The packages that had showed up on her doorstep had been searched for clues, but not a fingerprint had been found. As for the security cameras…they’d been a complete bust. Not one picture, not even a shadow.
Locks had proven useless. It didn’t matter that they were guaranteed to be the latest technology and completely burglar-proof, he got through them. He got into her house. Left messages. One on her bathroom mirror, in her own lipstick. You can run but you can’t hide. Two days ago, he’d eaten a piece of cake from her fridge.
He’d tranquilized Milo, which had scared her to death. Because if the tranquilizer hadn’t worked, she had no doubt he would have killed her dog.
She’d stopped asking the obvious question long ago. There was no reason behind this. Just because she didn’t recognize his voice didn’t mean she didn’t know him. He could be anyone. Her best friend’s husband. The man across the street. Anyone.
So she’d crawled into her house, once her pride and joy, until it had become a prison. If she didn’t break out tomorrow, it would become her coffin.
“Come on, baby,” she said, standing up. “Let’s get you fed.”
Christie had lost almost ten pounds since it began. Her skin was pale, her hands shook. She’d stopped bothering with makeup, kept putting her hair back in a messy ponytail, and she always wore shoes she could run in. She was under siege and he never let her forget it.
As she headed for the kitchen, she glanced at her mantel, at the picture of Nate. He would have helped her. Her big brother was ex-Delta Force. He would have caught the bastard and damn quick. But Nate was dead, and that wound was still raw.
She got out Milo’s bowl and his food. The irony of her situation wasn’t lost on her. She’d never had patience for the victim mentality. She believed in movement, in taking charge, in handling things. Never one to back down, she’d fought for her college grades, kicked ass at work, bought her own home, never settled when it came to men. And here she was, a pitiful, terrified shadow who hadn’t slept a full night in months.
She finished fixing Milo’s dinner, and put it in his spot at the end of the island. Milo, unlike herself, still had his appetite. She sighed as she went to the fridge. The last time she’d eaten was…hell, she had no idea. So maybe forcing some food wasn’t a bad idea.
A couple of scrambled eggs was all she could handle. She ate standing by the stove. Milo had finished and was expecting his walk, which was something she couldn’t avoid. Instead of taking him around the block, or even to the park that was five blocks away, she would drive to a random location. Somewhere crowded. Last night had been Melrose Avenue. The night before, Westwood Boulevard. Tonight, she’d go west. Santa Monica. Not that it mattered. He could be following her car. He could be in the house five minutes after she left. He could kill her in her sleep.
The phone made her jump, and she almost dropped her plate. Dammit, she should have unplugged it. Who was this guy? How in hell did he know so much about her life? He’d even gotten to her book club.
They used to meet at the bookstore every other Wednesday. But then the women started getting notes on their windshields. Two of them got flat tires. None of her friends had connected the vandalism to her because she hadn’t told them about the bastard. But she knew. So she quit. They’d all believed her lame excuse, which was a relief, because she wouldn’t be able to stand it if he hurt someone she knew.
“Milo? You ready?”
He clearly was, if jumping around and wagging his butt was anything to go by. Christie didn’t even glance at the mirror as she got his leash. She just headed into the garage, all her senses on alert as she turned on the light.
Senses. She didn’t have any senses left. Sleep deprivation had made her stupid and reckless, and that made her a fool. It was the house that had held her. Goddammit, she loved her home. It wasn’t just the money she’d poured into it, either. She’d made it her cocoon, her safe haven. Every room created for her pleasure and delight.
She locked the car doors after Milo climbed in, and then steeled herself to open the garage door behind her. It went up slowly, her gaze locked on the rearview mirror. The car was running, in reverse, her foot resting on the gas.
The second she was clear, she jammed out, then hit the brake hard when she got to the end of her driveway. A quick check both ways and she pressed the remote for the garage door. Once it was down she tore out again, tires squealing. How she wished he’d been in the way.
“THAT CAN’T BE RIGHT,” Christie said, shifting on the blue chair across from the bank’s vice president. “I’ve never had any dispute with the IRS.”