Suddenly Katie was a frantic wreck. She had to read the entire article immediately but, damn it, she had to register and pay two dollars. She went to her purse and fumbled for a credit card. Typing her personal information into the registration form, she was so frazzled that she made several mistakes, even misspelling her own last name. Finally she finished the process, entered the password that had been e-mailed to her, and was able to read the rest of the story.
It was pretty much what she’d expected. Peter had been the focus of an investigation into the cause of the fire when it was discovered that he was the recipient of two one-million-dollar insurance policies. But officials had concluded that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and an investigator was quoted as saying, “There is no evidence to show that Mr. Wells was responsible, nor that he acted in any way other than heroically.”
Katie read the article three or four times. The brief description of the fire—“rapidly spreading”—and mention of what had happened to Peter—“suffered severe burns”—jibed
with what he had told her at the restaurant. But she still felt extremely disturbed.
Then Katie returned to the list of search results and saw that there were other articles about the fire—six of them. She spent several minutes purchasing them and printing them out, and then read them in bed, in chronological order.
The fire had taken place in the middle of the night, while the family was asleep. Peter had tried to save the victims, but couldn’t, and had suffered severe injuries himself, winding up in serious-but-stable condition. In the days afterward, he was hailed as a hero, but then doubts arose about the cause of the fire as information about the insurance policies was revealed. Investigators suspected that the fire had started when a halogen light in the living room accidentally ignited the drapes, but were questioning Peter anyway. After a brief investigation—according to the dates of the articles, it had only lasted a couple of days—Peter was declared innocent of any wrongdoing.
Later, Katie was trying to fall asleep, but she kept stirring. So maybe Peter didn’t set the fire that had killed his parents, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t psycho. What kind of person gets a job at a health club just to meet someone? What kind of nut buys an apartment for someone he hardly knows? What kind of lunatic proposes to someone he’s gone on two dates with? And they weren’t even really dates, not as far as she was concerned. For all she knew, Peter was so crazy, he’d killed Andy.
She had to get a grip, stop jumping to so many conclusions. Just because a guy was obsessed didn’t mean he was a killer. But the thing that kept gnawing at her, that scared her most, was that she had been so oblivious. The way he’d gone overboard on their dates, how he always seemed so concerned about her, how he acted like he
knew
her, should’ve been indications that there was something seriously wrong with Peter Wells. Everything he did always seemed planned, like he’d been watching her for years, getting to know her from a distance. It was almost like he’d been stalking her.
Suddenly Katie sat up and turned on the light. The way her pulse was pounding, she was afraid she’d pass out or have a
heart attack. She almost screamed for Susan to come into the room, but managed to control herself.
How could she have been so fucking blind? The other day, near the coffee cart outside the subway—the guy she’d seen in the sunglasses and the baseball cap. She’d been in denial about it since then, but not anymore. Peter had been watching her that day. She was sure of it.
PART THREE
TWENTY-FIVE
Peter decided that, all in all
, his second date with Katie had been a great success. Of course, it would’ve been nice if she’d said yes and accepted the ring and hadn’t run away from him like he’d had the plague, but he had to focus on the positives. They’d strengthened their connection during dinner. He’d scored points by showing her his scar, increasing her respect for him. He didn’t have a chance to kiss her, but he’d held her hand for a long time and she’d seemed very comfortable having skin-to-skin contact, even more so than on their first date. He imagined her, in her apartment, seriously regretting her behavior. It was only a matter of time until she called him to say that she’d made a huge mistake and to beg for a second chance. He wouldn’t be cruel and make her squirm. Nope, that wasn’t his style. He’d take her back right away.
The soaking tub had been installed and was functional. Peter luxuriated in the salted bath, breathing in the aroma of a scented candle. He had prepared a wicker basket of rose petals to sprinkle onto the water for his first bath with Katie. In her honor, he spread them around the tub.
He rested for a while with his eyes closed and then he turned on the LCD TV, which he’d installed above the tub, and played the DVD of the BBC version of
Pride and Prejudice
. Ah, was this the life, or what? As far as Peter was concerned, a better love story—hell, a better film—had never been made. It had always been hard to choose a favorite scene because the whole movie was so memorable. But if he had to
pick one scene to watch again and again for the rest of his life, it would be the one where Elizabeth Bennet is standing alongside Mr. Darcy’s sister, who’s playing the piano, and Mr. Darcy gazes at Elizabeth longingly from across the room. God, that look of restrained, yet uncontrollable desire for a single woman was something that Peter had longed for since he could remember. Sometimes he’d practice “the Darcy look” in the mirror. It was hard to get it right by staring at himself, rather than at the object of his desire, but it got to the point where he could do it at will. It didn’t seem forced, either. It was as if he were channeling Mr. Darcy. He’d used the look on Katie several times—at the gym and during their dates—and it had definitely worked its magic.
Sometimes Peter didn’t bother with the rest of the DVD and played the piano scene again and again. But tonight, in the mood for a slow build, he started watching the film from the beginning. His cell phone was on a stool near the tub, but Katie wasn’t calling. This didn’t really concern him. These things needed to take their course. She might stew for a while longer, but eventually she’d realize how unusual it was to find true love, and she’d come back to him.
He remained in the tub until the scene at the Netherfield Ball, then put on his Ralph Lauren robe and continued watching the film on the larger screen in the living room. He couldn’t take the suspense and he fast-forwarded to the piano scene. Wow, he’d never watched it on such a big screen, and it made “the look” even more romantic.
Entranced by the TV, Peter was making his own pained puppy-dog Darcy expression when he realized that he had an erection sticking up under his robe.
“Shit,” he said. “Goddammit.”
Without touching it, he went right into the bathroom and stood under a cold shower until it went down. His testicles hurt quite a bit because he hadn’t had a nocturnal emission in at least a month or two.
The romantic mood had been officially killed. He busied himself, doing some straightening up and moving the living room furniture around. He was trying to make the apartment
seem as homey as possible, but he knew his limitations as a decorator. He really didn’t know what the hell he was doing and couldn’t wait till the place had the benefit of a woman’s touch.
Peter had his cell phone in the pocket of his robe. Every few minutes or so he checked it to see if Katie had called, but for some reason it hadn’t rung. When it got to be past midnight, he knew he wouldn’t hear from her until tomorrow. That was okay. She probably wanted to get in touch but figured it would be too late and she might wake him. For a while, he contemplated whether to just call her and get it over with. She’d probably thank him and tell him how great it was to hear his voice. But he talked himself out of it, deciding it would be much more romantic if she called him to apologize and confess her undying love.
He went to sleep, confident he’d hear from her first thing in the morning.
He didn’t start getting concerned until noon when his cell phone still hadn’t rung. It didn’t make any sense to him. He called Verizon to see if there was something wrong with his service. Maybe he wasn’t getting his messages—that occasionally happened—or there was some widespread outage. But the rep assured him that, as far as she could tell, there was no systemwide problem.
Peter needed to relax. He got into the bathtub, watched part of some movie on the Encore Love channel. He tried assuring himself that she just needed some more time and his phone would ring at any moment, but something seemed very wrong. It was taking too long; she should’ve come running back to him by now. Although he didn’t see how it was possible, he feared that he’d misjudged the situation last night. Maybe it was more than another plot twist in their romance. Maybe she really was angry at him. Maybe she hadn’t called him yet because she didn’t want to call him. Maybe he would never hear from her again.
“Stop it, Peter,” he said, and slapped the top of his head very hard. He was glad it hurt. He deserved to feel some pain
for acting like such a fool. Why did he always have to imagine the worst? He was a smart guy—smart enough to know that nothing was ever as bad as it seemed. He reminded himself of the facts: They had fallen madly in love and were going to spend the rest of their lives together. That had to be the focus, not a doomsday scenario that had no basis in reality.
There was no reason to sit around. After all, he was her boyfriend now. He had a right to call her whenever he wanted to.
He tried her cell first and got her voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message. Although he’d never called her at her office before, he’d found her work number when he was searching for information about her online and discovered a PR release she’d written. God, had that only been three months ago? It seemed like they’d been together for years.
“Mitchell Kushner’s office. Can I help you?”
He went for a cool, relaxed tone. “Hey, what’s up?”
Silence. Tears were probably swelling up. Her next words would be
I’m so sorry. I was such a fool. Please. You have to forgive me
.
But instead he got, “What do you want?”
Trying not to seem overly concerned, he said, “I just called to say hi, see what’s up.”
Another pause, a deep breath, then she said, “Stop calling me.”
Why was she acting this way?
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t want you to call me anymore, okay?”
“But I love you. I want to be with you.”
“Stop it. Just stop it.” Then, almost whispering, she said, “I’m sorry. I think you’re a really nice guy, but it would be better if you stopped calling me, okay?”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“I have to go.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Peter.”
“Katie, wait. Katie?…Katie?”
She wasn’t there.
He called back five times, but kept getting her voice mail.
She probably had caller ID, was screening his calls. He didn’t get it. Could this really be happening?
He had to talk to her again—right away. He could call from a pay phone and she might pick up, or he could go down to her office, wait outside for her after work. But it all seemed pointless. She sounded like she never wanted to see him again, ever, and if she saw him waiting for her in the office lobby, she’d probably freak and start screaming for security.
He had no idea why she suddenly seemed to hate him so much. He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong.
Unless it had nothing to do with him.
Yeah, that had to be it, there had to be another guy. She had started seeing someone else, or maybe she had been seeing someone else all along, even while she was with Frat Boy. He struggled, trying to remember if she’d mentioned another guy. The only explanation he could think of was that she was screwing her boss.
She always went on about what a jerk he was, and how much she hated him, and it seemed like there was no way she’d ever be interested in him. But she talked about him a lot, and sometimes it seemed like she was even obsessed with him. Besides, in romances, couples often sparred, acting like they had total disdain for each other, when they were actually fated to fall in love. What better example of that than Elizabeth and Darcy?
The more he thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. “Bitchell” was screwing her, violating Peter’s future wife’s beautiful body. If he was even kissing his bride-to-be, God help him, because at this point Peter wasn’t letting anything stand in his way.
He called the detective, Hillary Morgan.
“Hello,” she said. Her Jack Russell terrier was yapping in the background.
“It’s Peter Wells.” His tone was full-blown frantic and it wasn’t a put-on. “I need you to go back to work immediately.”
TWENTY-SIX
John Himoto finally got the big
break he’d been waiting for. He was at Chinatown East on Third Avenue, barely touching his shrimp with snow peas and fried rice lunch special, going over his notes on the case, trying to decide whether it was worth pursuing William Bahner, or it was just another big dead end, when he got a call from Jeffrey Sykes, an officer in his precinct.
“Hey, John, I think I got something for you.”
“Yeah?” John said flatly, unimpressed. At this point it would take a lot more than “I think I got something” to get a rise out of him.
“A bartender at the Big Easy said she saw the vic the night he was killed,” Sykes said.
“She saw him,” John said, “or she thinks she saw him?”
“She says she saw him.”
John, already standing up, his wallet out of his pocket, said, “Where are you now?”
“I’m with her here at the bar. Where are you?”
John put a twenty on the table—the twelve-dollar tip would be the waiter’s biggest of the week—and headed toward the door.
“I’ll be there in two minutes. Don’t leave and don’t let her leave.”