Page 51 of Shadowing Her Stalker

“So, yeah, maybe it’s time for us to be more proactive about security. For you, and maybe all three of us?”

Cara couldn’t remember the last time Chris’s innate confidence had seemed so shaken. Now she wished she could have her old cavalier Chris back. His obvious worry made her feel all the more exposed. Picking up the pen Wyatt abandoned, she twirled it through her fingers like a baton.

“Maybe. I’ll look into it,” she promised, her gaze darting back up to Wyatt.

“Let me know how things are when you get back to LA,” Chris insisted. “When are you coming east?”

Not wanting to be pinned down to anything resembling a schedule, she kept her answer as vague as possible. “I’ll be there a day or two before to do any media you want me to handle and will probably beat a path out of there right after. You know I’m not a New York girl.”

“Some actor you are,” he teased, echoing an old refrain. “Aren’t you all supposed to claim to want to have a serious stage career?”

“Not me,” she answered, trying to muster some of her old bravado as she tossed out the line he expected from her. “I never said I wanted to be an actress. I want to be a star.”

“You are a star,” Chris replied. “The investors love you. We all do. Be careful and I’ll see you next week.”

Three long beeps sounded to indicate the end of the call. She pressed her lips together to stave off an unexpected rush of emotion. Dropping the pen to the table with a clatter, she pushed back and escaped the dining room before Wyatt could get a word out. She didn’t know what to say anymore. Everything seemed to be the opposite of what it should be.

Roscoe lifted his big, square head and let out a soft woof when she pushed through the screen door onto the porch. She stood at the rail, her arms crossed tight across her chest, staring out at the spot where the old house once stood. Her jaw clenched tight, she shivered when the crisp autumn breeze cut through the cotton sweatshirt she wore. Tugging the sleeves down over her hands, she scowled down at the discount store athletic wear. Why hadn’t Zarah included some regular clothes? Did she think Cara would be practicing sun salutations and Savasana while on the run from her tormentors?

Cara clamped down on her uncharitable thoughts, her fingers biting into the thin cotton fabric as she hugged herself again. Zarah had done her best. She’d found clothing and other necessities at a store with delivery while sitting in her snug home office over a thousand miles away. She should be grateful for the ease and comfort of the clothing. For her safety. She should be happy there were other people who were glad she was alive. And she was.

“Cara?”

The quiet, husky timbre of Wyatt’s voice sent a different sort of shiver through her. Roscoe, who’d settled back in his customary repose, did little more than open an eye. Her cheeks flamed as she heard the hinges on the screen door squeak. She didn’t dare turn to look at him.

“You want me to grab one of your mom’s jackets?”

“I’m okay.”

She clearly wasn’t. Cara could almost feel him struggling to suppress the urge to argue the point. But to his credit, he retreated, the hinges creaking again. “How about I put on a fresh pot of coffee?”

A sob rose in her throat. Cara bludgeoned the knot of emotion with a short, sharp laugh. “I thought you were worried about spinning eyeballs.”

“I’m a cop. I’m trained to withstand torturous levels of overcaffeination. I was worried about your eyeballs.”

She turned to look at him, hoping he’d assume the color in her cheeks came courtesy of the wind. “Thank you. I wasn’t quite up to my eyeballs yet, but didn’t want you to feel emasculated.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he intoned gravely. He reached out to the side, pulled a fleece-lined denim jacket from the hall tree and popped the screen door open wide enough to thrust it at her. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to talk.”

She gave herself no more than five minutes to stew, sulk and otherwise sort through the swirl of conflicting emotions before she headed back into the house. Roscoe opted to relinquish his sunny spot in favor of shelter as well. She shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on its customary hook before following the old dog to the kitchen.

Wyatt was measuring grounds into the basket when she entered the room. Rather than jumping in to help him, Cara stopped at the table and watched. His movements were economical, but fluid. Almost graceful. He was comfortable moving around her parents’ kitchen. She’d never pictured herself bringing a man home. Not that she’d brought him there in any sort of romantic way. But she’d never pictured it at all.

She’d never invited Chris or Tom to accompany her on trips home. Like most people from the coast, they considered anyplace west of Philadelphia akin to traveling to the outback. Tom had been offered an obscene amount of money to speak at a prestigious convention in Chicago and refused. To her partners, the middle of the country was an unappealing wilderness filled with dangerous creatures and backward people.

As Wyatt poured water into the coffee maker’s reservoir, she felt an unexpected twist of sympathy for them. They would never know the pleasure of waking to the scent of strong black coffee and fresh-baked biscuits. They’d never know what a relief it was to have conversations with people who spoke slowly, choosing their words with thought and ending their sentences declaratively, rather than as questions. And there was no doubt in her mind which rock they needed to kick over next.

She gripped the back of her father’s chair. “I think you’re right. We need to take a closer look at Chris and Tom.”

Wyatt stilled for a moment, then reached for the dishcloth hanging beside the sink to wipe his hands. When he turned to face her, his eyes were full of sympathy and a familiar resolve. “Ryan Hastings said the same thing. He says the threat almost always stems from a source close to the vic—uh, person of interest.”

She gave him a wan smirk. “Thanks for not calling me a victim.”

“You aren’t one.” He pulled a coffee mug closer. “Maybe we need to look at Zarah too.”

Cara shrugged. “She doesn’t have anything to gain from getting rid of me, though.”

“True.” He hit the button to start the coffee brewing, then gestured to the kitchen table. “But she seems to be in the middle of everything.”

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