by Stacy Green
She stumbled into the hall on rubber legs. How had the note and blog post gotten into her mailbox? Creepy wouldn’t have left it himself. Too risky. She’d hung up on the blogger and hadn’t answered any more calls. Was this the blogger’s childish way of getting revenge on Emilie?
She unlocked her apartment door, ignored Otis’s greeting, and read the blog post’s final sentences out loud. “Only one thing is certain: the Subterranean Stalker is somewhere in the city, no doubt watching and waiting. Will he strike again?”
Pain shot through her temple. Suddenly Emilie was back in the bank lobby, trying in vain to ignore Creepy’s odd stream of dialogue:
“The past has always fascinated me.” His face hovered over her left shoulder. “When I was a small child, I spent hours exploring the countryside. History was everywhere: the aged buildings, abandoned houses, the people’s stories. I wanted to learn everything I could. Understanding the past is the only way to accept who we are as individuals and as a culture. So many lessons from our ancestors can be applied to our own lives, and in some cases, the road ahead has already been paved. We just have to find it. Of course you understand, don’t you? You were given an appreciation of our history at a young age, weren’t you, Miss Emilie?”
Her knees ached as she fell to the hardwood floor, hitting her shoulder against the open door.
He moved in front of her as he spoke, each slow breath magnified by the filter of the black facemask. “The past is an important part of life, isn’t it? Our past can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”
She stared into his dark eyes. Framed with thick, black lashes and a smattering of fine wrinkles, they were too beautiful to belong to someone like him. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Miss Emilie? Isn’t there a single moment from your past that defines you?”
A hand rubbed her back. “Emilie, are you okay? It’s me, Sarah.”
Emilie summoned her strength and rolled over. She forced herself to open her eyes. Color flooded her vision. Jeremy’s wife knelt over her, put together as always, in a red sundress. Her thick, honey-blond hair flowed around her shoulders like a halo.
“What are you doing here? How did you get inside my apartment?”
“I stopped by to check on you,” Sarah said. “And you left your door open, honey.”
“He’s been here,” Emilie said. “Creepy Guy, he left this for me.” She thrust the clipping at her friend. “He’s been here.”
13
EMILIE RUMMAGED THROUGH her mix and match glasses until she located the delicate, crystal wine goblets she’d managed to retain in the divorce. Evan had laid claim to any material items of worth, but she hid the goblets at the bottom of her closet, buried under a pile of old clothes.
She clutched a glass of Merlot and padded across the gleaming floor. Emilie sank into her dusty-blue, overstuffed chair. She burrowed into the chair’s plush microfiber and knocked back a healthy gulp of wine.
“Are you sure?” Sarah sat down on the matching sofa and crossed her long legs. Emilie had always been envious of them. “The cops have been chasing this bastard for five days. You really think he’s going to walk into a building loaded with security cameras and leave a love letter?”
“Read the stupid blog. It’s all in there.”
“When was this blog posted?”
“The day after it happened.”
Sarah spread out the crumpled paper on the glass coffee table. “Jesus. Your mother’s a bigger bitch than I thought. How nice of her to divulge your life’s story.”
“She didn’t tell it all. Just the parts that made her look like a victim. She didn’t dare mention the real reason I left.”
Of course not—the truth would threaten Claire’s precious social status. Her mother’s high-society friends didn’t want to know about the skeletons in Claire’s closet. That would mean they were associating with the worst sort of person. Better to turn the other cheek and assume everything was Emilie’s fault, just as they had when the scandal of her dating Evan broke. Claire had been the victim, embarrassed by her slutty daughter. As punishment, her friends had made sure their kids didn’t socialize with Emilie.
“What is the real reason?” Sarah asked.
“You and Jeremy both know I discovered something terrible. It’s in the past, and that’s where it’s going to stay.” Emilie took another gulp of wine.
Sarah shook her head but didn’t argue. “I see the blogger found out about your visit to the psych ward. You okay with that?”
“Does it matter? My mother already made me look like a teenage whore.” Emilie’s vision blurred as she stared at the paper. She wished it would disappear.
Sarah played with a lock of her perfect hair. “I still don’t see how Creepy could have left this.”
“Who else would do such a thing? And someone got it into the mailbox.” Exhaustion overwhelmed Emilie. She drained her glass. “I’m so damned tired, Sarah. I have awful dreams, even when I’m awake.”
“Is that what happened back there?”
“I had a flashback of something Creepy said in the bank.” Emilie sank back into the chair wishing she could close her eyes and pretend none of this was happening. “He talked about the past affecting us forever. I don’t know where, but I’ve heard that before. And now this note, talking about a reunion? He’s either someone from my past, or he knows something.”
Sarah looked unconvinced. “Maybe he’s just really good at playing mind games. What’s he said to make you think he knows anything significant about you?”
Emilie recounted Creepy’s comments about the innocence of children, his observation that she knew about burdens, and the exact words she’d just remembered. “And what about the Blake poem? No one knew about that. The FBI thinks I’m projecting, but I know in my gut he’s talking about me specifically.”
Sarah’s violet eyes had gone wide with fear. “Em, if this guy does know these things, how long has he been stalking you? You didn’t recognize him, did you?”
She didn’t know how she could have forgotten those eyes, but no face in her memory matched their persistent stare. “Something about him seemed familiar, but nothing specific. Just a vague notion.”
“You’ve got to call Agent Ronson now and tell her everything,” Sarah insisted. “He’s getting way too close.”
Ronson showed up half an hour later with Avery on her heels. Sitting down on the couch, the agent carefully examined the note with gloved hands.
“Has anyone else touched the papers?”
“Just Sarah and me.” Emilie motioned to her friend. Avery’s eyes swept over Sarah’s voluptuous frame. Emilie cleared her throat, and his gaze snapped to hers. Avery had the balls to smirk.
Ronson looked up from the note. “Vance’s wife?”
Sarah extended her hand. “Yes.”
“Have you seen anyone suspicious today?” Ronson returned the gesture.
“No one, but I just got back from vacation this morning,” Sarah said. “I found Emilie with the note.”
“It was in your mailbox?” Ronson turned back to Emilie. The agent’s face looked gaunt and drawn, her dark skin tainted with sleep deprivation.
“Yes.”
“Could anyone else have a copy of your building or apartment keys?” Ronson asked.
“I’ve got the only ones.”
Avery stepped forward, determined to get in on the interview. His pasty forehead glistened with sweat and his tie looked too tight. He addressed his questions to Sarah. “This building has an alarm, correct?”
“Not the lobby.” Sarah took a step back from the detective to stand next to Emilie. “You have to be buzzed into the individual units.”
“So how did you get inside?” Avery asked.
Sarah flushed, brushing her hair off her shoulders. “One of Emilie’s neighbors let me up when she didn’t answer the buzz. I saw her car in the lot—I knew she was home.”
“Fantastic,” Avery snapped. His sneer mad
e Emilie feel like a misbehaving child. “How many other neighbors don’t care about safety?”
“My neighbors are good people,” Emilie fired back. “Sarah is over here a lot. I’m sure he’d seen her around.”
Avery opened up his mouth, but Ronson cut him off before he said something else that made Emilie want to throw him out of her apartment. “Forensics is on their way. We’ll bag the clipping and dust for fingerprints, but it’s unlikely we’ll find any.”
“I’ll talk to the mail carrier and get the footage from the security cameras,” Avery said.
“How is she supposed to feel safe in her home with stuff like this happening?” Sarah demanded.
“Don’t get too excited about this,” Ronson said. “Someone as organized as the Stalker wouldn’t make such a brazen attempt. I’d guess it’s just some asshole messing with you, but we might be able to get some more information.”
Fury burned Emilie’s skin. “Please don’t call him that.” Stalker sounded too close. She refused to give Creepy that much power. As for the note, it felt personal, something written by a lover. She shivered. “I remembered something when I found the blog.”
Ronson listened carefully to the details. Avery took notes, but Emilie doubted they made much sense. The prick couldn’t keep his eyes off Sarah.
“Now that’s interesting,” Ronson said. “It definitely reaffirms he’s intelligent and thinks highly of himself. And the fact he called you ‘Miss Emilie’ also displays politeness, something you already mentioned.”
“So what now? And what about this reunion he’s talking about? Don’t you think that confirms he’s someone from my past?”
Ronson studied the note. “It might. But again, if he even wrote this, he might be messing with you. Trying to throw us off his trail. Let’s see what the techs find. We’ll let you know if anything comes out of the security cameras or from the mail carrier.”
“In the meantime, keep up with the security measures. Don’t go anywhere alone,” Avery said.
“I won’t.” She didn’t bother to hide her disdain. She was half tempted to ask Ronson if Avery could be removed from the case, but the agent had enough stress on her, and Emilie didn’t want to be a whiney victim.
Avery squared his shoulders and stuck out his chin. “Despite what Officer Madigan may have led you to believe, Ms. Davis, I am a competent detective. I wouldn’t be working your case if I wasn’t.”
“Nathan didn’t say anything negative about you, no matter how much I tried to bait him.” He didn’t need to, she silently added. His look of disgust said enough. “I came to those conclusions on my own.”
“Very well. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Avery stalked out the door.
Ronson patted Emilie’s shoulder. “You’ll hear from me soon. Please stay safe.”
“I’m trying.” Emilie walked the agent to the door, locking it after her exit. She turned to Sarah. “Avery. What an asshole.”
* * * *
EARLY MORNING RAIDS were a lesson in stamina and patience, and being off for nearly a week while his arm healed had messed up Nathan’s schedule. SWAT hit its first target around four a.m., and the rest of the morning was controlled chaos as the team moved from location to location. Nathan usually reveled in ferreting drug dealers out of their hideouts, but he was so tired he couldn’t get any satisfaction out of the seven suspects SWAT had arrested. He’d nearly fallen asleep in the shower after the team had returned to the precinct and barely remembered getting dressed.
“Shirt’s on backwards,” Chris said.
“Fuck it.” Nathan slammed his locker shut and sat down on the steel bench to put his shoes on.
“You look like shit, man.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah, but that’s because Amy was over last night. We didn’t go to bed until a couple of hours before the alarm went off. What’s your excuse?”
“Maybe I had a woman over too.”
“No you didn’t.” Chris laughed. “You’re a relationship guy, not a one-night-stand guy. And you’re choosy. So unless you reconciled with Ava—”
“Hell, no.”
“Then what’s your excuse?”
Nathan really didn’t want to get into it. He was too damned tired to explain himself. “I was just up late doing some research.”
“On what?”
“Stuff.”
“Bullshit.” Chris kicked him hard in the shin with his boot. “On what?”
“Ouch! Obsession crimes, all right?”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “They’re interesting.”
“Come on,” Chris said, “Even for a nerd like you, research is a form of torture. What’s this all about?”
Chris would just keep nagging until Nathan gave it up. Might as well get it over with. “Creepy.”
“Creepy?” Chris dropped his duffle bag and sat down next to Nathan. “You talking about the Subterranean Stalker?”
Nathan scowled. “Emilie calls him Creepy. I like it better.”
“Okay. But why the research?”
“I want to know more about what makes people like Creepy tick,” Nathan said. “Not to mention, the whole Dante thing. I get calling the tunnels by their nickname, but this guy doesn’t strike me as someone who speaks without thinking. He quoted Dante to her for a reason.”
“Yeah,” Chris said. “Because he’s an obsessive nutjob. What brought this on?”
“Avery is incompetent. And Ronson wanted my opinion.” Nathan wasn’t sure that was the real answer. Since his encounter with Emilie at the station, he’d been unable to forget her pain and lack of faith in the police. He wanted to help her.
“You know you’re not a profiler, right? Not officially, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nathan asked.
“It means you’ve got some kind of bizarre sixth sense.” Chris laced up his boot. “Somehow you always know what kind of person you’re dealing with and how they’re going to react, especially in crisis situations. Isn’t that a lot like profiling?”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like my sister. I suppose you’re going to tell me I should apply to the FBI too?”
“I would, but I’m a selfish asshole.” Chris stood and hefted his bag over his shoulder. “They’re bound to snatch you up, and I like you being around. Most of the time.”
“Thanks.”
“In all seriousness though, what are you hoping to get out of the research other than frustration at not being able to do anything?”
This was the part he couldn’t articulate. He was no longer part of the case, yet Nathan felt driven to ferret out some sort of sense in Creepy’s actions. “There’s something important about his behavior we’ve missed. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”
“You always were the knight in shining Kevlar.”
“Shut it.” Nathan stood up and stretched. The itching beneath his bandage reminded him he needed to get home and change it. If he could stay awake. “I’m going home to pass out until tomorrow morning. Don’t call me unless you want a boot up your ass.”
Nathan trudged down the hall, thinking only of his comfortable bed and eight straight hours of rest. Several feet in front of him, Agent Ronson struggled to keep up with Avery’s long strides. Nathan kept his head down—he was in no mood for Avery’s God complex.
“The damned kid is a junkie,” Ronson said. “Bastard paid him twenty bucks to pick Davis’s mailbox and leave that clipping.”
Nathan forgot about Avery and increased his pace.
“Can he add anything to the sketch?” Avery asked.
“No. Wore a facemask. Kid was too high to give any other details.”
“Another dead end. This has become a high-profile case that could make or break a cop’s career. Stupid blogger’s post went national. And I don’t want a red mark on my file.”
Ronson stopped abruptly and slammed her hand into Avery’s chest.
Nathan slowed his
pace and ducked his head. He didn’t want to miss this.
“Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? We need to solve this case to keep Emilie Davis safe. Pleasing the mayor is the least of my concerns. Get your priorities in line or stay behind the desk.”
“Agent Ronson, I know you don’t like politics, but they’re a factor.”
“Only because you allow them to be. I mean it—if you can’t focus on catching this guy, stay here. It’s your choice.”
“You forget, this is my case.” Avery adjusted his silk tie. “The FBI was invited by Metro.”
“Because it’s mandatory in a kidnapping situation.” Ronson didn’t back down. “You want to make it to the Bureau, right? You can be sure my recommendation will make or break your chances.”
Avery’s face twisted in anger. “Understood. I’ll catch up with you at the car.” He groused down the hallway to the men’s room.
Nathan waited until he was safely out of sight before catching up with Ronson. “That was fun to watch.”
“Eavesdropping, Madigan?”
“I just couldn’t resist the sound of your voice, Sia. You make everything sound so good.”
She bit the corner of her mouth. “Don’t throw your buckets of charm on me just so I’ll give you information.”
“Can’t help that. I’m naturally charming.”
Ronson waved to the desk sergeant and led the way into the blistering sunshine. “So what do you want? You guys just got back from early raids, and you’re dragging ass. Spit it out.”
“Did Creepy leave something for Emilie?”
“That does sound a lot better than stalker,” Ronson said. “Someone left a copy of the blogger’s post and a note, presumably from our Creepy, with Davis’s mail. Security footage from her building showed a scrawny white kid picking her mailbox and slipping it in there. He was so high he looked right at the camera. Vice didn’t have any trouble finding him.”
Nathan’s insides went cold. “You think Creepy gave the blog to the junkie?”
“Said a tall guy with a facemask gave him twenty bucks to do it. Couldn’t even provide us with a skin color, but it may have been our guy.”