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I peer down. The snow melted off last month and the ground is soft and springy. There’s a slight depression in the old mulch my dad laid around the sidewalk and trees, but there’s no shoe print. No glaring evidence that says, “STALKER WAS HERE.”
“I’ll call Pressley in the morning,” I relent with a sigh. Detective Pressley is the woman who was finally assigned to my case after months of me getting the runaround from the cops. She’s the reason Marrow served any time at all, even though three months of an eighteen-month sentence seems grossly inadequate.
“For all the good that’ll do.” Davis flicks off the flashlight and hands it to me. “Go inside and I’ll park the car.”
I’d like to tell Davis to go home, but I don’t want to be alone in this big house tonight, which is yet another reason why kissing Adam would’ve been a huge mistake.
My head’s already a mess. I don’t need to screw up my heart, too.
Chapter Three
Landry
“He’s lying!” Davis fumes the next morning.
I drop my head in my hands, the frames of my spare glasses digging into my temples
“I know, but right now, what we have are two people who swear he was with them. You say that you saw a shadow. The girls you were with believe that it was either an animal or just the wind.” Detective Pressley gives us a regretful
look. “I want to help you, but the evidence isn’t there.”
Which is why I didn’t call her last night.
“Can’t you just present this stuff to the judge? He’s texting her and now he’s creeping around our house. Who else would it be?”
“We don’t have any evidence—no witnesses, no physical evidence, nothing—to show he’s violated the terms of his probation.”
“So I just wait for him to attack Landry again?” Davis interjects bitterly.
I slump farther down in my chair and poke a tongue at my sore lip. On Earth Two, my alternate life, Adam’s walking into my bedroom wearing nothing but a smile and carrying a cup of coffee. We just had the best sex of my life, and he’s eager for more.
Sadly, I’m on Earth One.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. We have to catch him in the act.” She taps the printout of messages I brought with me. The text messages look less ominous on the page, almost fake without the green and blue bubbles.
Where are you?
I forgive you.
I’m making plans. Don’t you worry.
“Catch him in the act? Like you want her to lure him to her house and have her get beat up again?” Davis is incredulous.
“Davis, stop it. I tripped and fell.” Besides, Pressley would never ask me to serve as bait. She’s the one who gave me the info about the self-defense class I took a year ago.
“This is bullshit,” Davis repeats. He abruptly gets to his feet and stalks out of the small room.
Pressley and I stare at each other in silence. My eyes drop to the cuff of her crisp white shirt. You can tell how long Pressley has been up by the condition of her shirt. At the start of her shift, it’s crisp. At two in the morning, it’s as crumpled as a wadded-up dollar bill. I like crisp Pressley best. You never want to see a detective late at night. It always means bad things.
“I hope you know I’d never suggest you put yourself in danger,” she says softly.
“I know.” I take a deep breath and rise. I shove away the fantasy of Earth Two and pull myself together. “I’m sorry for Davis. We’re frustrated.”
“I am, too,” she says. “I wish I could do something more for you, but I can’t trace these texts. We don’t have the budget for that kind of thing, even if it’s possible to trace them. Until we have proof that these messages are from him or we see him violating the restraining order, there’s nothing we can do. The law presumes that he’s innocent until proven guilty. Have you thought about changing your number?”
“This is the fourth number I’ve had in the last six months. But yeah, I’ll change it.” I try hard to keep the frustration out of my voice. This isn’t Detective Pressley’s fault, I remind myself in an effort not to completely lose my mind and lash out at the one person who’s provided actual help to me
“When he screws up—and he will—we’ll get him.” Her gaze flicks to the scar on my cheek—the one that Marrow left when he whipped a coffee mug at the side of my face during the attack that sent him to prison for the brief three months. “We’re not going to let you get hurt again.” She walks around that big desk of hers. “You have your safety kit?”
