“If she doesn’t? If I lose her?”
His look is stern. “You won’t lose her. She’ll know quickly after that it was all a ruse.” Isaac looks away. “I’ll have Tasha on standby. We’ll make sure it’s short suffering.”
I want to vomit. “And if this produces zero results except pissing me off and hurting Maeve?” It’s rhetoric, I have a feeling this is going to work. Because I’m slowly coming to the realization I’m the centerpiece, and Maeve is just a pawn trapped in the madness. “You know what? No.” I shake my head. “I’ll find another way.”
Tommy and Isaac look at each other and I can see them scheming. “Whatever is happening right now needs to stop. I’m serious.”
“Whatever, man. Let’s get out of here. I need to unwind. Today was intense,” Isaac says.
“I don’t like how this just stopped so suddenly,” I deadpan, grabbing my duffel bag and pelican case that houses my weapons. “Makes me think you’re up to no good.”
“Do you trust me?” Isaac says as Tommy jogs past us, more excited for booze than we are.
I quirk a brow. “Is this a trick question? You know I trust you.”
“Then you just need to trust me right now.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “You’re making me uncomfortable in all the wrong ways, man,” I admit. “Don’t do anything dumb.”
When we get outside, I inhale a deep breath of fresh air. The kill houses we practice in smell like gunpowder and must. Filling my lungs again, I blow it out. “Listen, I need to tell you something.”
“Spit it out,” I say, halting to face my friend. “No prefaces, just say it. I knew this plan sounded too insane, even for you.”
“I talked to Rena, Lincoln. I got in touch with her. Don’t ask me how,” he says, holding out a palm. “It wasn’t easy, and I called in multiple favors, but I talked to her. She’s going to be at this bar tonight because she wants to see you. You have to know she has something to do with this. She has to. The plan was so we can see how she reacts when you’re there with another woman.”
“You’re fucking serious? You were going to leave that little detail out? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
He looks away, slipping his hands in his pockets, guiltily. He meets my eyes. “I didn’t want to put you through that unless you had to know, man. I know Rena is the chink in your armor.” Not anymore, she’s not. She’s a long, distant memory. “If there was any chance of keeping you from seeing her and interacting with her, I wanted to take that route first. I should have known better. Now you see why this is important, at least? You’ve known she’s in Utah, and I just sort of asked on a whim if she was close and she is.”
My mind is spinning as I think about Rena and all of the things I try to block out. The potential to cross her off this suspect list is attractive. I can’t believe Isaac found her and contacted her. It’s hard to be pissed when I know he’s doing this for me… and for Maeve. My stomach churns with unease. But damn if Isaac is right, this may be the only opportunity to test this dual stalker theory, and fuck if my heart isn’t pounding in anticipation of seeing her.
Not the way it used to beat for her, though. No, now I know what real, reciprocated love feels like and I’m raging fucking mad. Mostly at myself for being so naïve, but she can’t avoid blame with all of her lies and empty promises. I’m finally going to get the chance to tell her so, and God help her if she is playing a part in this stalking bullshit.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MAEVE
Turner went to sleep after we built a LEGO, read two stories, and danced to his favorite song all over the house. He’s such a joy to be around, and despite thinking I never wanted kids, I’ve now realized I hadn’t yet met a kid I actually wanted. This kid is hands down wonderful in every way. When he looks at me sometimes, he seems to shake hands with my soul. It feels like he’s a part of me in some way.
His energy tires me out, and at day’s end, I fall into the bed face first and sleep a dreamless sleep until my alarm wakes me in the morning. Except tonight it’s still dark when my phone chimes. I’ve been sleeping with it beside my bed now. Since the scary stuff started happening, but also because Lincoln and I talk nonstop at night. Fumbling in the dark, I grab the phone and crack one eye against the bright light. It’s a series of blurry photos from an unknown number. The feeling I get when an unknown number morphed from annoyance to fear. Is that Lincoln? Maybe. The first photo looks like a male human in movement.
I click on my bedside lamp and let my eyes adjust. The second photo is less blurry and is definitely Lincoln. I recognize the flannel shirt. I removed it from his body and threw it on his bedroom floor last week. The third image is clearer of him, and it’s like whoever is sending these is building up to something… bad. I thumb down again and next is a photo of Lincoln getting into the back seat of a car I don’t recognize with a woman. My stomach lurches as my hand trembles. The last photo is a closeup of the woman nuzzling into Lincoln’s neck in the back seat of the car. The shot is from long distance through the windshield.
I have to remind myself to breathe. Out of all of the ways he
