—Was it fun, babe?—
Vince didn’t have my new number, and I’d blocked his. But there he was. I took a screenshot of the text just like I was supposed to. Because he was admitting he was the one who put the pot in my brownies and that he’d found my number.
Except, since the number wasn’t his old one and I’d blocked him, this could be anyone.
And if I engaged him, I was giving him what he wanted, control over my time and my thoughts.
I knelt down. Tried to take a deep breath, because that was what a girl did to relax. Right? Take a breath. Think. Except I couldn’t think. Not clearly. I couldn’t decide if it was him, and I didn’t know if I needed proof or if it mattered, and my brain was all cocked up with stuff and things and the two millimeters between the edge of my nail polish and my cuticle. How all my toes had the same amount.
Would Darlene be proud of me if I texted back and proved it was Vince? Would the police say, “Good work”? Or would that open the door for him?
Just as I was obsessing over open doors, there was a buzz from the front gate.
I swallowed about four internal organs.
What was I supposed to do? I had a plan in place. What was it? The gate was modest, coming right up to the sidewalk, and had a keypad, microphone, and buzzer. The fence obscured the view of the house. I had cameras everywhere. Of all the security systems in Los Angeles, it wasn’t even close to the most exhaustive, but it made sense for the neighborhood and was a good deterrent.
Brain. Fucking brain.
I had a button to push. A red button on a keychain that would alert the police. It was on my bag, which was near the door, and there was one Louisville Slugger in the car and one in the front closet I was supposed to wield in case of emergency.
But I wasn’t supposed to answer the buzzer or acknowledge him at all.
I tiptoed to the front closet, wishing myself invisible so I could check the monitor and confirm it was my psycho ex.
The security closet had a monitor for each camera. The front gate feed showed a man in front, and it wasn’t Vince. Not at all. There wasn’t an ounce of douche on the guy. He was still in his suit. Tall and strong, looking down one end of the street, then the other, checking for danger.
I pushed the microphone button, and he spoke before I could say anything.
“Emily? It’s Carter. Carter Kincaid.”
His name was sexier every time I heard it.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry. I should have called first.”
I opened the door and padded down the front walk in my bare feet. The night was warm, and the stones were cool. The squirrels rustled the loquat tree.
I turned the lock and opened the heavy gate.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you were at the music thing?”
“Darlene’s fine. Thor has her. Do you always answer this gate by yourself?” He touched the gate frame, putting his finger in the hole to make sure the dead bolt was deep enough, eyeing the buzzer, the keypad, the knob.
“It’s not like I have a staff.”
“Yeah. Well . . .”
“You can stop looking at everything. I’ll point out where the cameras are.”
“No need.”
He moved his eyes from the security system to my body, making me realize I wasn’t dressed appropriately. I’d peeled off my sweatpants when I started dancing around, leaving me in Lycra short shorts and a crop top. He’d seen me in outfits like this a hundred times during rehearsal, but without the safety of two dozen dancers and assorted hangers-on, I felt naked.
And I kind of liked it, because it was him.
“Didn’t you come to look at my security system?” I didn’t care why he came. I wanted him to stay. I needed company.
“I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
“It’s complicated.” I stepped out of the way and handed him my phone with the text open. “Come in.”
CHAPTER 9
CARTER
Emily’s house was on the corner of Olympic and Citrus, not too far from where I lived. The front entrance was on the smaller street, and the driveway faced the wide thoroughfare of Olympic. That must have been for safety. Desolate streets helped the stalker, not the victim. Corner properties on major thoroughfares had advantages.
She handed me her phone as I came through the gate.
—Was it fun, babe?—
“Are you sure he sent this text?”
“No. He doesn’t have my new number, and I’ve blocked him.”
I gave her back her phone, following her inside. She closed and locked the front door. The little house was clean and uncluttered. I could see where the walls met the floors.
“Did you answer?”
“No. I blocked the number so he won’t text again. And I got a screenshot and uploaded it to my lawyer’s server. Blah blah. Can I get you something?”
“Water?”
I followed her into the open space in the middle of the house.
“Is this—?”
“Dining room,” she answered. Her eyes were still bloodshot and her lips were a little dry, but her reaction times appeared normal. She seemed to be coming down from the unexpected high just fine.
“Where do you eat?”
She shrugged. “When I’m not working? The bar, I guess.” She pointed to a butcher-block bar that separated the kitchen from the living room with a single stool tucked under it. “It’s nice to have the practice space right here if I get an idea, but mostly I work in the studio out back. Lemon?”
“Sure.”
She stood in front of the sink with one foot bent. Toe pointed. Hands folded in front of her as if they kept her from leaping at any second. She wasn’t a wilting flower when she was working. She was smart and confident. But in her own house? She had a shyness about her. A reticence that was the exact opposite of her best friend.
She handed me the glass. “The whole house is filtered. So you can drink it.”
“Does the studio have a separate security system?”
“Same one.”
I drank the water. It gave me a moment to figure out how I could politely demand an inspection of every inch of the house. When a woman is being stalked, a man shouldn’t demand things, even for her own good. I’d learned that too late, but I learned it.
“Do you want to see it?” She read my mind. “I mean, you’re here. You might as well check the security.”
“If you’re up to it.”
She flicked on the backyard floods. When she slid open the glass door, another flood flicked on, revealing a fountain with a black stone fish leaping from the center.
“Do you like it?” She flicked her hand to the fountain. “It came with the house. It’s reclaimed water.”
“I do. You need fish in it.”
“I’d forget to feed them, and they’d be floating when I got back from a trip or something.”