Outsiders. Part 10

"What have you got for me?"

"Interesting stuff." I hear papers sliding around on her desk as she lines up her information. "I had to call on Officer Jefferson from the Raleigh police department. Remember her?"

My brain does a quick memory search and I vaguely recall a female cop a couple years earlier whose partner was in up to his eyeb.a.l.l.s with the local drug dealers. Tricky case, but everybody came out intact. "I do."

"Well, I needed her help because I couldn't find an address for Rebecca Ca.s.sidy. Seems she's had four of them in the past two years, along with six phone number changes, and then went invisible. The only thing Jefferson could give me was a post office box. I've got Megan on it now. I'll call you as soon as I hear from her, which should be any time now."

"Four different addresses in two years?"

"Yup. You thinking what I'm thinking?" Hayley asks.

"Stalker."

"Bingo. Listen to this: Jefferson's got seven police reports and two restraining orders that Rebecca filed in the s.p.a.ce of twenty-six months. Guy's name is Todd Bennett. He violated the first restraining order and went to jail for three months. Came out, found her; she filed a report, then another TRO; he violated that, went to jail again for six months. Now he's out again. No current address, but Megan's on it."

"When did he get out?" I'm jotting down notes as she talks.

"Looks like late December." She's quiet for a second or two. "What are the chances he gave up?"

"Slim to none. More likely, she thinks she got away from him this time."

"Ugh. Poor thing."

I release a breath loudly. I hate stalker cases. They're unpredictable and rarely end well. Cops-male cops especially-don't understand that a man can intimidate a woman, can scare the bejesus out of her, without actually breaking the restraining order. He doesn't have to be closer than five hundred feet to terrify his victim. I'm hoping maybe this case will be different, but I've got a bad feeling already. "All right. Send me pictures of both, so I'll know them when I see them. Let me get settled in and get something to eat, and you give me a shout as soon as you hear from Megan, okay?"

"Will do. Talk to you soon. Love you." Hayley's voice softens on that last note, and I pretend I'm bathing in the light of those green eyes instead of standing in a hotel room alone.

"Love you, too."

There's not a lot I can do before Megan comes up with an address. I know you're wondering right now if I'm talking about the same Megan. I am. Megan Stevenson went on to MIT, if you can believe that, and is frighteningly smart. I think she was one of twenty-six women in her graduating cla.s.s, and I don't even know what her degree was in. She's some kind of engineer that works with computers and math theorems and other numerical things that make my head hurt. All I know is she can find just about any piece of information on any person with nothing more than a few keystrokes. She lives in Manhattan and is an independent consultant for half a dozen Fortune 500 companies. I keep her on retainer for when I need something like today. Finding Rebecca Ca.s.sidy's current address will take Megan all of ten minutes, I'm sure.

In the meantime, my BlackBerry buzzes, and I pull up the pictures Hayley sent of Rebecca Ca.s.sidy and Todd Bennett. Both are standard DMV photos, and both faces are somewhat unremarkable, which can be said about most people in general. Rebecca is a strawberry blonde with a plump, round face and kind, gentle green eyes. With thinning brown hair and round, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses that shield startlingly blue eyes, Todd looks like any guy I might run into in Home Depot. Sometimes that makes cases like this even harder: everybody looks so freaking normal.

I sigh at the same time my stomach rumbles. I really need to eat. My hotel is near a plaza that has a Chili's, so I call over and order myself some food to go. Their nachos are so loaded down with cheese that they're really just a heart attack on a plate, but I can't resist the melty, stringy, greasy goodness of it. I go for the comfort food when I'm away from Hayley. I won't tell her, of course. She'd scold me, then make me eat nothing but salad for a week.

Hayley.

It scares me sometimes how much I miss her when I'm away. I still can't figure out if that's a sweet thing or an enormous weakness. And as usual when I dwell on my feelings for her, my mind reverts to five years ago.

Hayley Ryan Grafton was born Anna Elizabeth Ryan in a small suburb outside of Cleveland in 1979. She was the only child of Donna and Ken Ryan, who had tried throughout their entire marriage to have children and weren't blessed with their daughter until Donna was in her mid-forties. Anna was a good baby, quiet and easy. She remained that way throughout her childhood and into her teen years when she studied hard, played on the volleyball team, and graduated fourth in her cla.s.s. She went to college at Marietta, but dropped out in the middle of her senior year after losing her father to colon cancer. Less than a year later, her mother died of a ma.s.sive coronary, and Anna found herself all alone, with no family at all, at twenty-two years old.

Being suddenly solitary can do weird things to your head, and I firmly believe that's why Anna fell for Brant Collier. Of course, there was also his ability to be devastatingly charming, a characteristic he used to his advantage, one that he could turn on and off as it suited him. He won Anna over completely before the first time he hit her, so much so that she was utterly shocked and ran through the catalogs of her mind to figure out where she had screwed up so badly to deserve a black eye and split lip. Surely, it was her fault; Brant was a great guy, a cop, for Christ's sake. He was sworn to serve and protect. She must have done something horrible for him to sock her one.

It's a path of warped logic that has become all too familiar to me since I started this mission of mine. You'd be surprised how many very intelligent women are victims of abuse by their husbands, boyfriends, or partners. It's staggering the kinds of games that can be played with your mind in order to make you feel small and worthless. Anna was far from stupid, and she didn't come close to naive, but she was with Brant for nearly three years before her name showed up on my night stand. Three years being knocked around by a police officer. By that time, she was trapped, broken, and terrified. It's hard for me, even now, to think back on that time and have my mind's eye conjure up the bruises on her lovely face. I have to consciously unclench my jaw and force myself to stop grinding my teeth.

One thing an abuser makes sure to do is keep his victim isolated and that actually worked to my advantage when getting Anna away from him. Because he was a cop, there really were no other options. All I had to do was stake him out for a short period of time and have Megan do a little research on his life, and I had all the information I needed about what kind of obsessed lunatic he kept hidden beneath his blues. He'd never let Anna get away from him, never. He'd hunt her forever, and she'd never be free of him; of that I had no doubt. The fact that I'd practically fallen in love with her on sight only stoked my creative fires and my desire to rip her out of his possessive grasp.

The right amount of money can buy you just about anything in this country, including a bogus car accident, a doctored death certificate, and a new ident.i.ty. That's how Anna Elizabeth Ryan died and Hayley Ryan Grafton was born. She said she'd always liked the name Hayley, Sue Grafton is her favorite writer, and she wanted to keep one small piece of her parents with her always. How I managed to win her trust and her heart is another story altogether, and it often leads me to long, internal conversations with myself about things like destiny and greater purpose and if Fate started me on these missions so that I'd meet the love of my life, and blah, blah, blah. It's enough to give me a migraine and has on more than one occasion.

I'm munching on the last bite of my artery-clogging nachos when Hayley calls me back with information from Megan. n.o.body ever calls me directly except for Hayley. It might seem a little paranoid, but there are many times during my cases that I'm sort of flying under the radar of the law, and the last thing I want is for any of my contacts to get caught in the crossfire. Anonymity is key to what I do. Most of the people I've helped never see my face and many barely know my name, which is kind of interesting given that any time I've called one of them for their a.s.sistance later, like Officer Jefferson, for example, they've never hesitated. The human spirit is amazing that way, more liable to pay it forward than you'd think.

"Rebecca Ca.s.sidy lives in the Windy Oaks Apartment Homes. I MapQuested it, and it looks like she's not that far from you." Hayley gives me an address that's only about ten minutes from where I currently am, according to the map I have spread out on the second bed in my room. "Megan found Todd Bennett in another apartment complex about four miles down the street, if you can believe that. Under a false name."

"Terrific. She probably has no idea he's that close."

"Why can't men just take no for an answer?" Hayley asks, and her tone is such that I wonder if she's asking me or simply asking the universe.

"I wish I knew, babe."

"Megan's still working on details of Bennett...financials, employment and such. I'll call you when I hear from her."

"You're the best. I'll set up a stakeout so I can get a lay of the land."

"Did you get dinner?" She changes the subject, her voice moving from employee to wife.

"I did."

"Something decent?"

"I'm full. Does that count?"

She chuckles and it makes me smile. When I first met her-and by "met," I mean "started following"-her smile was completely different than it is now. She smiled often; it was her disguise, the only way to keep people from wondering if something was wrong. But the smile never reached her eyes. It sounds kind of corny, but there is little that depresses me more than the thought of those amazing eyes of hers looking flat, dull, and lifeless. The first time I made her laugh-a true, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of those eyes-I almost burst with the satisfaction that flooded me. There's nothing more wonderful than the warmth of Hayley's smile.

G.o.d, I'm a sap. I know that's what you're thinking, so let me just put it out there for you.

"It doesn't count if it was greasy and more than five hundred calories," she gently scolds.

"Oh. Oops."

"Norah, honestly. What am I going to do with you?"

"Love me forever? It's really the only solution."

She snorts, and I can almost see her shaking her head in exasperation. "Fine. I suppose if I have no other alternatives..."

"You don't. That's the only option." We banter a bit more, then I realize I need to get down to business. Time is often of the essence on my cases, and I never know for sure until I can get an overview of the situation. "Okay, babe, let me get some supplies, and then I'll go stake out Ms. Ca.s.sidy and see what I can see."

"I'll call you when I have more. Be careful."

"Always."

Chapter Four.

A stakeout is much less comfortable and way more boring than the cop shows on TV would have you believe. They always show two people, sitting in their car and shooting the s.h.i.t, drinking cups of coffee, until, as if on cue-and of course, it is on cue; it's TV-the person they're staking out suddenly shows up, and they can grab them/follow them/report on them. In reality, it never happens that quickly. Also, the coffee? Yeah, you have to be careful of that because lots of coffee not only gives you the jitters, but makes you have to pee. Not a lot of parking lots are equipped with Port-a-Potties, in my experience. And stakeouts at night are the worst because sitting there in the dark with nothing to do but stare at somebody's door is a good way to bring on the drowsies.

Hard candy helps a lot. If I suck on a vibrant, punchy flavor like lemon or pineapple or mint, it helps keep me from feeling sleepy. I keep a stash with me; Life Savers are my current favorite. Given how much I can go through, I went sugar-free a while ago, afraid I'd rot out my teeth.

Rebecca Ca.s.sidy's development is nice, as most of them are around here. From what I learned during my last stay, the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina is one of the fastest-growing sections of the country, and in order to handle the influx of people from out of town-or more accurately, out of state-there has been a high percentage of new rentals built. When you move from one state to another, you don't know the area, you don't know the market, and buying a house blind is a risky prospect. So, most people choose to rent for a while until they get a feel for the place. I flash back to Hayley's telling me that Rebecca has had four different addresses in less than two years, and I wonder how much money she's spent buying her way out of her leases. Even a six-month lease will cost you bunches of money if you break it.

I coast gently into her parking lot, slowing way down for the d.a.m.n speed humps that seem to be everywhere in this town, and find number 612. I continue on by, paying close attention to the other cars in the lot, as well as to any people walking around. It's not quite dark yet and the mild weather has pedestrians out in droves, walking their toddlers, their dogs, and themselves. I did a GoogleEarth search on my laptop before I came, and I saw that Windy Oaks is laid out in a horseshoe shape, with the clubhouse and community pool nestled in the curve. Beyond that-and on the other side of a chain link fence-is a small office park, which is sort of also in the curve of the horseshoe, but farther up. The office park is notable because it allows me to cruise into that parking lot and see the backs of the apartment homes. Each two-story unit looks to have a sliding gla.s.s door and a small concrete patio off the back. Off each patio is a door that I a.s.sume is for outdoor storage. Unfortunately, that outdoor storage is only one story high and has a nice flat roof that would make an easy step for anybody who wanted to break into a second-floor window. If Todd Bennett wants in to Rebecca Ca.s.sidy's home, it won't be hard. I continue to coast through the lot, weighing the pros and cons of staking out the front versus the back.

At the little pavilion that houses the apartments' mailboxes, I get a glimpse of a familiar shade of strawberry blonde hair. I slip my rental car inconspicuously into a nearby spot so I can watch. Sure enough, when the woman turns to respond to the greeting of somebody near her, I see that it is Rebecca Ca.s.sidy. The smile she gives to her neighbor is sweet and kind, but the wariness in her eyes is obvious only to somebody who's looking for it. Somebody like me.

I pretend to be looking through some papers in case anybody notices that my car is unfamiliar, though I'd be surprised if that happened. Because of the comings and goings I mentioned earlier, the turnover in places like this is pretty high, and many people aren't around long enough to recognize those living in the same building. I watch peripherally as Rebecca slides her key into her mailbox and retrieves the contents. She must be feeling secure since she's getting mail here at her apartment complex, rather than at the PO box Hayley mentioned. As I subtly keep watch, Rebecca's pale brows knit together as she studies one piece, then slices the plain white envelope open with a finger. Her face drains of color before my eyes, and her head snaps up, her gaze darting around, landing on me for an extra second, then scanning the rest of the vicinity. She crumples the paper and throws it angrily into the garbage can that's tucked into the corner of the little pavilion. With quick, staccato steps-her head up and continuing to scan-she heads back toward her apartment as fast as she can go without actually running.

I watch in my mirrors until she turns the corner, and I notice n.o.body following her. When she's completely out of my sight, I exit my car and pull the crumpled paper from the garbage. It's simple, plain white notebook paper, and the message is written in letters cut out of newspapers or magazines, so cliche that I roll my eyes. The message itself, though, sends a chill up my spine: See you soon.

No wonder she freaked. Like any stalker worth his salt, Todd Bennett probably lets Rebecca settle into her new place. He probably leaves her alone for a certain length of time, allows her to drop her guard and maybe even start to feel safe. And once she does...once she starts to think, "Hey, you know, I may finally be okay now," that is when he strikes, effectively tearing down any progress she feels she's made in her life, taking away any confidence in her own safety, making it clear to her that she can never, ever get away from him. It's brutal and it's cruel and it does the job.

Have I mentioned how much I hate stalker cases?

I pull out and drive back around to where Rebecca's front door is, pa.s.sing just in time to see her enter. The parking lot is lined with units on both sides, cars parked facing the doors, and I decide that it's too open for me to park and sit here. Somebody could notice. All it takes is one neighborhood busybody to find my car suspicious, and I could waste precious time talking my way out of a police inquiry. No, the office lot overlooking the back is going to be a much better place for my stakeout, and I've worked enough of these cases to understand that Todd Bennett will probably feel the same way.

I noticed during my first drive-through of the office parking area that there are two CPA firms in the building, and I thank my lucky stars. That means, of course, that there will be people working late, which means cars will remain in the lot after hours, which means I won't look so conspicuous sitting there all alone. It's a hard decision, but I finally find a spot two rows back from where I'd park if I wanted to look directly onto the back of Rebecca's unit. I do this because I have the sneaking suspicion that Todd Bennett will show up tonight, and this is the most likely place for him to park his stalker a.s.s. Just the idea of the way he'll watch her, spy on her, record her every movement, makes my skin crawl, and I have to take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm, to do things in an orderly fashion, to not let myself get too emotional about it. Hayley's boyfriend stalked her in a way. Yes, they were a couple, but he still kept tabs on her, monitored her every move, approved of or disapproved of any shopping trips she took or time she tried to spend with friends-some of the same things a stalker does-only she'd let him into her life willingly which made it worse for her.

I shift my focus and concentrate on getting a pineapple Life Saver out of the packaging and into my mouth, consciously unclenching my jaw. I tend to tighten it, grind my molars together, whenever I get to thinking about how badly Brant Collier mistreated Hayley. Visions of strangling somebody with your bare hands will do that to you.

Dusk will settle within the next half hour or so, and I hunker down in my seat, feeling less obvious as the light fades and the sky goes from bright blue to soft indigo to near black. I plug in my earpiece and give Hayley a call.

"Are you slouched in your seat in a dark parking lot?" she asks as a greeting.

"Your psychic abilities never cease to amaze me."

"I was just going to call you, babe. How's it going?"

I fill her in on the note and the set-up of the complex.

"Wow," she says when I finish. "Some pretty amazing timing on her name showing up, huh?"

"I'll say. I wish the Fates or the Universe or whatever wouldn't cut it so close." It's happened before, the name showing up on my nightstand within a day or two of when the person is in desperate need of help. I haven't always been on time.

"Todd Bennett drives a navy blue Ford Ranger pickup."

"Dark, nondescript, perfect for going unnoticed."

"Exactly. Megan says the only record of employment she can find is a part-time job with Time Warner. He barely makes enough money to cover his rent."

"Ugh. That doesn't bode well." I've learned from experience that when a stalker begins to pare down things that need his attention, like work and home, it most likely means he's focusing all that attention on his victim. Not good news for Rebecca Ca.s.sidy.

"I thought the same thing." The tone of Hayley's voice has changed, and I can picture the little divot that appears between her eyebrows when she's concerned about something. "Norah, please be careful. I've got a bad feeling about this guy."

"I will, sweetie, I promise." I don't tell her I have the same bad feeling.

After a little flirting and a tongue-in-cheek offer of phone s.e.x to keep me awake, we say our I-love-yous and hang up. I hunker down in my seat once again and wait, my mind drifting to my past cases.

In the years I've been doing...what I do, I've had three other stalker cases, not including Hayley's. I only count one of them a success, the one in which I was able to reason with the stalker and get him to back off with the promise that if he ever hara.s.sed his victim again, I'd be back and it would be very, very unpleasant. Luckily, he was a bit of a Poindexter, not at all a tough-a.s.s like most of them. I do keep tabs on him, and he's currently living four states away from his victim and, from what I can tell, he doesn't have a new one. So, he's my Stalker Success Story.

The other two, I don't like to think about, but at times like this, my mind doesn't listen. Kara Bonavilla from Wichita stabbed her stalker to death with a letter opener as he tried to rape her. Thank G.o.d she wasn't charged, and it was ruled self-defense, but killing somebody will scar you for life, and I wish I could have spared her that. I could have if I'd shown up three minutes sooner than I did.

Jennifer Meyers was raped and murdered by her stalker twenty-four hours after her name showed up on my nightstand. I took the first flight the next morning, got lost in downtown Houston, and by the time I arrived at her apartment, the police were already there, wheeling her out in a body bag. I threw up in the bushes when I realized I'd failed. I was inconsolable. It was my first mark in the loss column since Janine Barber, and I did not handle it well; it still makes me nauseous to think about it. The only upside to the whole thing was that her stalker was caught and is sitting in jail with a life sentence. After that case, I started booking the very next available flight to wherever the note sends me. So far, so good.

Of course, not every one of my cases is life or death, and thank G.o.d for that or I'd have gone insane long, long ago. Some of them have had very happy endings, and some have actually been almost fun. There was Pam Easton in Allentown, Pennsylvania. She was a high school senior who needed to be in the top ten of her graduating cla.s.s in order to get a scholarship, which was the only way she could afford to go to college. She was number eleven when her name appeared on my nightstand. It didn't take long for Megan to help me figure out that the number six guy was hacking the school's computer system and fixing his own grades. Pam ended up number ten of ten and should graduate from college magna c.u.m laude next year. Then there was Carla Cavanaugh in Bangor, Maine, single mother of two who'd been laid off. She looked for work for six months and was in danger of being evicted from her apartment with her kids and nothing else. She was well qualified for the jobs for which she'd applied, but her timing was lousy, and she always seemed to be "a day late and a dollar short," as my Uncle Skip used to say. A quick after-hours trip to a particular office that was looking for a receptionist was all it took to move Carla's application and resume to the top of the pile. She was hired three days after my visit and two days before her time ran out on her living arrangements. Melanie Taylor in Atlanta worked in a law firm and was being s.e.xually hara.s.sed by one of the lawyers. When she spoke up about it, she was summarily fired, and honestly, had a good case for a lawsuit. Of course, who has the b.a.l.l.s, or the money, to sue a lawyer, let alone a firm of them? So Melanie left it alone and went looking for other work, but continued to receive hara.s.sing e-mail and phone calls from the lawyer, so much so that she began to worry about her career and whether she'd be able to find another job in the field, never mind find relief from the constant pestering. That's when I received her name. A well-placed phone call to a friend of my father's at the Georgia State Bar, along with copies of the threatening e-mails the lawyer had been stupid enough to send, was all it took to put an end to that. Last time I checked, the lawyer was under investigation and in danger of being disbarred, and Melanie happily had a lucrative new job with a much bigger, much more successful firm.

So, see? It's not all bad. It's not all life or death, and there are bright spots amid the darker times. Like I said, not every case is a stalker case.

I pop another Life Saver into my mouth and notice Rebecca's second floor light come on; it's the only window I can see from my vantage point. A glance at my BlackBerry tells me it's nearing nine o'clock. I know Todd will be showing up soon; I can feel it in my gut. That's the thing about stalkers-I've learned this from experience-they think they're in the right. They think what they're doing is perfectly okay, and that it's ridiculous for somebody to call them a stalker. They're insulted by that term. The constant e-mails, nonstop phone calls, demands of time and acknowledgment, picture-taking that isn't consented to, following on foot or by car, they think all that is perfectly acceptable, and they don't understand why they creep people out. They don't get that what they're doing is wrong on so many levels. They can't wrap their brains around the fact that the object of their desire has no interest in them, and that they need to just back the h.e.l.l off.

Sorry. I tend to get a little emotional about this subject. After all I've seen, I don't care if it's some kind of sickness that needs to be treated; I don't care if therapy could possibly help. I see these men-and they are, overwhelmingly, men-as pimples on the face of society. They need to be squeezed out and gotten rid of. I know, I know. There are laws in place for this sort of thing, and you think maybe I'm being a bit harsh. But you know what I've found doing what I do? That a stalker doesn't give a s.h.i.t about laws. He doesn't care that he's breaking them, that he's got no right to each and every minute detail of his victim's life. He does not care. His focus is on one thing and one thing only: her. And he will stop at nothing until he possesses her, or kills her so n.o.body else can.

I sigh, irritated at my train of thought. Just as I'm trying to come up with something else to occupy my brain, a dark pickup pulls quietly and slowly into a parking spot exactly where I predicted, two rows up, right where he can watch the back of Rebecca's townhouse. Point for me.

I'm slouched down enough where I'm pretty sure he won't see me. Not that he's interested in his surroundings. He's all about Rebecca. By looking at him through my binoculars, I can see that he's looking through his, focused on the bedroom window. I smile when the mini blinds flip closed. Because my spot is a bit raised, I'm looking slightly down on him and I can see that he's jotting notes. I don't like that at all-notes usually signify plans-but there's not a lot I can do right now other than watch him and make sure he doesn't make any moves beyond spying.

It's going to be a long night.

Chapter Five.

Turns out Todd Bennett isn't nearly as adept at stakeouts as I am because by four-thirty in the morning, he's sound asleep in his truck. I can tell by the angle of his head, which is tipped backwards against the seat's headrest, as well as by the fact that, using my binoculars, I can see his wide-open mouth in the truck's side mirror. I give a little fist pump of thanks for the golden opportunity. I suspect Rebecca will be getting up for work before long, and I don't know what kind of time Todd normally spends ogling, but I a.s.sume he'd want to bail before the day's employees begin populating this parking lot. But I've got to get to his place and see what I'm dealing with in order to plot a course of action. I need to know where his mind's at, where he is on the danger scale.

I reach into my knapsack where I've stashed the supplies I purchased earlier, and I pull out the brand new hunting knife, still in its leather sheath. The polished pear-wood handle is cool and smooth, and my fingers slip into the grooves as if the d.a.m.n thing was made for my hand. The four-inch, stainless-steel blade gleams in the dim light of the parking lot, and for a moment, I'm mesmerized by it.

No, I'm not going to kill him. What kind of person do you think I am?

I slip out of my car as quietly as I can, not closing the door all the way to avoid any noise, and I slither along the asphalt like a reptile, staying low and out of sight. My gaze is riveted to the back window of the truck, looking for any sign of movement, but there is none. Todd Bennett is out like a light.

He'll be in for a treat when he does wake up. The blade of my knife pushes through the sidewall of Todd's rear tire like a shark fin through water, silently and effectively. I give the other rear tire the same treatment, as I want to keep him here longer than a quick change, and I'm betting he doesn't have twospare tires.

Back in my rented Toyota, I leave the headlights off, start up, and pull out. Seeing no movement, I a.s.sume Todd Bennett is a heavy sleeper. I grab my notebook, look up his address, and head that way.

Todd's complex is owned by the same management company as Rebecca's, and they look weirdly similar. The difference looks to be that Todd's is mostly apartments rather than townhomes, so the buildings are three story and have small balconies with white railings. The lot is quiet, but well lit, which makes me a little nervous. I find his unit, then cruise back out and park my car down the street, returning on foot with a small pack over my shoulder.

The Universe is smiling on me for a change-it often doesn't when I'm on a case. Todd's apartment is on the ground floor, and his lock is a cheap piece of c.r.a.p that I pick open in about fifteen seconds. I scoot inside, unsurprised to find no dog and no alarm system. Stalkers are kind of stupid that way. Their focus is so intent on their victim that they fail to think about protecting themselves. I guess that's a good thing.

As I stand still and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the first thought to hit me is that it smells like a single man lives here. Sweat and pizza and unwashed socks are the main players in the aroma, reminding me of what Porter's room smelled like when we were teenagers. I think about how women smell so much better, and my sense memory reminds me of the peaches-and-cream scent of Hayley's hair. With a quiet sigh, I extract a small Maglite from my pack, click it on, and wave it discreetly around the tiny apartment.

My blood runs cold.