“I keep tabs on you. Always have. I can’t let go, Rylee. I refuse to give you up.”
She waited for an itch, a tingle of sentiment, and felt nothing.
Should she ask him about Paul Kissinger? If he didn’t hire the man, the question would raise flags and needlessly involve him. If he were already involved, he would lie.
Because he was a dishonest, dirtbag cheater.
She had a remarkable gift for attracting the worst of the worst men.
“Tell me why you think I’m sleeping with Evan.” Her voice rose several octaves, all patience gone. “Tell me right fucking now!”
“When he called me, I asked him outright, and he confirmed it.”
Was Mason lying about that? Was he jealous enough, obsessed enough, to hire a man to watch her fuck her neighbor?
“I hate it.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “I hate every second you spend with other men because it’s another second you’re not with me. I hate that I had the entire world in my arms, in my bed, and I lost it all. I only have myself to blame. I lost you because I’m an idiot. You were the only woman I’d ever been with, and at the time, I thought…”
“You needed to play the field? How was the grass on the other side? Was it greener?”
“No. God, Rylee. No one compares to you. You’re stunning beyond words, and every year that you age, you only look younger and more gorgeous. You’re hard-working. Intelligent. Compassionate.” His tone deepened. “A hellion in bed. But most of all, you were a devoted and faithful wife. You gave me one-hundred percent of your love, and I squandered it like a fool.”
She’d never told him about the bridge. They’d never discussed the affair or anything that happened after. This was the longest conversation she’d allowed him to have with her since the divorce.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m wherever you’re not, and it’s going to remain that way. If I see you again, I’ll file another restraining order.”
She hung up and tossed the phone.
A tremor started at the base of her skull and worked its way down her spine. Within seconds, she was shaking. Fighting tears. Shivering in a cold sweat.
“Fuck you, Mason.” She swatted at the moisture that leaked from her eyes, her voice soft, deadened. “Fuck you.”
Outside, nightfall descended. She sat on the bed until the room went dark. She didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t want to draw attention to the room from anyone who might drive by.
She couldn’t go home.
Maybe Mason had lied about Evan’s phone call. Maybe he was telling the truth, and Evan was…what? Stalking her? Trying to control her life? She was a criminal psychologist, for fuck’s sake. Her entire job was examining criminal behavior and diagnosing mental health conditions. How could she not detect red flags with the man she’d been sleeping with for the past year?
She just couldn’t. It didn’t fit Evan’s personality.
He has hundreds of photos of you on his personal computer.
Was that a criminal offense? No, but it made him a suspect. If he was capable of involving Paul Kissinger, Dean Hodge, and her ex-husband in some unknown scheme, he was capable of tracking her phone if she called him.
Contacting Evan was out of the question. Not until she had more information.
And she couldn’t rule out the most threatening possibility.
Tommy had a nefarious history with a list of enemies that stretched from Canada to South America. Her connection to him was the emails. How someone could discover that she was reading them was beyond her technical understanding. She’d had access to the Tommysgirl account for ten years, yet Paul had only been watching her for six months.
All of this buzzed through her mind as she lay in the dark. Every creak and bump made her jump. Even the silence rose the hairs on her arms.
After failing her marriage, she’d given up her reliance on people. She stopped depending on and trusting in all men. Avoiding relationships protected her from repeating the unspeakable pain she’d experienced on the bridge. Being alone had kept her safe for ten years.
But she didn’t feel safe right now.
And she’d never felt so alone.
That night, she didn’t sleep well. The next day brought more of the same—eating, napping, and chasing her thoughts in circles. Her supplies were running out, and the room was only paid for through one more night.
She would have to check-out tomorrow and call Dean.
Or hitchhike to another country. A far more appealing option.
Hours after dusk on the fourth night, she turned on the shower and set out clean clothes. While the water warmed up, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the dark room. From the nightstand, she grabbed the butcher knife she’d taken from Tommy’s house.
Keeping the lights off gave her a false sense of comfort. If someone wanted to find her badly enough, a dark motel room wouldn’t deter them. But she refused to cast a moving shadow on the curtains and make herself an easy target.
Showering in a motel room conjured the most terrifying murder scenes put on film. Psycho, Evil Dead, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare On Elm Street. She tightened her hand on the knife handle, working herself into a stupid panic.
A demented serial killer wasn’t going to sneak in and slash her in the shower.
Steam drifted out of the bathroom, and her feet remained rooted to the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to undress.
Come on, Rylee.
With a calming breath, she crept toward the external door, checked the flimsy lock, and reseated the swing bar latch. Both were secured. But she didn’t feel secure.
She shifted to the window and peered through the crack between the curtains. Expecting to find the parking lot empty as usual, she jerked at the sight of a car.
Parked next to the office, it sat empty. A middle-aged man stood inside at the front desk, wearing a suit that looked wildly out of place.
Her blood pressure skyrocketed.
He wasn’t a local detective. Not in a full suit. He didn’t belong here.
She couldn’t breathe.
The clerk stood, bending over the desk, and pointed at Rylee’s room.
Trembling, reeling into gasping hysterics, she stumbled away from the window.
He was coming for her.
She spun and raced toward the bathroom, operating on impulse. A hot mist fogged the mirror and hung in the air as she yanked the shower curtain closed. Keeping the water running, she backed out of the bathroom and shut the door.
The gap beneath the king-sized bed allowed just enough space for her to fit. She squeezed herself into the hiding spot, her cheek against the carpet, which reeked of maple syrup and cigarette smoke.
Once every inch of her was out of view, she lay on her stomach, chin to the floor, angled toward the foot of the bed, with her fingers slick and clammy around the hilt of the knife.
No amount of knocking would convince her to come out and open that door. If local law enforcement wanted to talk to her, they could send a guy who looked like a small-town detective during daylight hours.
The wait was petrifying, the silence deafening. Perspiration beaded on her brow as her panic-stricken heart tore through her chest, searching for a way out.
She didn’t detect approaching footsteps. Didn’t hear a fist against the door. When the hush broke, it detonated in a spray of splintered wood.