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“I got another letter. This time, it was in my car.” I slide the newest arrival onto his desk. His heavy brow drops as he gazes at it like he is wondering why I’m showing it to him. I push it closer to him. “My car is always locked.”
He clears his throat and finally opens the letter. He scans it for two seconds and drops it back on his desk. “I’ve looked through your security footage. Like you saw, the guy wears a hoodie and is quick. And good with locks. Have you done what I asked?”
I nod. I’m supposed to watch who’s following me in traffic and observe whether I notice the same vehicle parking close to me when I’m at work. “I haven’t noticed anything.”
Newland scrubs his face with a beefy hand. “Did you bring your security footage from the last week?”
I dig a USB out of my tote bag. Newland says thumb drives are more discreet, but I don’t think he can afford cloud storage for file sharing. I have to download each day before the day’s end when it records over the previous day. I haven’t told Roman. He doesn’t need another excuse to shit on my dance studio. I haven’t told my former dance partner, Pierre, about the letters either. He teaches with me at the studio, but they target me. I hate to worry him.
Newland accepts the USB. “I’m sorry I don’t have more news, Penni. Unfortunately, these cases sometimes don’t give us leads until your stalker’s behavior escalates.”
A stalker. My stomach clenches. Isn’t an emotionally abusive husband enough? I have another man in my life who thinks he owns me?
“I understand. I’ll swing by next week with more footage unless something else comes up.”
“Can you hire a bodyguard?”
And that’s why I haven’t fired Newland. I’m a paycheck, but I’m also a person. He wants to help, even though his skills could be sharpened. Unfortunately, any bodyguard I could afford would be on par with Newland Jablonski, PI. “Not at this time.”
His gaze swings toward the door, and I know what he’s thinking. I drive a Mercedes that cost what some people make in a year. I might lose the car in the divorce, but I’m using it until Roman pries the keys out of my hand.
“I don’t want to worry my husband. He can be…” I made sure the confidentiality clause I signed with Newland kept my case between me and him.
Newland’s mouth purses and his gaze drops down my body before he yanks it back to my eyes. I know what he sees—long, lean legs. My fitted pink shirt doesn’t hide my flat stomach, and it accentuates the delicate flare of my hips. My dark, sleek hair shines under his fluorescent light. And from the knowing and pitying look in Newland’s eyes, I know what he thinks. His judgment is accurate. I’ve had five years to come to terms with my life. I snagged a man with money because of my looks, but I have no power in the relationship.
The car was Roman’s purchase. His wife needs to look the part in all aspects of her life. I walk more gracefully than any other wife or business associate he comes across. I’m cultured. I grew up in his world, and I know how it works. He can be the married, and therefore stable, corporate tycoon. I’m tied to his image because he wills it. I’m both a tool and a trophy, nothing more.
And maybe that’s why the letters expedited the end of our marriage. When a stalker pays more attention to me than my husband does, something’s broken.
* * *
“I don’t meanto be a pain.” London’s voice filters through my car speakers as I drive to my studio. “And I know you didn’t want me or Holland at the PI’s, but—”
“You’re worried, and it’s either call me or ask your husband to hack my shitty PI?”
“Is he really that bad? The PI, not Jacobi. I know he’ll hack in a heartbeat if I ask him.”
A heartbeat is probably all the time Jacobi would need. I don’t think Newland goes as far as using different passwords. “I don’t think he’s going to be able to help me.”
“I’m sure Kase and Cannon could.”
“No,” I say so quickly I almost jerk the steering wheel to the side. Kase and Cannon are Jacobi’s friends. I haven’t spent a lot of time around either of them. Kase is nice enough. He plays at being carefree, but he can’t hide the gravity and keen observation in his gaze. He’s always assessing, and I can’t tell what or why.
Then there’s Cannon. The guy wears permanently rumpled clothing, and London made a comment that he couch surfs—only I don’t think the couches are his buddies’. Fuck buddies, maybe. He is unrepentant about how he lives, which is fine. I don’t care what decisions he makes or who he sleeps with. It’s how he looks at me. Like I’m a combination of a poster girl for everything he can’t stand in a woman and a rich bitch not even worth one second of his time.
I’m probably both, so who am I to argue? It’s why I prefer to stay away from him.
“Cannon is a PI too.”
I let out the most undignified snort. Is he paid to find where women shed their underwear around him? “I’ll take my chances with Newland.”
I pull into the parking lot. My dance studio takes up one end of a strip mall. I find a spot a few rows away, saving the closer spots for my students’ parents.
“I’m worried, Penni.”
“Me too. It’ll be fine. It’s just some…” I don’t know. Who grows up and becomes a stalker? I transfer the call from my car’s speakers to my phone. “Right now, it’s just letters.”
I grab my tote and my keys and get out. Slinging the tote over my shoulder, I cradle my phone between my shoulder and ear. Of all times, I shouldn’t be walking through a parking lot on the phone. But it’s the middle of the day.
