Shiver

“Motherfucker.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “Do you think Smith is the person who did that to you? That they wish they’d killed you that night?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think so. When I fought back that night and the mugger cut me, they freaked out and did a runner. I still believe that they only meant to rob me.”

“But it’s possible that Smith—if that’s even his real name, which is unlikely—wishes you’d been killed that night.”

“Or he’s just trying to scare me. Personally, I think it’s that.”

She rubbed at her thighs. “Have you been to the police?”

“To say what? ‘Hi, someone wrote a story about me.’ You really think they’ll care? Even if they did, what can they do? There’s nothing illegal about writing a story that’s similar to my life story. I thought about contacting the website to have it taken down, but the story doesn’t violate any of their conditions, so they won’t care either.

“Besides, going to the police would mean exposing that I self-publish books. It would leak that Michael Bale’s stepdaughter writes horror books—Joshua would make sure it did.” My delightful half-brother worked for the police department. “I don’t want my personal shit to touch the books.”

“If Smith knows a lot about you, he’s either someone who lives here or a stranger who’s been hanging around, asking questions about you. Have you noticed anyone loitering?”

“Nope. This is the only communication I’ve ever received from him, and the email contained nothing but praise for my books.”

She leaned forward. “Read the email to me.”

I dug out my phone and logged into my email account. “Here it is …

Dear Nina,

I wanted you to know just how much I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your books. Reading is my escape, and through you I was able to escape to an amazing—if terrifying—world. I don’t usually write reviews, but I enjoyed your first book so much that I left a five-star review. I’ve included the link at the bottom of this email. Please, please, please read it. And please keep writing, and I’ll keep reading.

Best,

John Smith

I put my phone away. “The name he uses on the writer community is Shadow.”

“Shadow,” echoed Sarah, brow creased. “It could be that Smith isn’t obsessed with you, he’s obsessed with Nina Bowen. He could have been trying to find out more about her and then somehow discovered it was a penname—maybe he then traced it back to you as opposed to him invading your life and finding out about Nina. Either way, it’s bad, because it means he’s obsessed with someone.” Sarah bit the inside of her cheek. “Did you reply to the email?”

“Hell, no.” Even if I was strongly tempted to tell the weird motherfucker to get a life. “He obviously wants my attention—I’m not giving him anything.”

She twisted her mouth. “Can we trace him through his email address?”

“Unless you possess hacking skills, no, because I sure don’t.”

Sarah’s shoulders sagged. “Do you think Smith could be one of the Assholes?”

“Possibly. They don’t acknowledge me as one of them—I’m Bale’s kid, in their eyes, just like in Smith’s story.”

“Joshua would enjoy making your life hell.” Frowning thoughtfully, Sarah pinched her bottom lip. “If the obsession is with you and not Nina Bowen, I have to wonder how they found out you’re a writer. You know me, your mom, and my family would never breathe a word of it to anyone. Smith found out some other way. Could he have broken into your apartment and gone through your laptop?”

“I sincerely doubt it. I hide my laptop and my notebooks somewhere safe.” The neighborhood wasn’t low in crime. “They wouldn’t be impossible to find, but I’d be seriously surprised if anybody did manage to find them. After reading the email, I went through the entire apartment. Nothing has been moved or taken—I’m obsessive enough to have noticed a while ago if they had been. There’s no sign that the lock was ever messed with either.”

“How else could they have found out?”

Sighing, I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Maybe they went through your trash outside. Is it possible that you could have thrown something out that would have given them a clue? I’ve heard that stalkers do stuff like that.”

I blinked. “I don’t have a stalker, I have a creepy dickhead intent on pissing me off and scaring me—not the same thing. As for searching through my trash? Maybe. I don’t know.” I pinned her gaze. “We need to keep this to ourselves, Sarah. Clear cannot find out about this. She wouldn’t deal with it well, and I don’t want her reaching for anxiety pills again. Your family would completely overreact. Unless this situation escalates, we keep it quiet.”

“I won’t say a word.” She worried her lower lip. “Are you going to tell Michael?”

“Yes.” I ran a hand through my damp hair. “I need to ask him if any of the people who write to him expressed an interest in me. If the only reason I have Smith’s attention is that I’m Michael’s stepdaughter, he may have contacted him.”

Sarah did a slow nod. “When will you next see Michael?”

“Saturday. In the meantime, all I can do is be vigilant.”

“I’ll do the same.” She frowned, as if something just occurred to her. “You don’t think Smith is Blake Mercier, do you? I mean, he doesn’t strike me as the type who’d do this kind of thing, but there’s something dark about him.”

I thought about it for a moment. “No, I don’t think it’s him. When Sherry introduced me as Kensey Lyons, he seemed genuinely surprised. I wasn’t what he was expecting at all. And when he was talking to me earlier today, I got this horrible feeling that someone was watching me from behind.”

Her brows drew together. “What was he talking to you about?”

“I couldn’t work out whether he was trying to make conversation or to just plain annoy me. I was trying to concentrate on the scene I was writing, and he seemed to find my preoccupation with it as me snubbing him. He said I shouldn’t get in a funk just because he doesn’t think it’s great for me to be working at the bar.”

Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “A funk?”

“A funk. Oh, and he kept pressing me over Libby’s lie that I slit my wrists. Even grabbed my wrist and checked for a scar.”

Sinking back into the chair, Sarah pursed her lips. “He wants you. That’s a no-brainer. And so he should. You’re stunning, even with your freaky mismatched eyes,” she teased.

I snorted. “Leave this alone, Sarah. I know you well enough to know that you’re thinking of doing some matchmaking, but this guy isn’t for me. And right now, I have enough going on.”

She sobered. “We’ll find out who Smith is, Kensey.”

“Yes, we will.” And then I’d stomp on his spine. Repeatedly. Preferably wearing ski boots.

After Sarah left, I locked the door and then slid the window shut. The sky was beginning to darken, casting shadows everywhere. I carefully scanned the view below me, but there was no one in sight. Honestly, I doubted that Smith was out there, but I was betting that he wanted me to worry that I was being closely watched. Like I’d let some asshole who cowardly skulked in shadows instill any fear into me. Hell, fucking no. When you’d been face-to-face with a murdering sociopath, there wasn’t a lot that could scare you.