Page 20 of Shadowing Her Stalker

“I gave it to Zarah. She may have passed it along to Tom or Chris,” she speculated.

He nodded, but neither of them reached for the phone despite another insistent buzz.

“I suppose you should check it,” he said at last.

A chill of apprehension ran down her spine as she leaned over to grab the phone. The screen sprang to life, and Cara sucked in a sharp breath when she saw the number in the little red circle. Seven. Someone had sent seven text messages to her phone. She opened the first.

856-784-4544: Have you missed us, Cara?

773-238-5795: Did you think we wouldn’t be able to tell you rerouted us?

413-648-7993: I don’t think she wants to talk to us anymore. I’m hurt.

630-721-9173: Hear she’s run away to Arkansas, of all places.

325-545-1899: Arkansas sounds...like Arkansas. I bet Cara has ditched her shoes, cut off her jeans, and is kissin’ a cousin right now.

213-566-5487: I can’t believe some hick from a flyover state thinks she can cash in on Chris and Tom’s genius because she slept with one or both of them back in the day. Where is Arkansas, anyway?

565-982-1167: You breathing LYYF in, Cara? Does the air taste better in Ar-Kansas?

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“What?” Wyatt leaned over to get a look at the screen.

“They’re texting this number,” she said, jerking her gaze up to meet his.

“What?”

“They know we were forwarding calls and messages,” she said, eyes wide. “They must have somehow traced the forwarding back to this number.”

The phone in her hand vibrated again, and she jerked so violently she squeezed it from her grip. Bobbling the device, she let out a gusty whoosh of breath when Wyatt caught and held it still in his steady hand. Then, Cara read the latest entry.

228-798-1163: It’s nice here, isn’t it, Cara. Warm days and cool nights. Isn’t sweater weather the best?

She began to shake. “Oh, no,” she murmured, shaking her head. It started out a slow denial but grew more adamant with each swing. “No. No. No. They can’t come here.” She turned pleading eyes on Wyatt, unable to hide behind a mask of cool any longer. “We can’t go to my parents’ house.”

“We’re going to your parents’ house,” he replied, pressing the button to power down the phone.

“But we can’t. I can’t.” Her voice grew sharper with agitation. “I can’t bring all this to their doorstep. They didn’t want me to be a part of this from the very start. I can’t show up with a passel of stalkers hot on my tail.”

“Understood,” he said in an annoyingly calm tone. “But there isn’t a passel of stalkers following you.”

“Didn’t you read what they said? It is sweater weather. They know where we are going.”

“They do not. Those texts were all sent through an autodialer. The phone numbers were too random. Someone may know you flew into Little Rock, and they may figure you know people here, but it doesn’t mean they know where you were heading.”

“They emailed my mother a ransom demand,” she practically shouted at him.

“Because they found someone with the name Beckett in your address book on an ancient email account,” he countered. “They got lucky.”

“No one gets that lucky,” she argued.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter. When I spoke to your mother, she said the first thing she did was pick up the phone and call her friend the lieutenant governor’s office. From a landline,” he added. “She didn’t reply to the email or forward it to anyone from her account.”

“Paul Stanton,” was all she could manage to mutter.

“Your mother didn’t do anything but open the message. They have no way of knowing they hit a bull’s-eye.”

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