“Anita?” His voice in her ear now, low, seductive. A delicious tension coiled in her muscles. “Can I take you upstairs?”
Yes. Yes. Why wait to go upstairs?
She met his gaze then, fire meeting flame. This was it. She could not turn back now.
She reached for him—
But an explosion of shattering glass roughly shook her free.
Chapter Nineteen
Patrick tapped his fingers repeatedly against his leg. His fingertips tingled with the sense memory of how her hair had felt sliding through them not so long ago. Minutes? Hours?
It didn’t matter when she wouldn’t even fucking look at him now.
But he couldn’t leave her. As John Flaherty had said, someone had just taken a baseball bat to the glass doors of the studio. Neither of them was safe.
“I don’t have security cameras,” he overheard Anita tell the deputy. Her voice trembled. “I never thought I would need them. It’s Lewis. The biggest thing that happened last year was when the girls’ basketball team rescued a cat from Gazebo Park.”
Patrick’s fists tightened. Stupid. He was just stupid. Why hadn’t he thought to put them in after the dead bird? He had recognized the threat, brought it to John Flaherty, then did absolutely nothing. Nothing. He was an idiot.
A lovestruck idiot.
John Flaherty nodded at Anita and closed his notebook. He was dressed in the patrol uniform for the Lewis police department, but he was the only investigator on the scene. Maybe they really did need a detective in town.
He needed to do something, anything. He texted the photos he had taken of the wreckage to the deputy. Lame. Lame. He was ridiculous. Of course, she would not want him when he could not protect her.
“Thanks, Patrick,” John called, holding up his phone. Anita stood rooted in place, arms across her chest, her gaze fixed at the outline of spiky glass in her door. “Hopefully her insurance will pay for a new window. It can be pretty expensive to repair something like that.”
Great. How could she afford that? Maybe he could organize a bake sale for her or something. At least he could find some wood planks or cardboard to board up the door.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Who do you think is doing this?”
John sighed and ran a hand over his smooth, bald head. “I don’t know. It’s tricky with stalker cases, unless they’re sending you identifying information. Which really only the terrible ones do.” He shrugged. Patrick wanted to scream. “And she doesn’t have cameras.” John waved at a group of bystanders across the street. “None of them saw anything. The neighbors on that side are gone”—he gestured next door to the antiques shop—“and the ones over there only heard the glass breaking. They thought they had left the downstairs TV on, so didn’t see anything either.” John scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin. “Can you think of anyone? An ex who wants you back? Someone pursuing you or Anita?”
Suspects. Patrick kicked himself. He should have thought of that. “I mean, there are a couple of women who have been more persistent lately, but they don’t seem like stalkers. I don’t know about Anita. Her ex is a bit of a meathead, but I don’t think he would do something like this. He’s more the kind to stage a dance off.”
“Make me a list.” John flipped open his notebook again and jotted something on one of the spiral-bound pages. “It’s better to check it all out.”
Patrick nodded. “Hey, John. Look, I don’t know if Anita mentioned it, but she got really sick last week. She said it was food poisoning, but she hadn’t eaten anything out of the ordinary. What if someone—” John was going to think he had gone completely paranoid, insane. Maybe he had. “What if someone, like, actually poisoned her? Dropped something in her drink or her food at the studio?”
He flushed. He had definitely become delusional, but John just pensively ran a hand over his jaw. “Do you think there’s a list of everyone at the party tonight? Everyone who was there the day Anita got sick?”
“I think so. Anita keeps pretty good records of attendance and the lesson schedule.”
“Let’s get copies of those, and then I’ll let you guys start cleaning up.”
Patrick thanked him and watched as he packed up and got into his car. Anita was standing in front of the wreckage, arms crossed over her chest, tears glimmering in her eyes.
New blog post idea: how to ask your jumpy friend to do something after you’ve just kissed like the world was ending.
He figured simple and direct was best. “Anita—look—” But she ignored him. Without any acknowledgement of his existence, she went inside.
He followed her, tagging along like the good little spaniel he was. It wasn’t fair.
He fetched the broom, swept tiny crystals of glass into a huge pile.
He heard the dying wheezes of her ancient printer chugging along. It was practically a mimeograph. He could buy her a new one. She would have to look at him then.
