And she had flashback of a recent conversation she’d had with her father, who’d called her a “smart girl.”
“You called me from a pay phone but can anybody place you where you made that call? It’ll be in my cell phone records. That’ll be easy to find…. And, I’m sure you used gloves or a paper towel when you were handling this.” A glance at the knife. “And you probably bought it at a store with a self-checkout. But they’ll link it to you, Kayleigh. That’s what they do for a living.”
“Shut up! I’m going to kill you!”
He examined the knife. “It’s new so they’re going to check every store in town that sells this brand. There won’t be that many of them. You’d pay cash but all they have to do is look at the data-mined records of anyone who bought this model knife in the past few days with cash. They’ll figure out the exact store and register fast because you probably only bought this one thing, right? That’s a giveaway. They’ll get a warrant to collect the cash paid into the checkout machine. They’ll fingerprint the bills. And they’ll trace serial numbers of the bills you got from an ATM. That’s all recorded, you know.”
Of course it isn’t!
Is it?
Don’t listen to him. Scream for help then pull the trigger….
“There could even be a video or still picture of the self-serve transaction. It’ll take them all of five minutes to link you to this knife. And meanwhile there’ll be rookies searching the trash around the area here to look for bags and packaging and the receipt.” He glanced toward the toilet, which trickled as it continued to fill. Or the sewer pipes here. They’ll get you in an interrogation room and, Kayleigh, you’re such a good, honest person, you won’t hold up; they’ll have a confession in ten minutes. Madigan won’t want to but he won’t have any choice.” He glanced at her hand. “Can you even carry a concealed gun legally?”
I’ll do it on my own.
Except I can’t.
I’m a fucking coward.
The gun lowered.
“Oh, Kayleigh, they’ve brainwashed you so badly. I’m not the enemy. They’re the enemy. Here, I’m going to set the knife down.” He wiped it on his shirtsleeves, removing his own prints, and then he rested it on the floor. “That way there’ll be no connection between us. You take it and use it or throw it out. This never happened.”
He sounded so sincere. Kayleigh wished Kathryn Dance was here to look at the stalker and nod that he was telling the truth or shake her head that he was lying. He stepped back and she eased forward, picked the knife up and slipped it back into her jacket.
“Think about this, Kayleigh: Sure, you’re being stalked. But not by me. Maybe it’s the reporters and photographers. Maybe it’s your father. He claims he wants what’s best but does he? I’m not so sure. And what about the others? Maybe … I don’t know—Alicia, Tye Slocum—oh, keep an eye on him. I’ve seen how he looks at you. And Barry Zeigler. He’s holding on to you pretty tight. Who else does the label have as big as you? Neil Watson—but come on, he’s like a bad tribute act to himself. And who else is out there watching you, stalking you? Fans and strangers. People who don’t even know your music, but only that you’re beautiful and famous and rich. And they figure, why should you have all those things and not them? They don’t get how hard you work for them, how much you sacrifice.”
She whispered, “Can’t you just leave me alone? Please!”
“Oh, Kayleigh, you don’t want me to leave you alone. You just don’t know it yet.”
Chapter 41
“LEAVING HOME …”
Her hit song about the middle-aged immigrant woman being deported back to Mexico. The lines kept running through Kayleigh’s mind as she packed several suitcases and lugged them downstairs to the living room of her house, where Darthur Morgan took them from her and placed them in the SUV.
Alicia Sessions was there too, helping her with the temporary move in her Ford F150. Kayleigh hadn’t wanted her to go to the trouble but the woman insisted on schlepping guitars, amps and boxes of provisions from Whole Foods—the store where organic-minded Kayleigh shopped, as opposed to Safeway, the source of the staples in the household where she was bound.
“I can really manage.”
“No problem at all,” Alicia said.
“Well, stay for dinner, at least.”
“I’m seeing some friends in town.”
As efficient as she was, as important to the operation, Alicia remained largely a mystery to Kayleigh, the band and crew. She was a loner, who’d lived on the periphery of the professional music scene for years, performing alternative and post-punk in New York and San Francisco, without much success. She’d get her job done for Kayleigh and the business and then disappear in the evenings and on weekends for horseback riding and listening to music. Who the friends she was meeting tonight might be, Kayleigh had no idea. She assumed Alicia was gay. While the singer didn’t care one way or the other, aside from hoping she was in a loving relationship, in the country world the taboos were falling, but slowly; the genre was still the sound track of middle, conservative America. And Kayleigh guessed Alicia wasn’t comfortable bringing up her preferences.
After the SUV and Alicia’s pickup were loaded, Kayleigh turned and looked over the house, as if for the last time.
Leaving home …
She climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV, Morgan in the passenger for a change, and gunned the engine, then headed down the long drive, Alicia’s truck following.
Expecting to see him, him, in the lot of the park, she rolled fast through the turn onto the road, skidding. Morgan grabbed the handhold and gave a rare smile. Kayleigh glanced around and into the rearview mirror but there were no red cars.
“It’s for the best,” he said.
“I suppose.”