Goldie Locks: Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

Chapter Twenty-Two

Maxwell

I don’t need my dad to point her out to me.

I had a hunch back at the office space earlier. The broken lock, the yellow sheet of paper on her folder with nothing written on it.

Probably a few matching envelopes underneath. I’d bet.

Something too about how eager she was for me to stay but have Phoebe leave, maybe not wanting to be recognized if Phoebe did join the dots.

It’s over now, I’m gonna make sure of it.

Following her up to her floor, I wait and watch from around the corner as she slips another note under Phoebe’s door, but to my shock, its Phoebe herself who rushes out and grabs ahold of her. Tearing what looks like the woman’s hair for a second, until it registers as a wig.

The woman snarls, scratching at Phoebe before turning on her heel and that’s when I step out, waiting to grab a hold of her myself and not planning on letting her go anywhere, no matter how much of a fight she puts up.

We’ve got proof. Video evidence and the last three notes she’s left, as well as what can be retrieved from Phoebe’s phone.

I explain all of this to the hissing woman, but she doesn’t seem to think she’s in any trouble.

“You’re not the cops. You can’t do anything. No law against a practical joke,” she spits, the whining Cali voice being replaced by something from the exorcist.

“No, we’re not cops,” I assure her. “We’re locksmiths. And I’m rich enough to hire the best lawyers, making sure you have enough civil suits for stalking and harassment to guarantee you won’t have a dime left long before we even go to the cops with any of this.”

The woman growls and hisses some more, finally breaking down into tears once she realizes everything I’ve said is the truth.

My dad and Phoebe carrying Trixie walk slowly down the hall, with a few doors opening and then closing just as quickly as neighbors peek out, but no one wanting to get involved.

“Let’s all sit down like grown-ups and have a nice little chat, shall we?” My dad tones in, his voice calm but firm as he raises a brow in my direction, reminding me not to hurt our new guest, as well as the fact that he’s still recording everything.

I hand the woman over to my dad, who looks like he’s consoling her but my dad’s keeping a tight grip on her in case she runs as I reach for Phoebe and Trixie.

She melts into my own arms and I feel her sobs start to take over with Trixie worming her way up between us, licking both our faces.

“It’s almost over,” I tell Phoebe.

“What do you mean almost?’ Phoebe sniffs.

“I mean, we have to decide what to do next. I’m sure she’ll admit to everything, but then we’ll have to go to the police,” I explain to her, realizing it could take a long time to process if they choose to do anything about it at all.

“I just want her to stop,” Phoebe says. “No point in her stalking me, we all know who she is,” she sniffs again.

“Do you know her?” I ask Phoebe, but she shrugs and buries her face in my chest again.

“I’m not sure of anything Max, except that I love you and I want to get away from here. Away from this city. Forever,” she tells me, her body rocking with emotion.

The whole story, as it turns out is stranger than anything I could have ever dreamed up. Even my dad looks amazed once we sit our stalker down and get her talking once she’s calmed down.

She knows Phoebe alright, but Phoebe only has a vague memory of what happened.

What it was that set all this in motion.

It all started years ago when Phoebe was studying to become a hairdresser at the community college.

“You’re still as fat as I remember,” The woman spits, cursing Phoebe out some more before I caution her.

“Hey! Keep it polite, huh? How about starting with your name. Your real name?” I ask, finding a handful of phony IDs in her jacket pockets, along with bundles of small bills and some jewelry I’m sure the police would want her to explain.

I lay it all out in front of her and remind her, “We’re not the police but they are just a phone call away and so is my civil suit legal team,” I growl in her ear, urging her to speak up for the camera.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” The woman asks Phoebe.

“My name is Laura Anderson, and this… bitch fucked up my life!” she shrieks, lurching towards Phoebe, but my dad’s hand is quick to sit her down again.

“Now, now. None of that. We’re all here to get to the bottom of things. No more acting crazy, alright?” he says soothingly.