“I won’t. I’ve been shut in the closet in the dark.”
“Good girl,” he said. His voice was calmer. She could hear footsteps coming upstairs now.
She hung up the phone and put it on the dresser, shoved with all her might to get it out of the way, then unlocked the door, and pulled it open.
Clay had her in his arms and was hugging her tight.
“It’s over? Finally over?”
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Asshole was spray painting your front porch.”
She breathed in and out. “Do you know who it is? Karl called me after you. He reported it to the police and had the license plate number.”
“Ford said the call came in when he was closer. He was in town working. Come on. The guy is in the car and cuffed.”
She pushed back fast. “Why didn’t you tell me that?!”
“Because I wanted to make sure you were calm and you knew we had you. We won’t let anything happen to you. But it will help you know what is going on and why. If you even know him. Though Ford would have an ID by now.”
Her legs were shaking, but she was forcing them to move. “What if I don’t know him?”
“Then you don’t,” he said. “But we’ll get some answers.”
Which was what she wanted.
She really hoped it wasn’t Fredrick. Not that she cared if he got in trouble, but she’d be so mad at herself over her lack of judgment if she’d been with a man that could do this to her.
Then she remembered Karl said it was a beat-up old truck and Fredrick had a boring silver sedan. Not him.
“Are you okay?” Karl asked the minute she went out on the porch. “Thank God I saw it and called it in so they could catch him.”
She forced a smile. “Thanks, Karl. I’m good.”
“I’ve got her,” Clay said, moving her toward the back of the car. Karl’s eyes narrowed, his lips tight, but he didn’t say a word. She couldn’t be bothered by her neighbor’s annoyance.
Ford was standing there talking to his deputy, then flanked her so that Ridgeway men surrounded her.
It wasn’t light in the car, and the guy’s head was down. No baseball hat on though.
“Lift your head, asshole,” Clay snarled.
“It’s Richie Stubban,” Ford said. “We’ve ID’d him. He’s drunk. Not even sure how the hell he got here without hitting something.”
“Macy’s father. Why?” she asked.
“He admitted to throwing the rock through the window,” Ford said. “We might have been able to match the writing with the spray paint to the paint on the rock.”
She shook her head. “Why did you do this?” she asked, bending closer to the car.
Richie lifted his head. The familiar stench that was on him over a month ago floated out.
Booze and body odor.
“Fucking bitch is going to get my kid taken from me. I got kicked out of the house by my mother. If I didn’t leave Macy would go into foster care.”
“Then you should have cared for her better!” she yelled. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re always asking her questions. If she’s eating enough. If she’s happy at home. All she wants is food and says you give it to her at school. That Ms. Banks likes her. She eats. She doesn’t need more, but she has to wait.”
