker asked the second saleswoman to show him a sports jacket, and while they were looking the other way, I stepped up onto the platform. The chain was fastened with a simple clasp, and it was no trick to get it off.
A passerby outside on the street gave me an odd look, but I just waved. Then I hopped out of the window and shoved the necklace in my pocket, along with the purple PSW sales tag. By the time the woman returned with my shoes, I was seated comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs.
“You’ll love this shoe,” she said.
“I know.”
I slipped off my Prada sneakers and socks, then slid my foot into the right pump, almost sighing with pleasure as the soft leather hugged the curves of my foot. I put the other one on, then took a brief turn around the store.
“How are they?” the woman asked.
“Perfect,” I answered.
Stryker smiled indulgently at me. “We’ll take them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He nodded at my sneakers. “But just in case, you might want to put those back on.”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant. He meant in case we had to run for our lives. Regretfully, I took off the pumps.
He was right, of course. I couldn’t run as well in the Givenchy. Lynx might catch me. Worse, I might break a heel.
Chapter
47
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