Page 11 of The White Picket Fence

“Yeah. So the health department went in and found a ton of violations. My review didn’t shut the place down. His own negligence did. But he wasn’t just negligent. He was mentally ill and unraveling—and it showed up in his cooking and every other aspect of his restaurant.”

“He came after you.”

“He did. Took him months to figure out who I was.”

“How did he?”

“Bribed someone at the newspaper where I worked to give him tax info. Showed my real name and address. He was waiting for me when I got home one night, about a year ago.” She closed her eyes. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Tino reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Where is he now?”

Her eyes opened, her gaze dropping to their hands. “Prison. He was sentenced to eight years.”

“Not enough.”

“No. But I always wonder now if someone is following me. If someone is stalking me. And when I found Dottie lying in a pool of her own blood, I had to wonder if it was my fault. The man who attacked me was average in height with big hands. But there are a lot of men of average height with big hands, so it’s just me being paranoid again. I call it being hypervigilant, but I know I’m really just being paranoid. I can’t help it. I think I see him—or someone like him—every time I turn around. I think he’s hiding in the shadows. Behind a tree.” She made a face, looking embarrassed at the admission. “My therapist says to cut myself some slack, that it will be better soon.”

He kept his expression calm. He’d had a lot of practice over the years, staying calm while talking to victims or witnesses. But this wasn’t just any victim. This was Charlotte.

“I have to agree with your therapist. But your aunt’s assault can’t have been connected to yours. Your Memphis attacker is in prison.” Then he understood her fear about ongoing stalkers. “You’re still doing restaurant reviews?”

“I am. I’m more careful now and I’ve gone freelance. No one has access to my address and pay records other than the IRS. I even do my own accounting and tax prep.”

“I don’t blame you. Are you using the name you used before?”

“I am. I almost didn’t, but I couldn’t start all over again.”

“I get that,” he said gently, because she’d said it so apologetically. “You have to make a living.”

She nodded, looking relieved. “So now you know my big secret. You can tell Aunt Dottie that it’s just misplaced guilt because I wasn’t with her at the time.”

Tino managed not to shudder, but it was close. “If you’d been home, he might have hurt you, too.”

Her chin lifted. “Better me than a seventy-five-year-old woman who can’t defend herself.”

“Better that nobody gets hurt. But I get your point of view. You know how to defend yourself?”

“Now I do. I took classes targeted at people with disabilities.”

“Smart.” He smiled at her, shoving away his own roiling feelings of rage. Someone had put his hands on her, had hurt her. Had made her afraid. “Are you here in Philly permanently?”

Her expression tightened. “Yeah. Couldn’t stay in Memphis. Too many bad memories.”

He frowned, thinking things through. “But if you are reviewing Philly restaurants under your old moniker, then someone will know where to find you.”

She shook her head. “I take the train to New York or Baltimore. Do reviews there.”

That made him feel better—except it meant she was alone on trains.

Lots of women travel alone on trains and they’re fine.

But he wasn’t thinking about lots of women. He was thinking about Charlotte.

“Does your aunt know? About the assault?”

“No. I didn’t want her to worry, so I told her that I was just ready to come home. That wasn’t a lie.”

“Well, now I can tell your aunt that you’re okay.” Kind of. She was becoming okay, at least. “Thank you for telling me.”

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