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CHAPTER3
Cannon
I reviewthe footage Jacobi took. Blood smeared on the mirrors. All over the floor. Bits of fur. I pop my gaze off the screen. We’re sitting in his office in his Malibu mansion. Windows surround us on two sides, and a deck lines the back of the house. I could go straight to the beach from here, where I want to fucking drown a bastard.
“The stalker has upped his game,” I mutter. No one deserves to be harassed like this. The image of her stumbling out of the studio makes my fingers curl into fists. I relax my hands. Professional detachment. I rely on it.
Jacobi clicks a pen and reviews the images on his screen. “She says the cameras haven’t been working, but they work just fine. They were shut off when the letters were left and when this happened.”
I’ve been looking into Penelope’s stalker. He doesn’t have to work hard to drop letters unnoticed to a girl who hasn’t had to watch her back for two minutes in her life. It was nothing for him to get into her studio and leave a letter or shut the camera off and leave a letter on her car. Absolutely nothing. And if she knew how little effort he had to expend, she’d be terrified.
Jacobi clicks his pen again. “I can get into traffic cams, see if I can find who’s doing this.”
I give him a sidelong look. “And what would London say about that?”
He glowers at me. His little wife would be pissed, and he knows it. She wants him to stay on the right side of the law. Although she might waver to help her friend.
I have no such restrictions. Even better, I don’t need traffic cams to help me narrow down who’s doing this. I already know. Penelope doesn’t, and that’s what makes this case suddenly so interesting—and deeply disturbing.
I’ve kept the information to myself until I know more. Dragging anyone else into it could complicate their lives. Jacobi’s got a wife and a career to worry about, and Elsa’s safer the less she knows. Kase might act too quickly and I’d be left with more questions than answers. So, no. The knowledge is for me alone.
“I’ve got it, Jake. You sit this one out.”
“London won’t mind. Penni’s distraught. She missed classes, and she needs to be business as usual now more than ever.” He’s been fine letting me take the lead. I know things have escalated, but there’s more behind his offer.
“Why?” Penelope Hughes is worth millions. At a glance, her dance studio in suburbia is nothing but a passion project to pass the time. The woman doesn’t need to work a day in her life.
“She’s getting divorced.”
My brows rise. This is what I get for holding back from watching her too closely. “Her husband left her?”
Jacobi shakes his head, and my shock climbs. “Her decision. She was going to stay at the studio tonight, but she’s in the guest room. Elsa hooked me up with former colleagues of hers from the maid service she used to work for. They cleaned the studio earlier this evening. I don’t think the police are going to find anything. Penelope got the typical ‘stay safe, change the locks, and don’t be alone’ talk from the police. According to them, there’s not much else to do.”
Penelope’s in more danger than she thinks. The stalker was bad enough, but if she sprang a divorce on her powerful husband?
“I think she should have a bodyguard,” I say, and Jacobi nods. Men like Roman view women as objects, and their wives are no different.
There’s more to Penelope than most people understand. She’s moving art when she dances, uninhibited and unrestrained. When she’s around London and Holland, she’s youthful and vibrant. Outside of those instances, she screams sweet and innocent from her wide green eyes and her quiet demeanor. Why the conflicting persona? I’ve been determined to find out.
News of the divorce changes things. It changes everything.
“I’ll look at some security companies,” Jacobi says. His fingers fly over the keyboard. I recognize the names of prominent close protection services in the area that cater to the rich and famous. “I’m sure we can find someone with an immediate opening.”
I manage to sound calm and not half-panicked when I say, “I’ll do it.”
“I don’t know if she likes you, dude.”
“Works better that way.” I’m not joking. If she dislikes me, this job will be easier.
Professional detachment.
He clicks the pen. The guy hardly uses ink. He’s all tech all the time. He probably has the pen to be an obnoxious ass. “She can’t pay you, and if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t work for free.”
I earn my damn money, but that doesn’t answer the major question I have. “Why can’t she afford it? She’s a fucking millionaire.”
“Roman’s the ‘fucking millionaire.’ She gets what he gives her, and I’m pretty sure that got cut off when the papers were delivered.”
“Her dad?” I don’t know her parents personally, but I researched them. They didn’t strike me as the type to drop their daughter off at a boarding school and leave her to the fate of the adults around her. Did they do that to her as an adult? “Her mom was the highest-earning actress at one time.”
