Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Can’t she come to you? he texted back.

  Don’t think so, but I promise I’ll take a cab over and straight back. Frankly, since she’d left her rental car at the house, she didn’t have any other choice. She hadn’t really been in any condition to drive here Saturday, after figuring out somebody had been stalking her in her own home. Now, though, she wished she’d had Rowan take her back yesterday to get the car. And the files.

  I don’t like it.

  Yeah, no kidding. I’ll be fine.

  Can it wait till tomorrow? Looks like I’m gonna have a long day today, but after that I’m back on full-time writer’s assistant duty.

  Sweet, but she was already getting a little claustrophobic. She didn’t like feeling imprisoned by someone else, didn’t like going back to that place where she had to always be nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’d lived a big part of her life that way, after Angstrom. Damned if she was going to do it again.

  I’m going. But I promise I’ll text and let you know I made it safely there and back.

  His response was slow in coming, but finally he texted back.

  Please be careful.

  I will.

  She meant it. Yes, she hated feeling like Angstrom was a puppet master, again pulling her strings, this time from a maximum-security prison. But she wasn’t stupid, either. Someone had been in her house last week. She was not about to forget that.

  She took an Uber to Candace and Marcus’s company office, a plush suite in a downtown high-rise, arriving by late afternoon. She’d called her agent to let her know she was coming, and had been relieved to hear that Marcus was out. True to her word, she texted Rowan that she’d gotten there safely.

  As soon as the receptionist announced her arrival, Candace hurried out to the waiting area to greet her. “Evie, thank you so much for coming in. I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, going into Candace’s private office. It was a far cry from the crowded little place she’d had in New York, which, frankly, Evie had liked more. Candace had just seemed to fit in better there, all busy and crazy, with stacks of books and manuscripts crowded on every surface and in every corner. She’d lived a fast-paced life in a high-stakes world, with lunches with publishers and nonstop action.

  California was very different. It had its own pace and seemed far removed from the frenetic energy that always vibrated in New York. This place was slick and glassy, immaculate and perfectly decorated. It screamed Hollywood and Marcus, not books and Candace. Absolutely the only thing that looked the slightest bit real and unpretentious was a big vase of daffodils standing on Candace’s desk. There were dozens of them in bloom, the bright yellow of the blossoms providing a nice splash of color in the otherwise monochromatic office space.

  “So, tell me everything that’s happened.”

  Because Evie hadn’t wanted to get into the details on the phone, Candace had no idea about the home intrusion situation. When Evie told her about it, her friend looked horrified. “Oh my God, did you call the police?”

  “Well, I was with the police when I figured out it had happened.”

  Candace shook her head, her curtain of shoulder-length brown hair swinging. “Sorry, of course. But is anybody officially investigating?”

  “Yes, and hopefully they’ll find whoever did it.”

  “And you really think Angstrom hired him?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think it would even be a question of ‘hiring’ someone. He has a lot of supporters. Did you know that? Some people actually become obsessed with these monsters. They want to become, I don’t know, like pen pals, or even get involved in romantic relationships with them.”

  It was a bizarre phenomenon that had really shocked her when she’d looked into it. Men like Ted Bundy and Charles Manson had been more popular and sought after in prison than they had in their regular lives. She couldn’t even fathom what would drive someone to form a connection and work toward building a relationship with a convicted murderer. A monster.

  “My point is, if he found a way to get the word out to one of his fans, he could get somebody to do almost anything he wanted.”

  Candace shuddered. “I am so sorry this is all coming up again.”

  Yes, so was Evie.

  She just wondered how it was going to affect her life going forward.

  She liked Southern California and had been looking forward to spending the winter here. She especially liked the time she was spending with Rowan. Was it possible for her to stay here, though, if the word was out among Angstrom’s followers that she was living here? Would she be better off going someplace else and not telling anyone, at least until after the new trial?

  Damn it. There were those puppet strings again. They infuriated her.

  That did not, however, mean she didn’t have some serious thinking to do.

  For her own safety, and the safety of those around her, she should probably leave Los Angeles.

  Which meant leaving Rowan Winchester—and what they were creating together—behind.

  * * *

  Would nothing ever go right?

  He should have had his problem taken care of Saturday. He had been positioned and ready, in Evie Fleming’s house, waiting for her to come back. Having been staking out the place, he had seen her arrive home and, a few minutes later, walk down to the beach. Perfect. So he’d broken in, for the fourth time this week, and waited for her, busying himself by playing little games that would mess with her head as soon as she walked in the door.

  She’d be confused. She’d be off-balance.

  And he’d be there to catch her.

  Plans made, he’d settled down to wait for her to return. But then a car had pulled up outside—that fucking cop. He’d parked, and then he, too, had walked toward the beach. There was little doubt that when Fleming came back, Winchester would be with her.

  Which meant he’d had to leave in a hurry.

  Once again, she had eluded his grasp. Which was simply unacceptable.

  But she had to come back sometime. Sitting in his dark, bland car on the next block, he’d been watching her house all day Sunday and again today. Her convertible sat in the driveway, so of course she’d be coming back. He just prayed his “little tricks” hadn’t scared her away for long and wished he’d been more subtle. Thinking the whole thing was almost over, he’d played tricks that would be a little more noticeable.

  Dumb. She noticed; that’s why she hasn’t come back.

  Maybe. But why would she leave her car? It was probably more likely that she and the cop had gone away for a couple of nights for some reason of their own.

  He could guess what that was. Slut.

  He had to believe she would be back. She wouldn’t leave that convertible just sitting in the driveway. He’d seen mail being put into her mailbox this afternoon, and a package from Amazon was left on her doorstep.

  Yeah, she’d be back. Maybe even tonight.

  Which was why he’d moved his car over a block and taken his normal route in the high brush between two houses backing hers. A quick jump over the fence and he’d been at her back window.

  But it wouldn’t open, blocked by what looked like a metal bracket.

  Shit. She had figured it out and had run.

  He considered, wondering how to handle this.

  She’ll come back for the mail. For her package.

  Maybe the cop would be with her, which would be very unlucky.

  But maybe he wouldn’t.

  In either case, there was no harm giving it a shot, waiting a little longer. But this time, he wouldn’t do it from his car. He liked her little house, liked going around and looking at her stuff. During his previous visits, he hadn’t really dug in to a lot. Her computer was password protected; she had piles of papers and files everywhere. He wanted to study those but, never knowing when she might return, hadn’t taken the time to do it.

  Maybe today she wouldn’t come back at all, so he shou
ld be free to snoop at will. If she did come home, he intended to take care of her anyway. No need to be discreet. So while he was waiting—and hoping she’d show up—he could finally look through the paperwork the bitch had been gathering up.

  See if there was anything incriminating.

  The windows in the house were new, but they were cheap, with crappy locks. It was an easy enough thing to break them from the outside, requiring little more than muscle power. Within a few minutes, he was in her living room, prowling, thinking, and planning.

  He took a quick glance out the front window, leaving the curtains back a few inches. Wouldn’t do to be caught off guard if she or Winchester came back. As long as he saw somebody pull up, he would have time to get in position and lie in wait.

  His quick, cautious peek suddenly became a longer one when he saw a man slowly walking up the street. Something about him looked familiar.

  The guy was tall and bulky, wearing a dark gray hoody that was pulled up over his face. But there was something familiar about the walk. The way he was turning to look back and forth, again and again, as if making sure he wasn’t observed, was suspicious. Very suspicious.

  The guy in the hoody stopped in front of the writer’s house. He looked around again, as if on the lookout for somebody who might be watching, and then crept toward the front door.

  A robber? But if so, why had he bypassed the other, bigger houses on the block and singled out this one?

  The stranger turned his head just right, and he was able to catch a glimpse of his profile. When he realized who it was—Frankie Lee—he snorted with laughter.

  Two birds. One stone.

  “Yes,” he chortled.

  His mind raced as he thought about the possibilities.

  Get Frankie inside, somehow lure Evie Fleming over here, kill them both, leaving police to figure Frankie had come to finish off the witness against him?

  How to get her over was something he’d figure out soon. Miss Fleming, your car was broken into. Miss Fleming, I’m your neighbor, there is a package on your front porch. Miss Fleming…something.

  He was very good at thinking on his feet. He would figure it out.

  In the meantime, there was Frankie to deal with.

  And the thug made it easy. So easy.

  The criminal crept up to the front porch, probably thinking his victim was at home, given the car’s presence. He held a piece of paper in his hand. Looking over his shoulder again, moving as quietly as such a big man could, he got to the front porch. The piece of paper, dingy and scrawled on, started to inch in underneath the door.

  That was when he flung it open, pointed a gun at Frankie’s head, and ordered him into the house.

  Chapter 12

  Working together at a conference table in Candace’s office, the two of them spent about an hour going over the marketing plan Evie’s publisher had proposed. Evie appreciated the distraction, glad to have something else to think about. Despite everything going on around her, she still had a job to do and a career to maintain. Just as she wasn’t going to let Angstrom keep her housebound, she wouldn’t let him cost her her writing career.

  The moving part she hadn’t yet figured out.

  By the time they finished, it was nearly five p.m. She texted Rowan to let him know she would be leaving soon, hoping he would say he’d meet her back at his place. They still had some real talking to do.

  Unfortunately, his response was less than encouraging. Gotta go back to headquarters. And then somewhere else with Raine. Sorry. I’ll probably be late.

  “Darn,” she mumbled.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I wanted to get my rental car from the house, but it looks like Rowan won’t be able to take me over there tonight.” She doubted he would want to go over there at night anyway. Well, he probably wouldn’t mind, but she suspected he wouldn’t want her being with him.

  Candace was in the process of locking her desk, about to head home herself. “Let me run you over to get it.”

  Evie’s brow shot up. “To my house?”

  “Sure. Do you have the car keys with you?”

  She nodded. “But honestly, I don’t want to go back into that place.” She shuddered lightly. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go inside again. I’m going to ask Rowan to get my files and the rest of my things.”

  “No, definitely not inside the house. But since you have the keys, you can just hop out of my passenger seat into your driver’s seat, and away we’ll go. Ninety seconds, tops.”

  That sounded reasonable, and she did want to get the car. Rowan might have said he’d be at her disposal for the rest of the week, but she still didn’t like feeling entirely dependent on him.

  Especially since they still hadn’t cleared the air about whatever his family was hiding.

  Until that was done, until she knew that he wasn’t going to lie to her anymore, she just didn’t feel comfortable being completely reliant on him.

  But it was more than that. She didn’t like this feeling that she was backsliding to where she’d been the year after Angstrom had killed Blair. She’d retreated from the world, she’d stayed hidden and frightened and withdrawn.

  That wasn’t going to happen this time. No, she wouldn’t take any stupid chances. But she’d already had to move and might have to leave the state altogether, which really made her mad. Yes, it was probably smart to move, but enough was enough. She wasn’t going to let that bastard rob her of her ability to drive herself around. He had taken too much already.

  “You know what, that’s actually a really good idea,” she said.

  “Excellent.”

  Although she knew Rowan would not be happy about this plan, she texted him anyway, not wanting to keep secrets. Promising she was only going for the car and would not walk through the front door, she waited for a huffing and puffing response. But he didn’t respond at all. Apparently, he was in a meeting or something.

  That was actually a good thing. Hopefully by the time he got around to calling to inform her that she was not, under any circumstances, to go near her house, she’d already have gotten her car and had it back in the parking lot of his building.

  A short time later, sitting in Candace’s Mercedes, Evie had to adjust her timeline. Traffic was a nightmare, as it always was in this city. Still, no response from Rowan. Hopefully that meant that when he got her message and called to insist that she not go, she’d be able to tell him it was too late.

  “Damn I miss New York,” Candace said as they sat through a changing streetlight, unable to go through the blocked intersection. “At least there you can scream and cuss at people. Here people all try to be so laid back. Ugh.”

  Evie laughed. “Yeah, it’s a little different out here.”

  “Tell me about it. Everything’s new, slick, shiny, and metallic.” Candace wrinkled her nose. “Like my office. It’s god-awful, isn’t it? It’s so…”

  Marcus?

  “So colorless.”

  “Well at least you brought a splash of yellow with your flowers.”

  Candace rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a daffodil person to you?”

  “What’s wrong with daffodils?”

  “Honey, if my husband wants to give me apology flowers, they damn well ought to be many dozens of red roses.”

  Huh. Her thoughts exactly when it came to the flower killer case. Men gave women red roses; rare was the woman who would buy them for herself.

  “So the daffodils were from Marcus?”

  “Yeah.” Not taking her eyes off the road, the agent smiled. “He can be a jerk, but I guess it was pretty thoughtful.”

  “Even though they weren’t roses? Do you even like daffodils?”

  “Not particularly. But I think he was looking to get points for being creative and getting me my birth flower.”

  “Your what?”

  Candace smirked. “My birth flower. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but he looked it up and apparently discovered daffod
ils are the flowers for people born in March.”

  “Huh,” Evie said. “Mine’s August. What flower is that?”

  “How the hell would I know? Who keeps up with this kind of stuff?”

  “Your husband, apparently.”

  “Touché.”

  She thought it was kind of cute. Marcus didn’t seem to be the sentimental type, more the how-can-I-use-you-to-make-a-buck type. But he had put a little bit of thought into the gift and didn’t go the easy rose route. Maybe he wasn’t such a complete jerk after all.

  “I mean, I know there are such things as birthstones,” Candace continued. “Mine, however, is aquamarine. Blah. Since my birthday is on the thirty-first, I told him if he wanted to keep up with the birth month theme, he could just roll into April.”

  “What’s April?”

  Candace wagged her eyebrows. “Diamonds.”

  “Too bad your mom didn’t hold out one more day,” Evie said. “Aquamarine is pretty, but it ain’t a diamond.”

  “Hey, don’t scoff. I am pretty sure August is some green one that is not emerald.”

  Traffic finally moved, and they proceeded again. Candace was muttering curses under her breath, calling other drivers the kinds of names she would have called them out loud in NYC.

  Evie, meanwhile, was thinking. Some thought had whizzed through her brain in a flash of light but had disappeared, just like a shooting star zooming across the sky before disappearing.

  She couldn’t catch it. Which bugged her.

  Because she had a feeling it might be important.

  Trying to mentally backtrack through the conversation, she considered everything they’d been discussing, which had seemed so innocuous. And eventually she found it.

  “Birth flowers,” she mused.

  Birth flowers.

  Evie’s heart began to pound, her head to throb. She sat stiffly in her seat, her hands curling into fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms. Somewhere, vaguely, she heard the purr of the engine, the rumble of traffic and honk of horns, but they were slowly receding. It was like everything was being pulled away from her, leaving her completely alone in a sensory-deprivation chamber meant only for thinking.