Cole
After Holly rounds the corner, it takes five full seconds before I can regain enough control to even consider opening the door. What was she thinking confronting a man lurking on the school grounds? And when she found out he was stalking my daughter, why did she put herself at further risk by containing him in a classroom? Even more curious, why did he let her?
“I’m really sorry, man,” says a whiny voice on the other side of the door, bringing me back to the present moment. “What do you say we just forget all this?”
Yeah, right.
I open the door and stare down the man standing a few feet away from me. He’s short, skinny, and bald, with tiny glasses that only make him seem more innocuous. Nothing about him screams private detective, unless he’s using a disguise, but the way he’s currently shaking with fear suggests this is all him.
His eyes widen as he takes me in, and he steps backward two paces. “I was just doing my job, man.”
“You call stalking an eight-year-old girl doing your job?” I jerk my phone out of my jeans pocket. “I’d like to see what the police have to say about that.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Wait! Don’t call!”
Perfect. Maybe Holly was right, and I can get some answers out of this asshole. “How long have you been following my daughter?”
“Not that long,” he whines, cringing as though bracing himself for a punch. His beady eyes dart around the room as though looking for an escape, but there’s only one other door, and it’s on the other side of the room.
“Definenot that long,” I growl.
“A few days. They hired me last weekend.”
“Do you have photos?” I demand.
He gives me a blank glance, then says, “I have a few headshots, but they didn’t turn out that great.” He shrugs. “I’m trying to find someone who’ll do a better job.”
“Not of yourself, you jackass, ofmy daughter!”
He flinches. “Well, yeah. I was paid to get photos.”
I hold out my hand. “Let me see them.”
Panic floods his face. “What?”
“You either let me see the photos of my daughter, or I’ll jump straight to calling the police,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Look man, I didn’t hurt anyone—”
“You invaded my daughter’s privacy,” I snap. “You have photos of an eight-year-old girl on your camera! How do you plan to explain that to the police?”
“I don’t have a camera.”
“Then how do you take your photos?”
He pats his jacket pocket. “My phone.”
I lift my brow and stare him down as I continue to hold out my hand. When he doesn’t give me the goods, I take a step closer.
He slides back a couple of feet. “It’s myphone.”
“Let me see the photos.”
“But I have to give them to the Labelles,” he whines.
“How much are they paying you to stalk my kid?”
“My rate is thirty dollars an hour,” he says, his body shaking as he takes yet another step back. “But I’m offering a discount since my license lapsed.”
