Page 26 of Shadowing Her Stalker

“I traced a debit card Mr. Griffin used to buy gas at a station near the airport.”

An incredulous laugh burst out of him. “He topped off the rental before he returned it? What kind of a criminal is this guy?”

“A dead one,” Emma said bluntly. “I’m thinking he filled up his own vehicle. It was parked outside his double-wide when the sheriff’s deputies got there a little while ago. They identified themselves when they knocked. Mr. Griffin responded with a single gunshot.”

Grimacing, Wyatt tore his gaze from Roscoe’s sweet face and focused instead on the mud-splattered utility vehicle James Beckett had left parked on the other side of the fence. “He shot himself.”

It was neither a question nor a statement, so Emma’s only response was to expel a long breath.

“Notice anything unusual when you were poking around in his financials?”

“Depends. If you consider a series of deposits under ten K apiece made over the past few days unusual, then yes.”

“I take it Griffin hadn’t been getting regular direct deposits before?” he asked, knowing the question was a mere formality.

“Only his unemployment draw,” Agent Parker responded tiredly.

“So we’re assuming someone paid him to take her.” Wyatt nodded as he allowed the pieces of information gathered to settle into place. “Safe to assume the payments came from encrypted accounts?”

“Yep. Offshore and numbered.”

“And you’re digging into his online activity?”

“Yeah. Nothing directly tying him to Cara Beckett, but ugh, the dude totally suffered from main character syndrome.”

She scoffed in such a derisive way, Wyatt ached to refrain from asking her meaning. He already felt like he was aging out in the cyber world as it was, but he needed to know. “Main character syndrome?”

“Thinks he’s the main character in every story, you know? Reading his posts you’d never guess he was driving a rusty compact and living in a run-down trailer out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Delusional?”

“I’d say more aspirational,” Emma hazarded. “From what I can see, grabbing Cara at the airport wasn’t the only odd job he’s picked up.”

“Other abductions?” Wyatt pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, wondering if this Griffin guy was some sort of kidnapper for hire.

“Nothing I can find. Lots of other things, but nothing this big. Skimming ATM cards, robbery—both commercial and residential—random credit card scams, pretty much a jack-of-all-trades.”

Behind him the screen door opened, and the dog let out a low snuffling sound. He didn’t need to look to know Cara was standing on the porch waiting for him. He could feel her stare.

“Okay, well, keep digging. Thanks for the intel.”

He ended the call, then did a quick search for the termmain character syndromeon his go-to slang database. A quick scan of various entries made him wonder when they’d stopped calling people plain old narcissists. He turned and found Cara sitting on the top step, feeding the dog bits of her peanut butter crackers as he gazed at her adoringly.

“News?”

The knowing trepidation in her tone told him she’d seen or heard enough to be wary. “Yeah. We identified the man who carjacked you.” He crossed back to the porch, but stopped when his foot came to rest on the bottom step. “Unfortunately, when officers went to his home to speak to him, he, uh...” He hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no good way to break the news. “He killed himself before he could be questioned.”

She dropped the sandwich, and her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut as she murmured, “No no no no no,” against her fingertips.

Wyatt scooped up the remains of the sandwich before old Roscoe could get his paws under him, then took a seat on the step beside her. “You know it is not your fault,” he said, pitching his voice low.

“I know,” she whispered. But it was clear from the rigid set of her shoulders she didn’t truly believe what she was saying.

“I’m not even going to go into all the ways this man’s choices were not your responsibility,” he continued, steamrollering whatever internal meltdown she was currently experiencing. “You need to get there yourself.”

“I know,” she repeated, sounding the slightest bit steadier. “Who was he?”

“A guy out of Garland County named Gerald Griffin. Sound familiar?”

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