Dean’s mouth sinks into a deep frown. “Whoever sent it had tamperedwith the clothing. There was a pattern. If it was an outfit he’d never worn around a woman, the stalker put lipstick kisses, bright red, all over it. If it was an outfit he’d worn when he was with a woman, any woman at all, the stalker had taken scissors to it and ripped it to shreds.”
A chill runs through my body. “That’s pretty bad.”
He whips out his phone and thumbs through it quickly. “There’s more. Here, look at this.” He shoves it in my face. I take it from his hand, my fingers brushing against his. Good grief, his skin is warm, almost too burning hot to touch.
Dean’s phone is set to a website called Caleb’s Secret Santa. It has a Christmas theme with a red and green background. Animated GIFs of grinning Santas and reindeers dancing a jig are scattered around the page. The top of the screen shows three tabs, labeled Caleb’s Sleigh, Naughty or Nice, and Find Caleb.
I select the first tab, Caleb’s Sleigh, and am astonished to see pictures of his private jet, along with a detailed summary of Caleb’s flight history, including departure and arrival times and miles flown.
“Holy cow!” I hold the phone up to Dean. “Can they publish this? Isn’t it private?”
“Totally legal,” he answers, his expression even more serious than usual. “All public information, although most people won’t comb through the required data to track it. Each plane has a tail number registered with the FAA. That’s how whoever is in charge of this site knows exactly where Caleb’s jet is.”
“You don’t know who’s doing this?” A chill settles low in my stomach.
“No clue. We’ve tried everything. The police. The FBI. Even Wayne hasn’t been able to find anything. The airplane’s not the worst of it.” He leans over, his chest brushing against my shoulder. Again, that flare of heat transfers from his body to mine. A minute ago, I had been cold, but suddenly I’m flushed with warmth.
Dean hits the Find Caleb tab. A map pops up with a flashing red arrow pointing to the Tavern on the Green. Not only is it directed at the restaurant, it’s aimed at the back half of the building, scarily close to the room where we now sit. The fine hairs on my arm rise.
“What the heck?” I look up to find Dean’s face near mine as he peers over my shoulder. His eyes are brown, but for the first time I see tiny flecks of gold that cluster in a ring around his pupil. “Please tell me this is illegal. Isn’t this stalking?”
He shrugs. “It’s a gray area. It’s not against the law to post where someone is located. The criminal part would be how they’re getting the information. If they installed a tracking device without your knowledge, for example, they could get arrested for that.”
“A tracking device? Have you checked Caleb for one?” I look over at Caleb, who’s still talking with his mom, their blonde heads bent close together.
“We searched everywhere. Caleb even had a full body scan to make sure someone hadn’t implanted one under his skin or in his teeth.”
“What?” This situation is turning more science fiction by the minute.
Dean lowers his brows, his eyes serious. “A dentist in L.A. got caught putting trackers in his famous clients’ teeth while they were under anesthesia.”
He gestures to the phone in my hand. “Go on. Keep looking.”
My mind reeling, I select the Naughty or Nice tab. It’s a series of photos, each one stamped with a bold, red “Naughty” or “Nice.” There’s a picture from the event at the theater this morning. It’s taken from outside, like the photographer was standing on the sidewalk. The image focuses on Caleb as he bends down to greet the young boy I’d been making faces with. I see myself in the background. I’m talking to Dean, or more likely fighting since I’m giving him a belligerent stare. This photo is labeled as “Nice.”
Another picture causes my blood to freeze. It’s one where I’m straightening Caleb’s scarf. The image is zoomed in on us. I’m smiling up at Caleb, probably teasing him. There’s a large “Naughty” stamped over the middle of that picture. Red ink bisects my face like I’ve been slashed with a knife. I scroll through more photos until I see a pattern emerge. Anytime Caleb interacts with a woman or girl, it gets the “Naughty” designation. If he interacts with a man or boy, it’s labeled as “Nice.”
Dean takes his phone back. “This website is password-protected. Users subscribe and pay $200 a year to have access to it. There are hundreds of thousands of subscribers. Whoever owns it is making millions selling Caleb’s location.”
I gasp. “Who would do that? Who pays that kind of money?”
“Fans,” he says simply. “They want to know everything about Caleb, including where he is. It makes it easier for them to position themselves for photo ops, selfies, or autographs. I guarantee that when we walk out of here there will be a horde of people waiting outside that’ve been tipped off by this website.”
“What!? Why are we sitting here, then? We should leave right now. Try to get away.” I reach for my purse, but Dean puts up his hand in a calming gesture.
“It’s always like this for Caleb,” he explains, unfazed. “The fans and the paparazzi constantly chase him. If we ran every time, he would never have any peace. Besides, that’s why we picked this place. This restaurant is used to having famous patrons. It has its own security staff patrolling.”
“Oh, okay.” Appeased, I settle back into my chair, my head spinning. “This whole situation is terrifying.”
Dean nods solemnly. “What’s even scarier is that the person who runs this website is escalating.”
“What do you mean?” My hand clutches my chest, where my heart is racing.
He glances around like he’s worried someone might overhear, which is ridiculous since we’re in a private room. Dean leans closer and whispers, “I think the upcoming wedding is antagonizing the stalker. Making them bolder. That wasn’t the first present they’ve sent to Caleb, but it’s the worst one so far.”
“You mean there’ve been others?”
“Boxes wrapped like they’re Christmas presents with these huge red and green bows. Whoever the stalker is, they’re obsessed with the holiday. The website looks like this all year long.”
