“A voice?” Mom asks.
My eyes fill with fresh tears. I nod and bite my lip. “A voice that sounded like Daddy. He told me I couldn’t let him get me out the door and reminded me of a stupid self defense move I learned in P.E. So I did it. I smashed my heel into his foot just as he was getting ready to open the door. And it worked. He loosened his grip on me, I broke free, and ran.” I let out at big breath of air. I’m exhausted. “You guys know the rest.”
“What are we going to do?” Tommy says flatly.
Garrett Smith stands up and takes control. He puts his hand out to the detective closest to him and says, “We appreciate everything you’ve done. We’ll take it from here.”
The detectives nod at him, mutter something about if they can do anything else to let them know, and are escorted out the door.
Tommy hands me his glass of scotch.
Garrett comes back and sits in front of me. “Tell me how you know him.”
I cover my face with my hand and shake my head no. “I can’t. You’ll be mad at me. But I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”
Tommy rubs my back. “None of us knew, baby. You’ve got to tell us. We aren’t going to be mad. We’re so glad you were smart enough to figure it out when you did.”
“But that’s just it. I’m not smart.” I look at my mom. “Mom, remember the hot older guy I had dinner with? Vincent Sharpe?”
“Yes?”
“It was him.”
“What do you mean?”
“The stalker, Thaddeus whatever. He either goes by Vincent Sharpe or was pretending to be him.”
Mom’s legs buckle. James grabs her elbow. “Oh my God, Keatyn. You had dinner with him.”
Garrett flips back through his notes and mutters, “Sharpe. Where did I see that name?”
I answer. “He said his grandmother was Viviane Sharpe.”
“Yes, that’s it. He wasn’t lying about that. So you know him? Went to dinner with him? Spent time with him?”
“Basically, yes.”
Everyone in the room starts to murmur and ask questions.
Garrett stands up and holds up his hands to get everyone to stop. “Look, I know you all have a million questions, but I’m going to ask them. We’ve got to piece this all together and figure out why he went from long-time fan to kidnapper. So, Abby, we know he’s been a fan of yours for years, but it was never a problem. When did things first escalate? Was it when you found the note in the backpack? When I was brought in?”
Mom thinks. “No, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal at the time, but before that, he broke into my trailer on set.”
“And he stole a family photo,” James says. “One of Keatyn and Abby on the beach in Hawaii.”
Garrett surmises, “So he sees a photo and instead of seeing Keatyn, he sees the Abby he first fell in love with in the photo. Young Abby.”
“That was the same day I met him. I remember, because you were in the living room with all those men in suits when I came back from shopping with Sander. It was the day we broke up.”
“Where did you meet him? When you were shopping?”
“No. On our beach.”
Mom audibly gasps. “He came to our house?”
Brooklyn says, “He was on the beach, down more toward my house. He told us he was buying a house up the beach and asked me to teach him to surf. He seemed cool, except for the way he was staring at Keatyn. I didn’t like it, but he quickly apologized for staring. He told us she looked just like Abby in A Day at the Lake, and how he had a big crush on her when he was fourteen. He said Keatyn brought back some memories.”
Garrett says, “Okay, do you remember when you saw him next?”
I nod. “Yeah, it was that same night. He was at Damian’s last gig. He kinda flirted with me. Told me he wanted to make a movie. I laughed and asked him if that line usually worked for him in the bar. I kinda blew him off, but he told me he was doing a remake of A Day at the Lake. I joked that I didn’t want to stand around in a bikini and scream. He told me it wouldn’t be like that. That I’d be a kick ass heroine and it’d be a blockbuster. He gave me his business card. Told me to call him. I didn’t. The script wasn’t even written. I’m not dumb.” I close my eyes tightly. “Well, I thought I wasn’t dumb.”
I take another slow sip of Tommy’s scotch and slowly open my eyes. The burn of the scotch on my throat is a harsh reminder that this isn’t just a bad dream.