Page 1 of Shadowing Her Stalker

Chapter One

Most of her life Cara Beckett dreamed of being one of those actors who had to wear a disguise to get through an airport undetected. Yet, here she was—rich, famous in a way she never imagined and completely incognito as she walked through Little Rock’s Bill and Hillary Clinton National Airport dressed in soft, faded jeans and a flowing white tunic.

When she booked her flight, it hadn’t even registered she’d be traveling on October 31. She’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of getting out of California to notice anything different at LAX. Then, when she changed planes in Dallas, a woman who was either dressed as a witch or channeling her inner sorceress sat down across the aisle from her in the first-class cabin. As the other passengers boarded, she noted at least three men dressed as a high-profile European soccer coach, a couple teenagers in full pop star mode and multiple women wearing sweaters or appliquéd sweatshirts with pumpkin or fall motifs. She’d forgotten all about Halloween.

For the first time in a week, she breathed easy. She was definitely not in LA anymore.

The young woman working the rental counter was wearing a wedding dress with strategically placed rips and tears and a smattering of bright red paint Cara supposed was meant to be blood. Her heart lodged in her throat as she inched closer to the counter. She was glad the girl didn’t know actual blood was darker. Thicker. And definitely didn’t smell like craft paint.

One week ago, Cara found out her personal information—full name, address and mobile phone number—had been posted on a forum favored by self-proclaimed tech wizards. Not being a techie herself, she’d never heard of the message board, nor had she thought the breach of privacy would turn out to be a real threat. She’d thought the doxing was puzzling. At first, she was annoyed. She couldn’t figure out why anyone would care who she was or where she lived. She wasn’t truly a big shot in the tech sector.

But her lack of industry credibility was exactly what angered the people coming after her. And in the last week they’d gone beyond angry to terrifying.

Someone attacked her neighbor Nancy as she walked her dog two nights ago. Nancy had paused to let her Pomeranian, Buster, use the tiny patch of meticulously maintained lawn in front of Cara’s Los Feliz property as his toilet, though Cara had expressly asked her not to. Cara found Nancy sprawled on the grass bleeding from stab wounds to her abdomen and side with her ever-faithful Buster barking his head off.

Nancy would recover, thank goodness, but the incident had left Cara shaken. She didn’t become truly terrified until detectives looking into the stabbing showed up at Cara’s door the night before asking if she had reason to believe someone would wish to harm her. They believed she had been the intended target. According to Nancy’s statements to the police, her assailant had called the name “Cara” when he jumped from the passenger seat of a nondescript gray sedan. He’d also repeatedly said, “Breathe in life,” while stabbing poor Nancy.

“Now, go out there and breathe in LYYF,” was the tagline Cara said at the end of each lesson or meditation offered by the app she’d helped create.

To some in the tech world, she was an actress who lucked into doing free voice-over work. They believed Chris Sharpe and Tom Wasinski were the geniuses behind LYYF, the lifestyle and social application downloaded on over seven hundred million mobile devices each year. She was simply the face. And the voice. Few would call her the key to the app’s success, though the truth was, the business hadn’t been going anywhere until she’d stepped in.

At times she wished she never had.

Curling her lips in, she bit down, breathing deep and evenly through her nose. She needed to keep her anxiety at bay for now. In ninety minutes, give or take, she’d be safe at home with her parents. All she had to do was get in a car and drive. Soon she’d be about as far from Los Angeles as a person could be—mentally, if not geographically. Far from a world where people measured every success against their own failures. In a place where internet and cellular service were both still spotty and the residents had more important things to worry about than whether they had Wi-Fi available 24-7.

Ahead of her, a man argued with the rental agent. Apparently the largest vehicle available was a midsize sedan and they’d reserved an SUV. She glanced over and saw a harried woman trying to keep track of three kids under the age of ten. Cara smiled sympathetically. It was clear both mother and father were fighting a losing battle.

When he finally stepped aside, resigned to shoehorning his family into the available Hyundai, she took her place at the counter with a wan smile. Holding up her phone so the agent could scan her reservation, she said, “I’ll take whatever you have.”

The young woman pulled up the reservation, asked Cara to answer the rental agreement questions on the tablet mounted to the counter and, with a relieved smile, offered her a map of the area.

Cara waved it away. “No, thank you. I know where I’m headed.”

“You can choose whichever car you like from section 104,” the agent said as she slipped a printed ticket into a sleeve and wrote “104” across the front in black marker. “Thank you and Happy Halloween.”

Cara took the paperwork from her. “Thanks,” she replied tiredly.

Making sure her massive leather tote was still riding securely atop her roller bag, she wheeled out of the line. The man behind her stepped up, peering closely at his phone, thumb scrolling frantically. “Hang on,” she heard him say to the clerk. “I can’t find my reservation email.”

Should have used the app, Cara thought as she strode toward the exit.

She spotted a ladies’ room and decided to stop. She had a long drive ahead and too much coffee in her system. After washing her hands, she flicked a few drops of cold water at her face in hopes of freshening up. By the time she exited, she saw a brown-haired man dressed in the Midwestern male uniform of khaki pants and a polo shirt making a beeline for section 104. There were only two cars parked there—identical silver subcompacts.

She smiled as he slowed to a halt behind her. “Should we flip a coin?” she asked.

He shook his head, but barely glanced in her direction as he held out a hand. “Ladies first.”

“Thanks.”

Too worn out to do anything but keep moving, Cara approached the vehicle on the left. Not bothering with the trunk, she stowed her roller bag in the back seat, then tossed her tote into the wheel well on the passenger side. The fob for the ignition was in the cup holder. She put her foot on the brake and pressed the button and the engine purred to life.

She saw the man move to the driver’s side of the rental beside hers as she pulled her door shut. Mentally mapping her route out of Little Rock, she was fastening her seat belt when the passenger door opened and the khaki-clad man dropped into the seat beside her.

“Don’t scream, no one’s around anyhow,” he said in a gruff whisper.

Wide-eyed, she stared at the gleaming weapon pointed at her.Gunmetal gray, her brain supplied unhelpfully. She looked up to find her new passenger had pulled a safety-orange balaclava down over his head and topped it with a leaf-and-twig-printed cap.

A flash of a long-forgotten trip to the feed store with her father came to mind. Home from California for Thanksgiving, she’d been about the only person in town not dressed in forest browns and bright orange. Her father had cracked himself up musing about how camouflage was never more effective than in the fall in Arkansas.

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