Page 48 of Hell or High Water

“I don’t know,” she said in a raspy voice. “I don’t know,” she repeated, and I saw her tremble again.

I reined in my anger the best I could, but the burn in my chest was turning into a blaze. I needed some kind of answer. Something more thanI don’t know. This wasn’t the first letter. The writer had made it sound like there had been many. And he’d watched her sleep? Left a note beside her? Fucking psycho.

The terror in her gaze wasn’t helping me calm down.

“Where did you get this?” I asked her.

She pointed at the seat of my truck.

“This was in my truck?” I had to be misunderstanding her. My truck had been locked.

She nodded her head and crossed her arms tightly around her chest.

“My doors were locked. This truck has an alarm system on it. There is no way this was in my truck. Where did you leave your purse? Or your book bag? Maybe it fell out from either of those.”

She shook her head. “It didn’t. My things were never in the seat. They were all in the floorboard, and this”—she paused and took a deep breath—“this was in the seat.”

There was no way. I’d just check the security cameras and show her that no one had come near my truck. She was just shaken up. The fucker had apparently gotten into the house she’d been staying at in Monroe. That would shake anyone up.

“This letter mentions other letters,” I told her.

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Twelve.”

Twelve? Fuck.

“Where did you find the other letters?” I felt bad about grilling her with questions, but I needed answers so I knew where to track the son of a bitch who had been leaving these. The fact that he knew my name infuriated me.

“The first one was on the doorstep of my house the day after Momma died,” she said quietly, as if she was afraid he was near and could hear her. “The second was attached to flowers he sent to her funeral. The third was in my locker the day I returned to school. The fourth in my mailbox…” She paused and licked her lips. “The fifth was on the desk where I always sat in Chemistry. The sixth was on the front door. Taped. The seventh was there too. The eighth was in a bag of groceries I picked up after school.” She shook her head. “I was with that bag the entire time. I can’t figure out how…”

She’d come here because she’d been scared. The guilt that came with that realization wasn’t helping my need for destruction.

“Anyway, ninth was in my locker again. Tenth was on one of the boxes of things I moved out of the house the day it was cleared out completely. The eleventh…” She hesitated. Although the letter had already told me where the eleventh one had been, I wanted to hear her tell me. “It was on the coffee table beside the sofa I had been sleeping on after selling the house. A friend of Momma’s let me stay there, but he…he got inside. He left a note. I…it wasn’t safe for her or me.”

I prepared myself for what I was about to ask because when I went to Linc, I needed all the facts. Shit he’d not cared to find out and ask because she was just a problem in his estimation. Her life was of no consequence to him. But he’d left me with her, and I’d started to fucking care about her life.

“Is this why you called Baskin?” I asked.

She blinked, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. I was ready to put my fist through the windshield of my truck.

“Yes.”

Fucking hell. She’d been desperate all right. But not for the reasons we’d assumed. She had been running away from a stalker. And she’d called the only person she knew to call. Someone who didn’t live in Monroe.

“And this is the twelfth letter?”

She nodded. “Yes. He…he found me. I’ll have to go somewhere. Move again. I just don’t know where.” Hearing the franticness in her words felt like someone was shoving spikes into my chest.

“You’re not going anywhere. This fucker”—I held up the note—“has messed with the wrong man.”

I didn’t believe he’d gotten in my truck. But he’d stuck the damn note in something of hers. She’d only been at school one day, but that was the only time I could think that he would have had the chance to get close to her.

I stuck the letter in my back pocket and gently took her wrist to pull her to me, then closed the truck door. When she was inches from my chest, I wrapped both arms around her. She was stiff and unsure. I’d never embraced her before.

“I’ll handle this. You’re safe with me. The cabin is safe. I swear,” I reassured her.

She laid her cheek against my chest, but said nothing. I knew she didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t blame her really. I’d done nothing to earn her trust. But I was about to start.

Twenty-One

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