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It’s not real likely when the criminal profiles between stalker and murderer normally don’t overlap. Especially when he’s doing this petty shit, but if he keeps escalating, that’s where that Venn diagram starts looking more like a circle.
Still, I can’t help thinking Delilah is dangerously close to being Montero’s type.
Dark hair, slender, curves for miles, long legs on a short frame made for sin.
Eyes full of stars, bursting with dreams.
Celeste was like that, too.
My sister wanted to be a singer, a Swiftie from the start, and always hoping to wind up on the big stage with pop stars like Milah Holly and Easterly Ribbon.
Montero promised to hook her up in the music industry.
What would he promise Delilah, to lure this butterfly into his spiderweb of unspeakable fuckery?
It’s already started.
That desk, the bracelet, the compliments.
Using that smarmy fuck Ulysses as bait to draw Delilah into the fold.
Ollie might be the one who gifted that desk, but I don’t doubt for a second that Montero magically made room in the school’s budget for it.
“Lucas.” Grant waves a hand in front of my face. “You still here?”
“Yeah,” I mutter grimly. “Tell you what, I want to get Montero Arrendell into interrogation and ask him some questions.”
Grant stares at me, his jaw clenched. “That’s unwise and you know it. Not unless you’re packing enough evidence for a warrant—real evidence. One word in Bowden’s ear and he’ll have you fired.”
“Don’t care, Cap.” Past Grant’s broad bulk, I watch Delilah lingering by her gate, staring blankly at the patrol car Grant and Henri arrived in. “I care about making sure no one hurts her.”
Grant snorts. “What? And you think Montero Arrendell is sneaking around in the middle of the night, peeping in girls’ windows and painting bloody warnings on their walls? Come on, man.”
“Not him,” I mutter. “But there are plenty of folks in this town that they own, and you know it.”
“Like our boss, you mean.” Grant gives me a long, measured look. “Just be careful, Graves. I know you’ve caught feelings for this girl, but don’t let any personal shit cloud your judgment. We can’t haul in Montero Arrendell on vapor. Only gonna say this once—find something ironclad or drop it.”
“Got it,” I snap.
He’s being fair, but the trouble is it might be too late for that.
Slowly, Henri and Grant clear out.
Henri promises he’ll stay on night patrol and do a few swings through the town until morning, just in case he catches anyone creeping around.
There’ve been a few neighbors peeping out their windows by now. The gossip factory’s going to be in overdrive by morning with crime tape roping off a square of Delilah’s lawn and flashing patrol cars rumbling up the street.
That’s a tomorrow problem, though.
Tonight, there’s just me and Delilah, and she’s locked up inside herself in this nervous little knot that makes me worry like hell.
“Hey.” I approach her slowly, no sudden moves, offering my hand. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll make some tea to settle your nerves.”
She chokes back a sound that’s almost a sob, scrubbing at one eye as she gives back a weak, tired smile. “It’s my house. I should be making you tea, mister.”
But she slips her hand into mine.
Her fingers are so cold.
I hold them tight—goddamned reverently—as I coax her to the porch and up inside the house. It’s looking neater than the last time I saw it with her stuff unpacked.
She’s chosen a minimalist style that makes the most of small spaces, turning the place homey.
“I ain’t the one who’s upset,” I point out, closing the door behind us and waiting for her to rearm the security system. “I’m just pissed.”
“But why?”
“Because some shithead’s trying to scare you. If I catch ’em, I’m afraid of what I might do, Miss Delilah.” I squeeze her hand again, guiding her over to her new sofa, this deep cushy thing in off-white linen. “Can’t say I like that too much.”
She drops down on the couch, staring at our clasped hands.
I sink down on one knee in front of her, searching her pale face.
“Do you fuss this much over every new girl in town? Or is it just the ones who show up with dead bodies and stalker exes?” she asks.
“Nah, just you.” I don’t even hesitate. Fuck, I’m smiling as my thumb grazes her knuckles. “Let me make you that tea. Then we’ll talk.”
She winces, her eyes darkening. “...oh, yeah. Right.”
“Not about that,” I snap off. “Well, hell, come to think of it, we should talk about that eventually, but only when you’re feeling better.” I give her hand another reassuring squeeze before I stand. “Be right back.”
Her eyes follow me almost desperately into the kitchen.
The kettle’s already on the stove. I get the water going and check cabinets till I find a pack of herbal chamomile tea bags and a couple mugs.
