Authors: Sandra Brown
He’d been acting up lately, too. He became furious on the phone with her. He’d lash out in his displeasure, say cruel words meant to belittle and hurt.
He was getting to know more about her. Where she went on her Friday nights. Who she dined with during the week. That the report she’d done the week before some two hundred miles away from Huntsville was falsely backlit because they’d been unable to get the live shot in front of the setting sun.
She varied her schedule as often as she could, but she couldn’t afford the time it would take to drive across town to the other gym. There were two grocery stores she could frequent, so she switched it up. She changed nail salons five times.
She didn’t want to be chased out of her life just because some nut job was stalking her.
* * *
Michael and Caitlyn had been dating for a month when he decided he needed to tell her the truth. As with all new relationships, there were a few things about her that he had issues with. His hypocrite mother always taught him that a lady was never brash, never put herself out there to grab attention. Caitlyn wasn’t following these mandates, so he tried to let her know what he liked. She’d started off so demure and ladylike. Softly Southern, feminine.
He was heartened by her response: Caitlyn was terribly distraught that she’d upset him. Promised to stop wearing those shorts out of the house, for starters. Not that he was jealous, not at all, but it just wasn’t ladylike for her to leave those gorgeous long legs out for just anyone to stare at.
Their relationship was progressing slowly. They were still timid with one another, hadn’t gotten into anything physical. To be honest, Michael didn’t know if he could hold back when they reached that point. He had waited so long, and she was just so lovely—those cherry-ripe lips, that silken hair, the alabaster, swanlike neck. When they did reach the point that Michael thought it was all right to move forward and consummate their love, he wanted it to be perfect. Caitlyn deserved perfection. He waited, patient as a monk, for her to be ready.
* * *
Tom Stryc’s eyes were moist when he raised his glass.
“I’d like to propose a toast. To Caitlyn Kennedy, the hardest working, smartest reporter Huntsville has seen in years. You will be sorely missed, in all respects.”
“Hear! Hear!” The shouts came from all corners of the room. Glasses clinked, throats were cleared. The station had rented out the Palmas Cantina for the night, closing the place down to outside customers.
Caitlyn felt tears burn in the corners of her eyes.
All this work. She’d risen to the top at the station, worked her butt off to
be
someone. Now she was starting over. A new station, a new crew, a new life. The nameless, faceless bastard who haunted her life for the past three months had driven her to succeed, driven her right out of the Huntsville market to a better job.
Caitlyn closed her eyes and thanked whatever God had decreed that she move to Nashville and be the affiliate’s lead reporter, because it got her away from the creep.
* * *
Michael and Caitlyn had their first fight that night. Well, it wasn’t a fight, exactly. He was hurt, and angry. Caitlyn admitted she wanted something different, wanted to have a change of scenery. He loved Huntsville, felt attached to its seams.
Caitlyn didn’t agree. She wanted out.
They talked long into the night, until the crickets stopped chirping. Arms entwined around each other, lying on a soft fleece blanket on the cold ground, they watched the sun rise. They’d come to a decision. Michael wasn’t thrilled to leave his grandmother’s house behind, but it was more important to make a new life with Caitlyn in Nashville. So long as he was with her, anything was possible.
They left the following morning, both cars packed to the gills. As they got farther north, the skies filled with billowing gray clouds. The rain enveloped them as they pulled in to their new home. Michael laughed while Caitlyn started to unpack, freer than he’d felt in such a long time.
That first night was different. They shared a bottle of wine, a crisp Pinot Grigio bought at a store down the street. Michael had learned a lot more about wine in the past few months, had developed quite a palate and appreciated many varietals now. Caitlyn stood in the gloaming, sipping the last of her wine, halo hair spilling loosely around her shoulders, her face unlined and carefree. Michael knew, deep in his soul, that they would be happy here.
He watched her standing on the deck and realized the time had finally come. He wanted to be with her, always. He went to her, enveloped her in his arms. Caitlyn melted into him, her lips trailing across his neck, leaving a river of goose bumps in their wake. Her ardor astounded him; for months she’d been so contained, calm and poised. But when it came to actual physical contact, she glowed with passion. Lips bruised and tender, she watched Michael undress with a feral gleam in her eyes. He took his time with her blouse, shy again, fingers shaking, until she reached up, used her hands to guide his fingers. Her skin was so soft, so creamy that he couldn’t contain himself anymore. He had to have her, right now.
It didn’t take long.
Spent, they lay in front of the fireplace, sated with their love, so long in the making.
Michael told her then. That he loved her.
The words unnerved Caitlyn for some reason. She grew distraught, and he didn’t know how to make her better. She yelled at him, told him to go to hell, told him to leave. He was so astonished that he did. Walked right out the door, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. And then, not knowing where to go in the strange new town, he stood in front of the town house for two hours, trying to get up the nerve to go back inside, to ask what he’d done wrong.
The lights went out. She’d gone to bed. Gone to bed mad, always a big mistake.
His heart became hard, a rock in his chest. How could she? How dare she?
* * *
“I’m Caitlyn Kennedy, Channel Two News. Good night, Nashville.”
“And you’re smiling, you’re smiling, now look at your notes, and…we’re out.”
The cameras shut off, and Caitlyn had that moment of déjà vu she experienced every time she wrapped. New city, new studio, new crew���same old, same old. Reporting the news was the same everywhere.
“Great show, Caitie. You’ve really got something special behind that desk. The camera goes on and BAM—you are on fire.”
She smiled at Kevin Claueswitz, her new news director. He was a good guy, ready to take a chance on her from day one.
“Caitlyn, phone!”
Her heart skipped a beat. Surely not. There was no way…She raised the receiver to her ear.
“I hate the red polish, Caitlyn. I’ve told you that.”
She smashed the phone down, heart so suddenly in her throat that she ran from the room, barely made it to the ladies before she choked up her meager dinner in the toilet. She sat, after, with her head against the cool tiled wall, and cried.
* * *
Michael hadn’t seen Caitlyn for a week. He knew she was still upset with him, though he’d apologized a thousand times. He wasn’t schooled in the moods of women, couldn’t figure out exactly what she wanted from him. Hadn’t he declared his love properly? Was he so bad in bed that she wasn’t willing to do it again, and didn’t want to hurt his feelings by sharing that with him? He couldn’t help himself; he loved her too much to just walk away. He wished he could take back that night, undo the passion they shared, start over anew. He racked his brain. How could he unwind the clock?
Flowers. Women loved flowers.
He went to the shop down the street and spent too much money on a multicolored spray of roses. Left them on the front porch without a note. She’d know who they were from. She’d always known.
* * *
Caitlyn sat on the edge of the chair in Kevin’s office.
“I know you’re scared. But, Caitie, I promise, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Kevin…”
“I talked to a couple of homicide detectives. The laws are ridiculous. Basically he has to hurt you before they can do anything. So here’s the name of a guy. He’s one of the best private investigators around here. I think he can help. At the very least, he can find ways to keep you safe. I know it’s only been a month, but we don’t want to lose you, Caitie. You’re a great reporter and a fabulous anchor.”
Caitlyn took the small beige rectangle from Kevin, holding it gingerly in the palm of her hand. She glanced at the embossing—William Goldman, Private Detective. She stashed the card in the back pocket of her jeans, feigning nonchalance.
The moment she left Kevin’s office, Caitlyn’s phone was out. Goldman answered on the first ring.
* * *
Michael went by the house with more flowers, irises this time, her favorite, but it was locked, a new gold dead bolt affixed to the door. Defeated, he sat on the front steps, shredding the flowers into bits. He wasn’t sure what was happening. Two things he knew for certain—they’d made love, and she’d suddenly turned cold, distant. Like she didn’t love him anymore. But that couldn’t be true. Michael had seen the look in her eyes as he entered her, watched her pupils dilate in pleasure, saw the tiny vein rise in her left temple, felt her breath quicken and her muscles spasm around him. He may not be well versed in the ways of love, but biological responses were impossible to fake. You can’t react like that, so organically, and make it feel like a lie.
Maybe it was too soon. Maybe she wasn’t as ready as she told him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was wrong about her.
Maybe she was like his mother after all.
He hardened his heart.
* * *
Goldman looked like something out of a comic book. Huge, bulbous eyes, a broad forehead, a cauliflower nose flushed with rosacea. He lumbered when he walked. But his eyes, round blueberries tucked into the folds of his cheeks, were kind, and Caitlyn felt safe with him.
They met for the first time in a dark bar in Printer’s Alley, next to a strip club. Goldman arrived late, breathless, covered in a sheen of sweat. Caitlyn wondered if he’d taken the advance payment she’d couriered over the day before and had himself a moment next door.
They went over it all, that first night. How the calls had started. How the caller invariably knew what color toenail polish Caitlyn was wearing. How he expressed his dislike for anything that made her “look like a whore.”
How he hadn’t stopped calling, for weeks on end. The things he said. Little tidbits shared about her day. A comment about the brand of tomato juice she’d bought. A recommendation that she fill her Beemer at the gas station two blocks from her house, because the prices were better.
He’d noticed when she switched from lattes to green tea because the caffeine coupled with the stress was eating her stomach apart.
“Going through your trash,” Goldman said, which made it all worse.
The Huntsville police hadn’t been able to do much. He used a disposable cell phone and they couldn’t trace the number. They didn’t have the personnel to have a constant presence, but they’d watched her at odd times, hoping to catch a glimpse of her stalker. It hadn’t worked. And now the Nashville police were saying they couldn’t do anything, either.
She was tired of being scared.
Caitlyn started to cry. Goldman reached a meaty hand over and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“It’s gonna be okay. You just wait.”
* * *
Michael had been patient, and kind. He’d been more understanding than a man could ever be expected to. He sent flowers, he wrote beautiful love notes, he called, he dropped by the house. Caitlyn refused to accept any of his overtures. She wouldn’t see him. Damn, he knew having sex so soon into their relationship was a mistake.
He didn’t know what to do. And he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was losing her.
And he refused to lose her.
* * *
Goldman had a plan. He and Caitlyn met in a coffee shop off Broadway, someplace completely anonymous where she could go in dark glasses and hide from the eyes that bored into the back of her neck at all hours of the day and night.
The detective had found some sort of new 007 device that could trace the calls she was receiving day and night using GPS. Even if the cell number itself wasn’t available, the illicit company who made the device could monitor the calls, triangulate the caller’s whereabouts using the mapping software. It was cutting edge. That’s what he told her. She didn’t care. Caitlyn just wanted the damn phone to stop ringing. She wanted her life back.
They decided to try the very next night. She made sure to paint her toes vermilion and wear open-toed shoes. Bait.
Goldman came to the studio, watched her do her bit. He had the device hooked up to the phone.
Like clockwork, the creep called as she wrapped the show. When she answered, he asked why she was meeting strange men for coffee during business hours. She felt the fear crawl up her spine. He knew. He knew everything. He was inside her head. Knew what she’d think next, what decisions she’d make, where she would go, what she would do.
She flubbed their planned script. “What do you want?” she screamed into the receiver. He simply hung up. Goldman shook his head. Not enough time for the GPS to react.
“We’ll try again tomorrow. At least you know he’ll call back,” Goldman said.
* * *
It was time. Time for Michael to pull out all the stops. He needed to see her. He dressed carefully, certain to look his best, yet able to blend into the night. He went with black, head to toe, slimming, tasteful. If Caitlyn was going to be this woman—this whore, this slut—then she’d have to answer for it. Michael had turned his entire fucking life upside down for her, and this was the way she repaid him? No. He wouldn’t stand for it. She would be made to understand what she’d done.
He stood on the street outside the house and called her cell phone.
* * *
Goldman was right. As soon as the cameras went off the next night, the phone rang.
Caitlyn’s hands were shaking. She needed to play this just right. She took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello?”