Knox plays hockey. He’s used to reading people’s microexpressions and body language so that he can get the puck.
“No one was there,” I tell him.
He knows I’m lying.
“Hm,” he says after a moment, leveling his gaze on me. “You can pretend to everyone that you’re not interested in sex, but I know the truth. You’re a dirty fucking slut.”
The house isdark when I get back. Laura kept insisting on taking conference calls in the middle of the wedding planning, drawing it out into a six-hour ordeal.
The fact that I didn’t get a date for Kathy out of this sacrifice is the thing that is particularly galling. I mean, we were at it all night, and I barely have a bachelorette party plan.
I finally moved Laura and Carolina to a bar nearby and sent Kathy home to keep Mom from murdering the Pittsburgh troll in the attic.
My feet hurt. I drank way too much.
“At least my headache is gone,” I whisper to Fidget and pat her head. “Do you need an anxiety pill, girl?”
The border collie’s eyes are rolled back, rings of white as her eyes dart around.
“Huh.” I pet her silky fur then see something wrapped in the ring of her dog tag that hangs off her collar. “What is—is that a note?”
My mouth is dry.
I’m done with your fucking dog. Get rid of her, or I will.
The stalker is after my dog?
I take the note and hurry through the dark to the laundry room, to which I have been relegated like Cinderella in my own house.
I need to call Carolina. I need to call the police.
Or maybe I need to call Fitz.
Fidget. I can’t let anyone hurt Fidget.
I was so stupid. I can’t believe I trusted a stalker.
Carolina was right. I should have kicked the stalker to the curb and just stayed with Fitz.
I choke back a sob. I had sex with the man who’s threatening to kill me and my dog.
A huge hand in a black glove appears out of nowhere. Drunkenly, I stumble, fall to my knees, and look up at the huge man all in black.
He reaches out to my neck…
30
FITZ
“Someone is trying to take my stuff.” I pace around Crawford’s hotel room.
“No one is touching your stuff,” Whitman says with a sigh from where he’s on his phone on Crawford’s bed.
“Yes, they are. There is someone after Winnie. Someone is stalking her.” I slap the phone out of his hand.
“Ow!” Faulkner yells from under the covers when the phone hits him.
“A stalker,” Crawford says from where he’s typing an email on his laptop at the hotel room desk. “You don’t say.”
