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I tell him I don’t. He asks about Jack Mooney and whether he’s a family member or if we’ve ever had a dating relationship.
“No,” I say. “I served on his jury fifteen years ago.”
His face is impassable. He listens to chatter on the radio.
“What should I do now?”
His eyes widen. “That’s the million dollar question.”
“What do you mean?” He’s calmer than I’d like him to be. I expect outrage. I expect him to be concerned, determined to fix this. Instead, he looks at me like this is a story he’s heard a million times before.
“Look out for yourself — but also understand—stalking is not easily defined outside of the relationships I mentioned.” He shakes his head. Then once again, leans his head toward his shoulder to listen to the chatter on his radio. He holds a button down and says something in response. “Not unless you catch the perp in the ac
t. And sometimes…not even then.”
I watch as he walks back to his car. He returns with a pamphlet, which he passes through the open window. His expression makes me feel like I’m about to officially become a member of a club I really don’t want to belong to.
He sighs. “Remember, you should report everything. All incidents. Even if it feels insignificant. What you’re doing is building a case. This guy is on parole. There are conditions he has to abide by. An officer he has to report to. Eventually, he’ll slip up—and get caught doing it. So it’s imperative that you request that each incident is documented, okay? Some officers—especially if there’s a lot going on—won’t take the time to write it up. Let them know you plan to request a copy of the report. And then do it.”
“Okay.”
“Also, you’ll wanna make sure you turn over any written correspondence. You’ll wanna report any phone threats to the law enforcement agency where the incident happened. Keep in mind—different jurisdictions will handle things differently. Put dates received on any and all correspondence from him. And last, know the name of the law enforcement officer involved with each incident. And that’s not just for your own records—I can’t tell you how important it is to make friends right now.”
“I see.” I glance down at the pamphlet in my hands. “Anything else?”
“Tell everyone. And I mean everyone. Give friends, co-workers, and neighbors a description of the guy. Ask them to document each time they see him. What he’s doing, what he’s driving, what he’s wearing. The time and date are vital as well.”
I swallow hard. I don’t tell him I’ve already heard all of this. From the police. From Alex. From the internet. Instead, I simply offer a weak smile. “Got it.”
“And take care of yourself, okay?”
I feel tears forming, starting way down at the back of my throat. A nod is all I can manage.
He pats my door. “Now, if you were my daughter…I’d tell you to arm yourself.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Good. If I were you, I’d listen.”
Chapter Twenty-One
There were mansions in Barton Creek, and then there were mansions. The Germond home is a mansion. A gorgeous Tuscan-style estate nestled among majestic trees in one of the city’s most desirable, exclusive, and expensive neighborhoods. I’m a little surprised Alex can afford this, not that it’s any of my business, except in this case he’s making it so.
Dana tells me he received a settlement from the accident. I hadn’t asked, but she’s full of gossip, and she wants to make sure everyone else is too.
I was supposed to show him this house yesterday. Instead, I went home and spent the rest of the day in bed. The tension started out as it normally does, snaking around my shoulders, radiating upward, attaching itself with a vise-like grip around my skull.
Greg had to leave work to pick up the girls, and though he wasn’t happy about having to cancel an afternoon full of meetings, when he arrived home to find me lying on the cold tile in between bouts of vomiting, he understood.
As we enter the formal dining area, I wonder what people do with this kind of space. Even though it’s staged, and staged well, I still can’t picture what one would do with it all, other than, well… stare at it.
“Are you sure you need this much room?” I ask. As the words fly out, it hits me how they might land. Pressing my lips together tight, I move on and into the kitchen to further avoid filling the empty space with words to mask my nerves.
“You might want to move in,” Alex says, catching me off guard. I hadn’t realized he was right behind me. His voice is startling, closer than I realized.
“Me?” I say, touching my chest. I turn on my heel. “I’m pretty happy where I am. In fact—”
“Amy—” He holds up one finger to shush me. “I know about Greg’s company.”
