Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  “Hey, lady? You comin’?” His voice came from faraway and echoed.

  Her gaze swung to the double doors. The last thing she needed right now was manic Bianca, aka Miss Prissy Pants, storming the door. She turned and ran after the man. A strip of wide tan packing tape separated each pile of furniture and décor. He dipped right around a metal column and walked all the way to the back of the warehouse. His steps slowed until they finally stopped in front of a square of red tape, containing a mountain of home goods that rivaled the rest.

  “Here you go. Perry Carter’s donations.” His arms opened, and he gestured toward the massive heap. “Most of it is his wife and kids’ stuff, if you ask me.”

  Pamela’s Johan Jongkind sat among the furniture wrapped in clear cellophane. Layer upon layer of thick foam mummified its edges. The simple painting had given her friend so much joy and hope.

  Pain, sharp and insistent, jabbed at Genevieve’s heart. She grabbed her chest and drew a long, deep breath. Then another. It didn’t help. The pain burrowed deeper.

  “Why the red tape?” Even though it was a different color, it reminded her of crime scene tape.

  “The pieces are under appraisal and not cleared for sale on the floor.”

  “Oh.”

  She couldn’t imagine people rummaging through the children’s things and placing a value on something that had meant so much to them. Now that she was here, the irreverence of what she’d planned to do seemed outrageous. She didn’t want to be one of those people scouring their things.

  “So?” The man pointed at the pile, pivoted his head from side to side, and shook his hip in counterbalance.

  Gen swallowed. “I’m going to need more time.”

  “You haven’t even started,” he scoffed.

  “I know.” She nodded.

  “Look.” He placed his hands on wide hips. “Before you popped up, I was shutting it down. I got a pickup in the city, then I’m headed home.” One of his arms gestured toward the river. “It’s my girl’s birthday. We gotta celebrate. You know, flowers, dinner, wine. The whole nine.”

  She studied him for a moment, and then reached into her purse and grabbed two more bills from her wallet.

  “This could help you celebrate.”

  His eyes bulged toward the bouquet of money. “No joke?”

  “No joke.” Gen took the slightest step forward.

  “Say, why’re you so interested in this stuff?” His gaze swung back toward the heap.

  “My offer ends in five, four, three …” She eased the money back toward her purse.”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

  “So do you want it, no more questions?” The money hung in the crimp of her fingers and dangled in the air between them.

  “I …” He shifted on his feet. One hand shoved inside his pocket. The other grabbed the green. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t let Bianca catch you back here. She’ll freak out.”

  “I won’t.” If she never interacted with that special form of crazy ever again, it’d be fine by her.

  “If she does, I don’t know you.” He offered a perfect impression of a surrender while he simultaneously walked backward.

  “You don’t know me. And I don’t know you.” They had not exchanged names, and she knew nothing about him except he had a lady and today was her birthday.

  “Good.” He shoved the money in his front pocket, turned, and hurried through the maze of forgotten belongings. She heard the scuffs of his shoes hook a right and fade through the large bay door. A moment later, the truck’s engine roared. Thirty seconds more and it mingled with the city sounds before dissolving altogether.

  Genevieve slid the hobo sack from her arm. It hit the ground with a thud that mimicked her heart. She turned to the stacks and stepped across the threshold of the red tape. The scent of plastic and the chemical aroma of foam brought her back to an innocent time when she’d moved to the big city. She was running from the past, sure, but at the same time, she was full of hope for the future. A future where she dictated her path. No one else. And here she was, dictating her path through heaps of emotional and physical baggage.

  She grabbed the Jongkind with both hands and brought it to eye level. The unruly lines, swaths of color, and random scribbles weren’t the man’s best work. In fact, this was nothing like his other works. Despite it, and maybe because of its unkept nature, Pamela had adored the piece. It’d reminded her of freedom and had always made her want to break free from the city. It’d made her yearn for the beach. For the Hamptons. Time and again, she’d begged Perry to move there, and time and time again, he’d dismissed her desire for the practicality of the city.

  How had Perry dismissed his wife’s hopes and dreams after her death? Discarding this painting was doing just that. By the same token, it was possible those hopes and dreams were too hard to live with after her death. She set the painting to the side, grabbed a handful of the navy blue moving blanket, and yanked. Tape snagged in the middle, forcing her to brace a hand on the center of the piece of furniture and heave. The tape finally ripped, and the blanket gave way. It revealed the TV hutch that’d sat in the corner of their den and hidden a sizable collection of Paw Patrol, Wild Kratts, and Barbie DVDs. She pulled back the doors. The constriction of the blanket allowed it to open only two inches, but it was enough. Gone were all the things that made it personal.

  A stack of boxes to the right caught her eye. Gen shifted over, pulled up the edge of the packing tape, and freed the lid. Stacks upon stacks of newspapered rectangles filled the box. She yanked the first one from its nook and unwrapped it with more fervor than she had a birthday present from the girls the prior year.

  The high-pitched whine of sheer terror seeped from her throat. She shoved it back and aside and pulled out another. Then another.

  “No.” Her voice was angry and stronger than she expected.

  Gen stared at the rough pewter edges of a picture that’d hung on the wall in the hallway between the kids’ bedrooms. Then glared at the glass that revealed the felt back of the frame instead of the candid photographs of the children Pamela had filled them with. Every one of them. Empty.

  She shoved the box to the side and ripped into the one underneath. Her elbow caught the edge of the stack behind her, and it wobbled. The oddly shaped cellophane wrapped package atop it rolled to the side and gained speed. It slid off the side of the stack and bounced down to a lower stack next to it, and then bounced back and forth between the two columns.

  The entire ride down, Gen’s breath lodged in her stomach, awaiting the inevitable crash. It never came. As the pillowy parcel came to rest with only a whisper, air whooshed from her lungs. She swallowed, and then yanked the hat from her head, suddenly too hot to deal with the wide-brimmed suffocation. Her hair fell around her shoulders. After tossing the hat toward her purse, she reached down and grabbed the … pillow? She unwound the packaging loop after loop after loop until the hint of fabric appeared.

  Her heart took another blow. A direct hit. She unraveled faster as though Little Perry’s antique stuffed tiger suffocated inside. The creature’s smiling face greeted her, blissfully unaware of the horror endured by the boy who’d loved him. Gen crushed the large, pillowy animal to her chest, buried her face in its worn tuft, and sobbed like she hadn’t in years. Of course, she’d cried at the funerals, but even then, she’d had something dividing her attention. Perry. Now it was just her and the memories of Claire, Little Perry, and Pamela. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor.

  Breaths and cries rocketed through her lips, but she muffled them in the tiger’s neck. As the happy times assaulted her, her sorrow mounted. If the warehouse guy knew that Perry had murdered his family, how in the hell had she been so easily deceived? She had been too close to the case and to the family. Why was she here now, rummaging through their things? Crying over dead people’s things wouldn’t help solve the mystery of their murders.

  She reached deep an
d searched for her backbone. It didn’t reveal itself. Instead, she found a new fount of sorrow. Memories she’d thought she’d banished a thousand years ago reared high and imposing. Her body rocked of its own accord, and desperation took hold. Like every sad sack before her, one thought taunted uselessly and on repeat.

  “Why? Why? Why?”

  No answers came, but her anger did. It burned a hole through her chest and ceased the flow of her tears. As she crawled toward her purse, the pointed slides she wore slipped from her feet, but she didn’t stop to collect them. Instead, she gently set the tiger next to it. No way in hell would that sweet animal be abandoned to the back of a warehouse forever. Fuck that. And fuck Perry Carter for getting rid of all their things. Yet the moment she thought it, she hated herself. She’d gotten rid of so many painful memories over the years. There wasn’t a photo in her apartment nor a family heirloom. Not that they were fancy enough to have things called heirlooms, but the closest thing to the one she had was her face. Even her red hair went against the brunette grain of her genes.

  Rampage seeped from her veins as Gen stood. The concrete cooled her feet but did little to soothe the heated anger inside. She walked to the stacks of their things and released the rampage. She unraveled cellophane. She snatched away moving blankets. She ripped boxes wide open.

  Sweat slicked her brow. Her hair fell widely around her shoulders. Trash littered their floor, along with the remnants of their partial lives lived. Claire’s red secretary’s desk and the skeleton of her red bed frame stood side by side. Famed New York designer Nick Olsen had chosen the bold set, a gift for the precious girl’s sixth birthday. Then there was Pamela’s jewelry collection. It’d taken up three large boxes, and the jewelry box itself rivaled that of the television hutch. Gen opened it wide and stared inside the empty hollow of black satin. How many times had Pam stood in front of the thing, puzzling over which pieces of her extensive collection to wear? How many times had she let Gen borrow a piece or five for a special occasion?

  Genevieve crouched and let her hand smooth over the interior, searching for some part of her friend’s spirit. When her hand hit the bottom of the jewelry box, it shifted under her fingertips. Afraid she’d broken the lowest shelf, she jerked her hand back. A small gap remained between the side and the bottom. White was visible in the space. She reached back, prepared to fix it no matter the trouble.

  Then a hint of blond curled hair came into focus.

  Hand above the gap, she paused. She grabbed the thin board covered in black fabric and lifted it high.

  Nothing prepared her for Pamela’s sweet, smiling face staring back at her. Nor that of Claire’s jubilantly balled cheeks. Nor Little Perry’s wide-eyed grin. The three of them clung to one another in the midst of a fantastic laugh. Gen knew the picture well because she’d taken it three years ago at a restaurant in the city. They’d been in hysterics over Claire’s unladylike burp. It’d been the soda Gen had ordered for her before Pam had arrived. She’d pick them up and taken them to Central Park. They’d walked around the lake, and then hit the zoo before she realized that children didn’t have as much energy as everyone thought. Lunch had been key to keeping them going, and when Pam had shown up late from her meeting, the kids hadn’t held it against her. They’d been overjoyed to share their experience.

  Gen grabbed the picture and then realized that there were more. Several more.

  “You!” a woman screamed. It seemed to come from far away. “You’re trespassing. I’m going to call the police.” Gen couldn’t care about the threat. Not now.

  The small compartment held a thin stack of pictures. She flipped to one with Little Perry swaddled as tightly as a burrito. The next was Claire toddling down a path in the park with a tiny teddy clutched in her hand. The next …

  Her hands quivered.

  In the center of the picture stood a couple nestled so closely their faces nearly melded into one. Their smiles brimmed almost into the other’s. She’d never seen the nondescript white man with a kind smile and tawny hair. She had most certainly seen the blond woman with bright eyes and a jewelry fetish before.

  She turned to the next picture.

  It was the same couple in a hotel bed. The bright white linens and dim lighting were unmistakable. Pamela’s hair spread across the stranger’s chest. A thin strap slipped off the edge of her shoulder. Her breasts bulged at the top of her nighty. Despite the overt tone in the picture, there was also a hint of innocence in their expressions. An innocence Gen had never known. An innocence she’d envy were it not for her friend cheating on her husband with this stranger.

  Had there been any doubt of Pamela’s faithfulness to Perry, the distinct wedding band and massive rock on her hand that hovered over the man’s bare chest dispelled it.

  If she had a paint scraper, she still might not be able to pry her jaw from the floor.

  Gen flipped through the pictures again and again. They didn’t change shape or exposure. The characters didn’t morph into something she understood better.

  She set the pictures to the side, dropped to her knees, and ran her hands over the other edges of the jewelry box. High and low. Left and right. She tugged and shoved. But found nothing further.

  Her mind flew to the Jongkind painting, and her body followed. She stepped over trash and moments, furniture and façades. The painting might have been the only thing in the space she hadn’t ripped from its confines. So she did, peeling and yanking until it was free. She flipped the frame to the back and searched for a place to pry it apart, but there was nothing she could grab with her bare fingers. She scrambled to her purse, desperate for a nail file or keys. Something to reveal anything the picture might be hiding.

  “Back there.” Bianca’s voice rammed into her conscious.

  “What?” Gen growled. She was ready to rip this woman limb from limb.

  This woman turned out to be with two police officers, beat cops no less. They rounded the corner with their hands on their weapons and then stopped cold. Their gazes jumped from her to the mess behind her. They didn’t look familiar.

  Dammit.

  “Miss, slowly remove your hands from your purse and place them in the air,” the stockier of the two said.

  “I know this looks bad, but I can explain.” Right! She couldn't even explain this to herself.

  “Lady.” The taller of the two lifted his side arm from its holster. “Hands up. Slowly, now.”

  Gen’s heart lurched. She eased her hands from the inside of her purse, grabbed the tip of the strap, and placed it gently on the floor. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Hands up.” Stocky stepped closer, but his hand remained on his weapon. His partner held a line on her feet, threatening to raise it to her chest at a moment’s notice.

  “Okay.” She lifted her hands in the air. It’d been so long since she’d been on the perp end of the cop relationship.

  The big one grabbed her wrist and snapped her around so quickly, she didn’t have time to react to the feel of the pain. When he cinched down the second handcuff, it came in a burning, aching rush.

  “Holy hell.” She tried to pull away.

  “Stop moving, or it’ll hurt worse,” one of them barked.

  No shit.

  Her wrists screamed.

  “Let’s go.” Stocky turned her around and shoved her toward the exit, away from her purse, the stuffed tiger, and those pictures.

  “Go where?” Gen attempted to apply the brakes. Stocky was all go. He manhandled her with ease.

  “The station, Red. The station,” the other officer answered.

  “No. I …” She couldn’t go to the station. They’d book her and end her career. “Please, call Detective Owen Graham. He can vouch for me! Please! Detective Owen Graham.”

  Sixteen

  Herpes. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Cocaine and methamphetamine residue. Those were some things Genevieve should be worrying about with her forehead pressed to the grated metal partition of the police car. She
knew the exact cast of characters these vehicles transported, yet she leaned her weight into the barrier and even rocked it in a slow side to side, gathering all the filth with her face. Or, maybe, just maybe, she should be concerned with losing her job, her license, and being made a pariah in the law community. But, no. She wrung her cuffed hands, making the skin on her wrists raw over the pictures she hadn’t had time to grab or even capture a photo of with her phone. That and the poor child’s toy left abandoned on the cold floor.

  What did those images mean? The logical answer was Pamela Carter, her dear friend, had been eagerly participating in an extramarital relationship.

  That didn’t compute. Pamela had confided so much in her through the years. Her desire to be a mother. Their struggles with infertility. Her perceived shortcomings as a mom. The strained relationship she had with Perry’s mother. Above all, the adoration she had for her children. Never once had Pamela alluded to any bitterness in her marriage. Never once had she suggested a desire for other men. Never once would she have gambled with her children’s happiness that way.

  Of course, Gen once thought she’d never gamble with her career this way.

  They’d been here, idling in front of the warehouse for nearly an hour. How fucking long did it take to record a statement? Every time she thought about them taking that little bitch’s whiny, faux words, Gen wanted to scream. It didn’t help. She’d tried. Neither did beating on the window. She had the sore shoulder to prove it. The beat cops left her with no choice but to wrestle with her thoughts. They’d left her unattended long enough that her brain turned itself into a goddamned pretzel. She sighed, sank deeper against the grating, and pulled in a long breath. It smelled of stale ass.

  The cruiser’s front door creaked open.

  Genevieve braced for the questions sure to come. Unlike the intelligent, professional, well-respected woman she was, she kept her head hunkered and closed her eyes. No way would she answer a single question without her lawyer present. Too fucking bad she couldn’t call Perry to return a quarter of the favor he owed her. He’d have his own questions. She needed hers answered first.