“I saw them,” he said. “On your worktable.”
“Oh, do you like them?”
“I still like them,” he said. “I liked them when you sketched them years ago.”
Lacey’s face heated. Out of the hundreds of sketches she’d done, how could he possibly remember that he’d seen these before? “Do you think they’re too much like some of my old stuff? They’re rough; I know they need work.”
“You did one of them three years ago, one of them four years ago, and four of them seven years ago.”
Was that right? She did remember taking four from the same file, and one each from two other files. She thought about insisting he was wrong, but that would sink her deeper into quicksand. He must have marked the sketches—had he written dates on the back? He was the one who always filed her sketches. “I . . . thought they might give me ideas. That I could modify them—”
“What have you been doing today? You weren’t working.”
She pulled her icky, sweaty gloves off her hands. She had tried to work, tried a bunch of times, but she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She’d done a frenzied cleaning of the house, striving to relieve her stress through mopping and vacuuming until she couldn’t focus well enough even to scrub toilets. Finally, she’d paced the house, tension escalating until she either had to explode or bleed off stress under Camille’s window.
“I did a lot of cleaning,” she said.
“Who did you come here to visit?”
“I didn’t visit anyone.” Lacey pressed her shoulder against the door. “I honestly didn’t visit anyone. I just walked. I’m . . . I felt restless.”
He didn’t respond. He’d already nailed her lie about the sketches, and he wouldn’t buy her hole-filled story about going on a walk either.
She glanced at him. His face was marble. She couldn’t tell him the truth—that his quiet, pretty wife was a crazy stalker. He’d already forced her to go to Dr. Marsh because she’d seemed anxious and secretive. If he found out the truth, what would he do? Have her committed? But if she didn’t confess to her obsession, he’d think she was cheating on him.
“I’m not cheating on you,” she said. “I swear I wouldn’t do that.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at her. His rage must be mounting as he pictured her sneaking away to meet a lover. After the way he’d taken care of her, she’d betrayed him.
She had to tell him the truth. If she didn’t want her nose smashed, her eyes blackened, her ribs cracked, she had to tell him the truth.
She couldn’t. She folded her arms tightly and thought about the pain. She’d been through it before, many times. She could survive it.
Jonas pulled into their garage and closed the door behind them. Paralyzed, Lacey waited as he retrieved her purse from the backseat, stepped out of the car, and came to open her door. He held out his hand. She didn’t want to touch it, but rejecting him would be foolhardy. She shouldn’t have taken her gloves off; he’d feel her sweaty fingers.
She clutched his hand. He didn’t comment on how wet her palm was, but there was no way he hadn’t noticed.
“I’ll get started on dinner right away,” she said as he led her into the house.
He released her hand and removed his jacket. Lacey ripped off her own coat, not wanting Jonas to help her with it and notice the rod in her pocket. She couldn’t think of any credible lie to explain why she’d glued a stone to the end of a telescoping cleaning rod and taken it with her. She reached past Jonas, grabbed a hanger, and hung up her coat while he was busy with his.
“Come with me,” he said, closing the closet door. He was still holding her purse.
Her legs were so weighty and wobbly that she might as well obey him—she certainly couldn’t run away. She followed him to his study.
“Take my chair,” he said, pulling the high-backed executive chair away from his desk. “You’re tired.”
Lacey settled into the chair. He unzipped her purse and began removing her belongings and setting them on the desk.
She tried not to breathe loudly. Thank heavens, she hadn’t taken her notebook this time. She’d known she wouldn’t be at Camille’s long enough to write anything, and she’d planned to record her notes after she got home. Jonas would never find the notebook. She’d hidden it at the back of the bathroom closet in a canister that had once held disposable cleaning wipes.
Jonas set her wallet to one side and sorted everything else: old receipts, a hairbrush, a pot of lip moisturizer, a flyer advertising the new exhibit at the art museum, spilled change, breath mints. He dropped the trash into the can next to the desk and put everything else except her wallet back in the purse.
He walked toward a wall-hung mosaic she’d done of a sunset on Lake Ohneka. He lifted the mosaic off its hooks and rotated the dial of the wall safe hidden behind it. He set her wallet in the safe, closed it, and rotated the dial.
She didn’t have the combination to the safe—she’d never wanted or asked for it. Her car was miles away; he’d taken her keys; now he was taking her credit cards and ID.
He faced her. “Something’s wrong with you. It’s good you’re seeing Dr. Marsh, but you need more than that. You shouldn’t be on your own right now. I’m going to take some time off work and stay here with you. Whatever’s messing up your mind, baby, we’ll fix it. I’ll take care of you 24/7, if that’s what you need.”
At least he didn’t sound angry, and he wasn’t making a move to attack her. But 24/7! He was locking her up, making her his prisoner. Lacey scrounged for firm words to say, but her protest was a feeble stammer. “What . . . Jonas . . . you can’t do that; you have responsibilities—”
“You’re more important than work.” He grasped her hand, her clammy, guilty hand. “Come lie down on the couch and rest. I’ll go fix you some dinner.”
Chapter 7
“If we were willing to drive a few miles down the shore, we’d see more stars,” Camille said. She sat on the fleece blanket Natalie had spread over the warping boards of Beau Lac pier and hung her legs over the edge.
“Mmm, true.” Natalie sat beside her. “But is stargazing the point? I thought we were here for tranquility.”
“I thought we were here for yappy girl talk.” From the fidgety way Camille kept bumping one tennis shoe against the other, Natalie knew the stars overhead and the moonlight glimmering on Lake Ohneka wouldn’t be enough to bring her serenity.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Natalie said. “Not cold at all.”
Camille stretched a toe downward, nearly touching the surface of the water. “Remember how we used to come here on winter afternoons?”
“Before we decided we didn’t like frostbite?” Natalie opened her tote bag and removed a compact LED camping lantern that she set between them and switched on so she could see what she was doing.
“It was so beautiful though.” Camille watched as Natalie opened a Thermos and filled a foam cup. “With the ice around the shore and the snow on the trees . . . How cold do you suppose the water is right now?”
“If I push you in, you can find out.”
“Try it. We’ll see who gets wet first.” Camille shivered. “Never mind. Two lone women splashing around in deep black water sounds like a scene from a horror movie.”
“You’re wrecking the tranquility.” Natalie offered the filled cup to Camille. “Mexican hot chocolate. Cinnamon and a dash of cayenne.”
“Cayenne?” Camille tasted it. “Turbo hot chocolate. Thanks for bringing it. And thanks for agreeing to a last-minute stargazing session. I hope you didn’t cancel any plans.”
“My social life is jam-packed with my one date per year. It was tough to fit you in.”
“Stop it. Hey, that reminds me. You know who I’ve decided you should chase? Skyler Hudson. He’s a smart-alecky punk, but he’s cute. And fun. And sweet.”
“He’s engaged.”
“What? As of when?”
“A month or two ago.”
“Why didn�
�t you grab him first?”
“Not my type,” Natalie said. “And I’m not his.”
“He’s a nice guy though. You knew him before he joined your practice, right?”
“No.” Natalie watched ripples move through the silver swath of moonlight. “I knew of him.”
“Through Felicia’s husband?”
“No. He was my mother’s physical therapist and worked with her up until she died—she’s actually the one who recommended him to Wade and Felicia. I’d never met him, just my sister had. Andrea is the one who dealt with him. And she told him we were looking for a biofeedback therapist; that’s how he ended up joining us.”
Camille face-palmed. “I am so sorry. I remembered there was a personal connection but didn’t remember what it was, and here I am pushing him at you. You should throw me in the lake.”
“No, thanks. What if you need help and I have to jump in after you?”
“I’m sorry, Nat. I’m a total nitwit.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t expect you to keep track of everything in my life, and it was a busy time for you when . . . this was happening.”
“You mean I was so busy falling in love with your mother’s hot young lawyer that I couldn’t pay attention to your situation with your mother.”
“You make it sound like you ignored me crying in my pillow while you chased Dante. That’s not how it was at all. And neither of us knew your guy was my mother’s lawyer until after you were engaged.”
“Which is just as well because that would have been awkward.”
“A little.” Natalie used the light, casual tone she always used when discussing Dante’s link to her family—the light tone she’d used even at that jolting moment when Camille had first introduced her to Dante and Natalie had finally made the connection that Camille’s beloved Dante was the Mr. Moretti whom Andrea talked about—the lawyer who knew every financial detail of how intensely Roxanne Marsh despised her oldest daughter.
A light tone. Polite, interested, amused at the “small world” nature of the connection. The gush of humiliation inside her hadn’t been Camille’s or Dante’s fault; the illogical urge to be angry at Camille’s choice of husbands had been Natalie’s problem too. Neither Camille nor Dante had done anything selfish or devious, and Natalie refused to let her negative emotions escape to taint Camille’s happiness.
Or—now—to taint Camille’s memories.
“Has it been weird working in the same practice with Skyler?” Camille asked.
“I was a little uncomfortable at first, wondering if Mom had told him anything about me, but it’s fine now. He’s fantastic at his job and connects well with clients. It’s no wonder my mother adored him. So, thank you, Andrea, for recommending him to us.”
“Wow, your sister did something nice for you? That must have been a mistake.”
Natalie laughed. Someday, she hoped she could laugh about her family without a spiky layer of pain underneath, but for now, she was grateful she could laugh about them at all.
Camille reached into the backpack she’d brought with her. She took out a blue candy box. “Chocolates. The de-stresser collection.”
“Perfect.” Natalie poured hot chocolate for herself and replaced the lid on the Thermos. Camille set the candy box between them and clicked the button to shut off the camping lantern. Wordlessly, they gazed at the sky.
“You’d think after all these years I’d be able to identify some constellations,” Camille said.
“I don’t think it was ever about the stars. I’m guessing it’s not about the stars tonight either. How are you?”
Camille sighed. “You know, I tried telling myself you were right and I was overworking my imagination due to stress, but let me tell you, Dr. Marsh, something weird is definitely going on.”
“You’ve seen new evidence that someone is stalking you?”
Camille picked up a chocolate and held it to the sky, apparently trying to discern the flavor by moonlight. “I have some harvest decorations on my porch. Two orange pumpkins, one white pumpkin, a basket of wooden apples, and a scarecrow sitting in a mini rocking chair. Somebody messed with them.”
“Vandalism?”
“No, nothing was damaged. But someone moved the whole set-up to the opposite side of the door.”
“Moved it . . . ?”
“All the decorations were in the same spots in relation to the others, like the white pumpkin was still to the left of the basket. But when I set them up, I arranged them on the right side of the door. Someone moved them to the left.”
Frowning, Natalie pictured Camille’s porch. “Was there anything about the new arrangement that seemed threatening?”
“Like a death threat magic-markered on a pumpkin or a knife stuck in the scarecrow’s chest? No. Good grief, don’t you think I’d tell you up front if there were something that overt? I’m not one of your clients burying my real issues and waiting for you to pick the important stuff out of my soul with tweezers.”
“That’s not a—”
“Sorry, I’m not dissing your clients. I’m just creeped out. Nothing damaged, no threats, no reason on earth for someone to teleport my decorations five feet to the left. And no, I didn’t immediately call the police because what was I going to say? ‘Officer, someone moved my harvest decorations.’ ‘Do you want me to cite them for a Pinterest fail, Mrs. Moretti?’”
“If that’s a thing, they’ll lock me up for life.”
“Me too. But it doesn’t make sense. If it was a practical joke, it’s so tame it’s pointless.”
“It’s a strange choice of pranks.” Natalie sipped more hot chocolate, the cayenne spicy on her tongue.
“Then something else happened,” Camille said. “Last night when I was working in my study, I heard tapping on the window. Yes, I know it was windy last night, but no, it wasn’t a branch or anything natural. It was an SOS.”
“An SOS?”
“Morse code. SOS.”
“You recognize Morse code?”
“Doesn’t everyone know SOS? Dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot. Someone tapped that on my windowpane. The first time, I didn’t recognize it, but they did it twice.” She tapped her fingertips against the chocolate box in rhythm. “SOS. Pause. SOS. I looked out the window, but I didn’t see anyone. This time I did call the police, and they sent an officer over, but he couldn’t find anything, not even footprints below the window, and I could tell he thought I was this fragile widow living alone, imagining spooky noises, and wandering decorations.”
Natalie looked at Camille’s profile, clear in the moonlight. “There is no way he thought you were fragile.”
“Okay, fine. But he did think I was imagining things because who would randomly tap SOS on someone’s window, and what is a distress call on my window supposed to mean? If someone is stalking me, shouldn’t I be the one sending a distress call? Is this a hint that I’m going to need to send a distress call soon?”
“Do you have a ship heading for an iceberg?”
“Metaphorically?”
“Or literally.”
“Since I lost the Titanic, I’ve been afraid to invest in another luxury liner.” Camille took another chocolate. “Listen, I’ve analyzed all these incidents to death—ugh, that wasn’t a good choice of words. I’m still spooked. I know the SOS seems silly, but it freaked me out. After the police left, I packed an overnight bag and went to a hotel.”
“A hotel! Why didn’t you call me? You could have spent the night at my place.”
“I know. I just wanted to figure out what was going on, and I didn’t want company yet.”
“Were you afraid I’d tell you you’d imagined it?”
“Would you have?”
“No.”
“You finally believe someone’s stalking me?”
“Finally?” The question stung. “You’re the one who’s experienced these things, not me. When you came to me last week, you described what was going on and wanted my opinion. I did the best I
could. I didn’t realize you thought I was being dismissive of your experiences.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being a grouch. But don’t you think these new things are clearer evidence than the person outside the construction trailer? Some psycho is messing with me. It’s creepy.”
“I’d be creeped out too,” Natalie said, knowing it wasn’t as strong a confirmation as Camille wanted from her. She resisted the temptation to ask if Camille had considered that these incidents might not be linked—that some of them might have been imagination or personalization on her part and some might have been the work of a bored neighbor kid.
“I know it sounds like I’m overreacting,” Camille said. “There hasn’t been any damage or threats—unless the SOS was meant as a threat, but it’s a lame threat. I guess I’m scared, worrying the person will escalate. And I’m angry, wondering why they’re messing with me.”
“I assume you’ve thought a lot about who might want to spy on you or upset you.”
Camille groped inside her backpack and took out her phone. She lit the screen and passed it to Natalie. “Read the first list of names there. Our old high school friends. I wrote down everyone I could think of who’s still in Ohneka or in a town nearby. People I knew at least fairly well.”
Natalie read the list. “Okay.”
“Use your psychologist brain and tell me if there’s anyone on that list who you think could turn stalker.”
Internally, Natalie groaned. Camille ought to know better than to treat her like a mind reader. “I haven’t seen some of these people in over a decade, and even the ones I do see, I don’t see often.”
“Make some guesses. This is friend to friend; I’m not asking you for something you could back up in court. This is anything-goes brainstorming. Here, do it this way. Look at the list again. If you knew the stalker was on this list but didn’t know who it was, pick the three people you’d investigate first.”
Reluctantly, Natalie read the list a second time. “Fine. I’d investigate Griff Norris. Maybe he never got over you, and after you lost Dante, he wanted to see if he could start something with you again, but he was still bitter about being dumped, so he decided to stalk you instead.”
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