“You’re paranoid. McCarthy is in your head.”
The wind howls through the tall office buildings.
I’m walking through McCarthy’s development. Most of the offices are dark and empty. The shops are all closed. It’s spooky.
I want a hot shower. Longingly, I think of that ginormous tub full of steaming water in McCarthy’s master bathroom.
Truman whines in his bag.
All I’d have to do is admit I was wrong and I could be in that tub right now, maybe with a big bowl of fresh, handmade pasta… and listen to McCarthy be smug and insufferable about it?
No thanks.
But I could at least get dry.
Anton waves when he opens the lobby door for me. “I’ll tell McCarthy you’re coming up.”
“Let’s not be hasty. I’m just going to pick up something I left in the car earlier, then I’ll be out.”
“Sure thing.” He swipes the card for the elevator and holds the door for me.
The SUV, sleek and black, is fortunately unlocked when I sneak into the parking garage. I huddle up in the back seat.
Truman shakes off as I slowly unbutton my soaking-wet blouse with numb fingers and kick off my shoes.
I don’t have the car keys to turn on the heat, but being out of the rain is enough.
With the wet clothes drying on the back of the driver’s seat, I curl up on the bench seat of the SUV, in my bra and panties. The seat smells a little like McCarthy. Closing my eyes, I imagine I’m back in his penthouse, snuggled in that big warm bed. And no, not like that, because in my fantasy, McCarthy’s taking a long business trip to Australia, and I have the whole place to myself.
My phone, in its little phone pouch attached to my Stanley cup, dings.
Don’t look at it.
But I have to. I have to know.
It’s a photo of me, drenched, from maybe twenty minutes ago.
The car.I knew it.
I’m shaking now and not just from my rapidly drying skin.
It’s not a “stalker” anymore; it’s astalker. Someone is after me.
“You’re safe here,” I whisper to myself. McCarthy’s not letting anyone into this tower. He has the whole thing locked down. Sure, some lasagna and a warm blanket would be nice, but we’re safe, we’re—
A huge gloved hand slams against the window of the SUV.
Screaming, I scramble back.
“Lock, lock!” I scream. The doors click right as my stalker tries the handle.
“Help! Someone, please!”
He crosses in front of the car, all apex predator, a black shadow in the dim light of the garage.
How did he find me? How did he get in here? There’s a gate.
I scream made-up curse words as the windows shatter, the squares of tempered glass raining on me like glitter. Gloved hands grab me, one on my neck, the other hooking under my arm to pull me, flailing, through the blown-out glass.
