Page 53 of Perfect Stalker

“Of course I’m okay,” he says, sounding bewildered. “I was just getting a trim and shave for the party. What’s happening?”

“The photo was a ruse.” My hands grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. “Dammit.” The pieces click together like a twisted puzzle—Jenny’s warnings about Stephen’s Photoshop skills and Alexei’s smug certainty.

“What photo? Ivan, talk to me,” says Marcus, his voice crackling with static through the phone. “Did something happen?”

The engine roars as I slam the accelerator. Tires screech against asphalt when I wrench the wheel, executing a sharp U-turn that sends my phone sliding across the seat.

“Get to the penthouse now,” I say harshly into the speaker, cutting through traffic with deadly precision. Fear claws at my throat when I picture Jenny alone in my home. That’s better than if she never made it back there. What if they got her between the clinic and the penthouse? “It’s Jenny. Alexei’s real target is Jenny. That son of a bitch used you as a distraction to split up our forces.”

Cars honk while I weave between them, but their protests fade into white noise. All I can think about is getting back to her before Alexei does. Before I lose everything that matters.

“Anyone in position yet?” I shout into the phone, jerking the wheel to dodge a minivan. The rev of my engine drowns out their honking.

“Two minutes out,” says Marcus, his voice crackling through the speaker.

“Not good enough.” I slam the accelerator harder, watching the speedometer climb. “That bastard played us, Marcus. Every guard, every defensive position—he manipulated exactly where he wanted us.”

“Ivan—”

“No. Get everyone back now. We have to find Jenny.” The screech of my tires punctuates each word while I swerve around a delivery truck. Red and white taillights streak past like laser beams. “Where’s Andre? Daniil?”

Marcus pauses, and he sounds reluctant to tell me when he says, “I haven’t heard from them.”

“Dammit.” I pound the steering wheel. Rage and fear battle in my gut as downtown Atlanta’s glass towers loom ahead. Ten minutes. I’m still ten minutes away. “Call Jenny again. Keep trying until she answers. I’ll do the same.”

The line goes dead, and I floor it through a yellow light, counting every heartbeat until I reach her. I tell my car system to dial her number, but it rings before going to voice mail. The same words play in my head with each pulse:Please be safe. Please be safe. Please be safe.

Headlights blind me as I whip around the corner, and my tires squeal against wet asphalt. A white van materializes out of the darkness, barreling straight at me. It’s keeping up with me when I turn the wheel, and a glimpse at the driver in the headlights reveals an ugly mug with a long scar. The kind of man who’s seen and done terrible things, so running me off the road is nothing to him.

“No, no, no.” I wrench the steering wheel left, trying the opposite direction, though I can’t evade the van’s proximity. The tires scream in protest.

The van slams into my passenger side, at least, sparing me a direct T-boning or head-on collision. Metal shrieks and buckles. The windshield cracks into one big spiderweb, though a few chunks break loose, showering me with tiny crystals that bite into my skin. My head snaps sideways as the car spins, the world blurring into streaks of light and shadow. My stomach lurches as the vehicle lifts, suspended in a moment of terrible silence.

The last thing I hear is Marcus shouting my name through the phone before consciousness slips away like water through my fingers.

CHAPTER 20

JENNY

Iwalk beside Andre toward the SUV after leaving the clinic, my newfound knowledge pressing down on me. The bustling city street seems surreal, a stark contrast to the life-altering news I’ve just received. I need time to process, to breathe, before I can even think about telling Ivan.

“I have an errand to run at the mall,” I say to Andre and Daniil.

“Of course, Ms. Graham,” says Daniil in his thickly accented English.

The drive to the mall is a blur of neon signs and honking horns. My mind races, replaying the doctor’s words over and over. Pregnant. I’m pregnant with Ivan Markov’s child. The knowledge keeps repeating, but it doesn’t feel entirely real yet. It inspires equal parts excitement and terror to contemplate.

We pull up to the upscale jewelry store on the mall’s perimeter. Its separate entrance is a small mercy; I’m not sure I could handle the chaos of the main mall right now. The cool airconditioning washes over me as I step inside with Andre lingering a few feet behind me. Soft lighting glints off display cases filled with precious gems and metals.

“Welcome back, Ms. Graham.” The sales associate greets me with a warm smile. “Your order is ready.”

I nod, forcing a smile in return. “Thank you.”

As she retrieves the watch I selected when shopping with my mom from the back, I stare at the displays. A delicate diamond pendant catches my eye, and I imagine a little girl wearing it—our daughter. The thought makes my stomach quiver.

“Here you are,” says the associate when she returns, presenting a sleek black box. “Would you like to inspect it?”

I open the box, revealing the platinum white-gold watch I picked out for Ivan nestled inside. It’s perfect—elegant and understated, just like Ivan. For a moment, I forget my worries, imagining the look on his face when he opens it on Christmas morning.

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