When Becca’s expression went white, her lips not moving, Kit lifted a hand to her mouth. “Why would you do that?” It came out a shaken whisper. “Why would you help some creep terrorize me?” The two of them had been friends forever, had trusted one another with so many of their secrets and dreams. “Why, Becca?”
Becca didn’t answer, just reached into her purse and pulled out a small, sleek gun. Kit stared at it. Of course the security guards wouldn’t have thought to search her. She was Kit’s good friend, had often come to the house… when she could’ve left a door ajar or a window open for later access. Not here, not with the alarms, but back at the town house, where the stalking had first begun.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Becca said in a voice that held anger and panic both. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then why did you bring the gun?” Kit felt as if she were looking at the world through a freeze-frame, everything hanging in time. “Why are you pointing it at me?”
“The gun’s for him, for that fucking whore who made you so cheap.” Becca’s pitch was high and sharp, but her hands didn’t tremble. “You’re my friend. Mine. He’s got no right to you.”
Kit suddenly remembered how someone had wrecked Schoolboy Choir’s dressing room a couple of years ago when they’d done a set as part of a charity concert. The guys had figured it was a drunk fellow musician, but Becca had been backstage at that concert, acting as makeup artist for a soloist.
Kit put that incident together with Cody’s slashed tires the night of the wrap party, the dog feces that had been thrown at the house of a female director with whom Kit had begun a friendship before the director moved to work on a project in Europe, as well as the way Becca was always busy when Kit invited her to join Kit, Molly, and Thea for coffee or lunch, and knew the police, everyone, they’d been wrong.
The stalking had nothing to do with sex or physical attraction. It had to do with a pathological kind of friendship on Becca’s part. If Kit was right, Becca hadn’t been helping a male partner—this was too personal. That meant the sexual part of the stalking had been window dressing meant to hide Becca’s gender and true aim: to be Kit’s one and only friend.
“Where did you get the semen to smear on my bedspread?” It had been done literally a minute before Kit walked into the house, on dark blue sheets that would’ve made the stain obvious, even if the stalker hadn’t left a card next to it.
Becca had been in the town house the day before, seen the sheets, could’ve easily broken the lock on the window through which the stalker was found to have entered. As for the timing, Becca had been texting with Kit as Kit walked home from the party she’d been at that night—a party which Becca had left earlier on some excuse Kit couldn’t now remember. Kit had told her she’d be home in five minutes if Becca wanted to drop by.
Now the smaller woman shrugged. “Saved the condom from a wannabe actor I fucked who has a thing for you.” A small smile. “He did me because he thought it would get him close to you. I figured he’d make a good fall guy if the DNA was ever traced—the dipshit even has a poster of you on his wall. Smoking gun, right?”
That was when Kit realized just how deep this went, how much planning had been involved. “You must really care about me,” she said, playing to Becca’s pathology though terror threatened to freeze her to the spot. “Not many people care in this industry.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Becca dashed away a tear. “I’m the one who’s always looked after you. I made you beautiful on Primrose Avenue, then made you perfect for Last Flight. You would’ve never gotten that Oscar nod without me, but did I ever crow? No. I was happy for my friend. I wanted the best for you.”
“I know. I understand.” In truth, Kit was the one who’d recommended Becca to the Last Flight crew, and from that credit had flowed other work offers for the makeup artist.