Always Watching

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Great.” she mumbled. “Mom’s gonna see this.”

  I searched the faces of the crowd around our car but saw no paparazzi member I recognized. Their features were too blurred, the bodies in motion too chaotic.

  The reporter turned to an interview of a San Jose policeman who’d been on scene. The officer disclosed very little. Nothing I didn’t already know.

  The picture switched to a commercial. I changed channels, and we watched last night’s limo scene all over again from a slightly different camera angle.

  “Why don’t they talk about Tom?” I cried. “So what if Rayne and Shaley O’Connor are in that limo. Tom’s dead!”

  Furiously, I punched in a new channel. News show after news show—the same thing. Tom’s picture and murder were overshadowed by reporters and talking heads stating opinions about what this might mean for Rayne and their tour.

  I smacked off the TV. “They make me sick.”

  Blurry-eyed, I paced the room, arms folded. “I swear if any reporter shoves a microphone in my face and asks about Tom like he’s no more than a dramatic entertainment story, I’ll knock that person flat. They don’t deserve to even speak Tom’s name.”

  Brittany sank dejectedly onto her bed. “So … now what? Do we just stay in the room all day?”

  I pulled to a halt. “No way. We’re going shopping, just like we planned.”

  “Oh. But your mom said —”

  “I know what she said. But can you imagine if we don’t go. We’ll have nothing to do but sit around this room all day. And think.” New tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t sit around thinking about Tom all day. It hurt too much.

  Brittany looked dubious. “Will your mom let us go?”

  “We’ll just have to persuade her. Let’s get dressed and all ready to go. Then it’ll be harder for her to stop us. You know, like in business — assume the sale.”

  Truth was I would be playing on Mom’s weakness. Ever since Rayne rocketed to stardom she had far less time for me. Now what she couldn’t give me in personal attention, she tried to make up for in money and leniency.

  Brittany mushed her lips and nodded. “Okay.”

  We got dressed and put on our makeup, stopping to eat our pizzas and salads when they arrived. Sometime later, we knocked on the door connecting our room to Mom’s room.

  It opened to reveal Mom in her silk charmeuse loungewear, no makeup. She gave us both a long look. “You two girls look mighty fancy to stay in your rooms today.”

  I shot Brittany a look. “You know we’re not staying in our room. You promised us weeks ago we could go shopping.”

  Mom’s eyelids flickered. “That was before Tom … died.”

  I looked down at my feet and sighed. Part of me knew how shallow it sounded — fighting to go shopping a day after one of my good friends was killed. The other part reminded me it was either keep busy or go crazy with remembering. “Do you really want us to sit around and do nothing all day? You’ve got a photo shoot and interview in a couple of hours. It’ll take your mind off this — at least for awhile. We need something too.”

  Mom shook her head. “Have you turned on the TV? They’re all over the story, as we expected.”

  A chill blew over me. “We saw it.”

  “So I can’t let you go out in this circus atmosphere.”

  “I’ll go in disguise. They’ll never know it’s me.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “It will.”

  We surveyed each other. I could tell Mom was caving. She knew what I’d been through yesterday. She knew I craved some semblance of my normal life back.

  If you could call our lives “normal.”

  “Come on, Mom. We’ll have a bodyguard with us. Two if you like. And if something happens, we’ll hop in the limo and leave right away.”

  Mom’s gaze turned to Brittany. “You sure you want to do this? You got a little taste last night of how it can be if things get out of hand.”

  Brittany nodded. “I know. But we’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. And Shaley especially—I think she needs to get out.”

  I suppressed a smile. Brittany knew how to play Mom as well as I did.

  Someone knocked on the room’s hall door. “Oh, that’s Marshall.” Mom glanced toward it, suddenly all business. “Look, I have to get ready. Go — and take Bruce. Wendell and Mick are with me today. Shaley, keep your disguise on. And do not stray out of Bruce’s sight.”

  Brittany and I threw each other triumphant glances. “I will, Mom, don’t worry. Have a good interview!”

  “Thanks, Rayne!” Brittany grinned.

  “Yeah, yeah. I hope I’m not sorry later.”

  Brittany and I backed into our room and closed the connecting door before Mom could change her mind.

  “Whew.” Brittany flipped bangs out of her eyes. “That was close.”

  I dug in my purse for the code list to call Bruce’s room. Now that freedom was near, we couldn’t leave soon enough. I wanted away from those four walls of bad dreams about my father and thoughts of Tom.

  As I reached for the receiver, the phone rang. I picked it up, distracted. “Hello.” My eyes flicked from my suitcase to Brittany. I covered the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Would you get my short black wig out of there?”

  Brittany moved to the suitcase. Someone — sounded like a young woman — was talking into the phone.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “This is the front desk, Miss O’Connor. Sorry to bother you, but someone left a gift for you here.”

  A gift?

  Some Rayne fan must have found our hotel. Wouldn’t be the first time. They usually left things for Mom, but after all the publicity photos I’d appeared in with her in the last couple years, now people followed me around too. Last year some older man kept leaving me “presents.” Photos of himself without a lot of clothes on. We turned them over to the police. The man stopped bothering me.

  Rayne does have many wonderful fans, but unfortunately there are a lot of weirdos out there.

  I watched Brittany pull out the wig and shake it. Ugly thing.

  “Would you like me to send it up?” the desk clerk asked.

  Brittany handed the wig to me. I took it, making a face. “Uh, sure, whatever. But do it now because we’re about to leave.”

  “All right. It’ll be there in a minute.”

  I clicked off the line, then pushed talk again to phone Bruce. He said he’d call for a car right away. “Thanks so much!” I threw down the phone and positioned myself in front of the mirror, sighing. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

  “Freedom, Shaley. That wig spells freedom.”

  Brittany and her lawyer logic.

  I stuffed my long hair under the wig and moved the thing around until it looked right.

  A knock sounded. “Want to check the peephole, Brittany? It’s probably a bellman with that gift.”

  She moved to the door. “Yeah, it’s him.”

  “Okay, open up. I’ll get him a tip.” I snatched my wallet from my purse and pulled out a five. At the door I thrust the bill into the bellman’s hands and accepted a long white box. “Thanks for bringing it.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss. And thank you.”

  Brittany shut the door and bolted it. “Looks like something from a florist.”

  “Yeah. Let’s hope it’s nothing weird.”

  I sat on the edge of her bed and studied the box. No florist name on it anywhere.

  Maybe it would be on a card inside.

  Like the settling of a fitful breeze, all my swirling anticipation to get out of the room and go shopping abruptly died away. Tom’s face blazed into my mind. His one open eye, the other blown apart.

  His killer was still out there.

  I should have questioned the girl at the front desk about who had brought this package.

  Brittany sidled over to stand beside me. “You going to open it?”

  I pulled my lip between my teeth and sta
red at the box. Ran a finger over its smoothness. “I don’t know. After yesterday …”

  Silence.

  Brittany swallowed. “It’s probably just flowers.”

  “I know but … Do you feel something? Anything?”

  “No.”

  Not that this meant anything. Brittany’s weird ability to sense things showed up when it pleased.

  I took a deep breath. “What should I do?”

  “Open it. You have to know. If it’s something bad, we’ll call the police.”

  It won’t be anything bad, I chided myself. I was just being paranoid.

  All the same, the back of my neck started to tingle.

  “Okay.” My muscles tensed. “Here goes.”

  Carefully I laid the box on the bed beside me. I placed my fingers on both sides of the top and lifted it away.

  I gazed at the contents. My heart stopped.

  My mouth dropped open, the tingles at my neck now like stinging ants. All breath bottled up in my throat.

  In the box — a single white rose, wrapped in green cellophane and tied with a red ribbon.

  13

  He had been born superior to others.

  At the tender age of five, he knew that already. In kindergarten, he was smarter. In elementary school, more cunning. Other kids cried when they got hurt or because they didn’t want to leave their mothers dropping them off at school. He never did. His intellect was too strong for that. Emotions were secondary.

  Now, thirteen hours after he’d had to kill, he celebrated his success as he ate a roast beef and cheese sandwich for lunch. The police had questioned him twice last night — along with everyone else — but with so many people around, so many possible suspects on the tour and working locally, the interview had been less than thorough. Within two minutes he’d outwitted the slow detective.

  They found the gun, of course. He knew they would. It could never be traced to him. They had not found the elbow-length glove he’d worn when he pulled the trigger. He knew all about blow-back — microscopic particles emitted from a gun when it was fired. Just in case the police decided to test the hands of everyone in the vicinity for gun residue, he’d slipped on the glove before the murder, then thrown it underneath a row of seats on the arena’s first tier after the encore. With all the fans milling around, no one noticed, and he knew the arena would soon be cleaned while the police concentrated on containing the backstage area.

  The job was done. It had taken far too many days to plan. Still, when the timing was right, it was brilliantly executed. Naturally.

  But deep within him, jealousy burned on.

  He took another huge bite of his sandwich. A swig of Coke.

  For a while he had denied the jealousy, or at least tried to call it by another name. How could a man as superior as he be weighted down by such an inferior emotion? As time passed and the feeling grew stronger, he realized what an asset it could be. Emotions aren’t weak in themselves; it’s all in how they’re handled. He would stoke the fire of his jealousy, keep it burning bright, as he protected the Special One.

  He finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin. Then he laced his hands and cracked every knuckle. How good it sounded, the popping of his bones. Made him feel so alive.

  A yawn sagged his mouth open. Last night’s adrenaline rush had afforded him little sleep. But no time to rest now.

  He had duties to perform.

  14

  Brittany stood over me, fingers to her mouth, staring at the rose. My hands hovered above the box, unable to draw back, fearful to touch the flower lest it crumble away like the one in my dream.

  Mom, myself, Brittany. We were the only ones who knew the significance of this gift. Other than my father.

  I stared at the box, my vision blurring.

  “Isn’t that a card?” Brittany whispered. “Underneath.”

  Could this really be …? “He’s not supposed to even know who I am.”

  “I know.”

  Slowly my trembling fingers reached inside the box. I touched the soft velvet of the petals, heard the crinkle of cellophane as I reached beneath for the card and pulled it out.

  Across the front in hand-printed letters: SHALEY. “Preston Floral” read the business name on the envelope.

  I pressed my fingertips to the printed letters. Had my father written them? Was I now touching something he had touched?

  Holding my breath, I slid my finger underneath the flap.

  All the times I’d wished for my father, all the tears I’d shed. My daydreams never told the story this way. In my fanciful wishing he always showed up in the flesh, magically walking into my life as if he’d never left it. Never to leave again.

  The envelope slit across the top. I reached inside for the card. It was folded over, white, with a calligraphy S on the front.

  Throat tightening, I opened it.

  Shaley,

  I’m watching over you.

  I read the words five times.

  What was this? Why would my father write such a message?

  Brittany leaned over to see, and I tilted the card toward her. She spoke the message aloud.

  “You think that’s your dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sat down on the bed. “Doesn’t it have to be? No one but your mom knows about the white rose.”

  My fingers rubbed the smooth card. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Some coincidence. I mean, just a white rose, maybe. But the green cellophane and a red ribbon — “

  “Why wouldn’t he say so then? Why this vague message?” I swallowed. “I’m not even sure I like what it says.”

  Brittany’s eyes lowered to the card. “I know. After what happened last night, it’s almost kind of … creepy.”

  I stared at the rose. “If Mom saw this, she’d freak.”

  “You going to tell her?”

  I shook my head. “Not now. Tom’s death is upsetting enough. She’s interviewing this afternoon, and tomorrow we have to travel. Then she performs again tomorrow night. Why lay this on her?”

  “But maybe she’d have some idea who sent it if it wasn’t your dad.”

  “Oh, she’d insist it wasn’t him.” My voice edged. “He’s not supposed to know I exist, remember?”

  Truth was, I didn’t want Mom to crush my hope. Even if the note did feel kind of creepy, it wasn’t meant to be, I told myself. Not at all. My father had sent it, and when he was ready, he’d tell me his name. He’d arrange to meet me.

  Please, God.

  “I need to find out about the person who brought this.”

  I put the card down and walked over to the phone. Punched 0 for the front desk.

  “Yes, Miss O’Connor.”

  It was the woman who’d called me. I recognized her voice.

  “Hi. I just wanted to ask about the person who left this rose for me. Did you see him?”

  “A cab driver brought it.”

  “A cab driver?”

  Brittany twisted her mouth.

  “Yes. He just said it was a delivery. He put it on the counter and left.”

  My heart sank. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”

  I clicked off the line.

  Disappointment rippled through me. The note could still be from my dad. But if so, he obviously didn’t want me to find him. Delivery by a cab driver. How impersonal could you get?

  I glared at the phone, then pushed talk to dial outside the hotel for 4 – 1 – 1. “What’s the name of the florist, Brittany?”

  She picked up the envelope. “Preston Floral.”

  From the operator I got the number and punched it in. My pulse snagged as I listened to the line ring. Did I really want to find out who’d sent the rose? As long as I didn’t know, I could hope — “

  “Good afternoon, Preston Floral.” A cheery woman’s voice.

  “Hello. My name is Shaley O’Connor. I just received a beautiful white rose sent by cab from your shop. Could you te
ll me anything about the person who bought it from you?”

  I glanced nervously at Brittany. She stood nearby, arms clutched, watching my face.

  “Yes, Miss O’Connor. I’m glad you like the rose. But the purchaser didn’t come into the shop. It was ordered over the phone.”

  My shoulders slumped. On the phone, I mouthed to Brittany. “Was it a man’s voice?”

  “Yes, I took the order myself.”

  “How’d he pay for it?”

  “By credit card.”

  “Then you must have a name for the card.”

  “Oh, goodness, with all the orders we get, I couldn’t possibly remember. This is a big shop. Besides —”

  “Can’t you look it up?”

  “As I was about to say, we have a store policy against giving out that information.”

  “Please. It’s really important.”

  “I can’t, really.”

  “But you have to. I need to know.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot break store policy.”

  Heat flushed my cheeks. “Just this once can’t hurt.”

  “Miss O’Connor.” Her voice firmed. “I cannot give you that information.”

  I knew the tone. She thought I was being a brat just because of who I was. Shaley O’Connor thinks she can get anything she wants because she’s the spoiled rich daughter of a rock star. Normally I would have cared. Normally I would have bent over backward to be nice.

  “Great. Thanks for nothing.” I punched off the line and slammed down the phone.

  Anger and fear sloshed around inside me. I balled up my hands, tears biting my eyes.

  “Shaley, I’m sorry,” Brittany said.

  “Yeah, me too.” Pain over my father mixed with grief about Tom. What was happening in my life? Why all this stuff at once?

  And if my father sent the rose, why would he want to torture me like this?

  With a small cry I stalked to the bed, snatched up the card, and stuffed it back beneath the rose. I clamped on the box’s lid, threw the thing in my suitcase, and closed the top.

  There. Now I didn’t have to look at it.

  The phone rang. My head jerked toward it, all anger whisking into sodden hope. Was it the woman, changing her mind?