Searching for Shadows, page 9
A wet nose pressed against her hand, and she opened her eyes, staring down at the two dogs in shock. Rebel’s eyes were direct and intense. Alfie’s were soft and sad.
Connelly hadn’t taken them with him.
Damn him.
She stroked a hand over Rebel’s blunt wedge of a head, then scooped Alfie up and buried her face in his soft fur.
Rebel whined and nosed her hand again as if sensing her distress. Alfie squirmed in her arms, nuzzling against her neck.
She held them close, taking comfort in their warmth. They were the only living beings she trusted anymore. The only ones who didn’t make her feel like she was losing her mind.
She wondered how long it would be before even they couldn’t stand being cooped up with her anymore. Rebel had already run away from her once. How long before Alfie abandoned her, too? And how long before Connelly gave up and let her push him away for good?
Or maybe he already had.
The thought made her heart ache.
She didn’t want to be alone anymore, but she didn’t know how to be around people without hyperventilating.
Veronica spent the rest of the day in bed with the dogs. She barely moved, lost in thoughts of what she had lost. The sun began to set, casting a warm orange light on the walls. She realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day, and her stomach grumbled. She sat up, gently pushing the dogs aside, and made her way to the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and was greeted with an unappetizing array of leftovers. She sighed and closed the door. She didn’t feel like eating anything.
But she should probably feed the dogs. She rummaged through the dog supplies Connelly had brought with him and the ones Hank Firestone had left for Alfie.
She dumped kibble into each dog’s bowl and watched Rebel devour hers in big, gulping bites while Alfie nibbled at his. She let them outside, praying that neither one ran off. They didn’t. While they both did their business, she glanced over at the spot where Connelly had slept last night, half-expecting to see him there again.
He wasn’t.
Of course he wasn’t.
She’d told him to leave.
The dogs came back inside and followed her back to bed. She curled around Rebel’s muscular body while Alfie nuzzled into the crook of her legs behind her knees. She closed her eyes, hoping to drift off to sleep. But her mind wouldn’t let her. It was too occupied with thoughts of Connelly. She knew he cared for her, but she couldn’t let him in. Not after what had happened to her. And not after what he did. He’d just use anything she told him as fodder for his next novel. How could he ever expect her to trust him again?
She heard a noise outside her bedroom window and bolted upright, heart racing. Rebel’s ears pricked up, listening to the same noise that had caught her attention. Alfie was oblivious, still sleeping soundly.
Veronica held her breath and listened for it again, but all she heard was the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. She hesitated, then got up and walked over to the window, peering out through the slits in the blind. The sun had set, and she couldn’t see anything other than the vague dark shapes of the forest, but still, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She shut the blinds and crawled back into bed, pulling Rebel close.
She never should’ve sent Connelly away.
chapter eleven
So this was the writer.
Connelly Davis.
Coming here every night, sleeping on the porch.
Ruining everything.
He stared down at the man, his lip curling in disgust as he cataloged each of the writer’s features. Dark hair. Straight nose. Strong jaw. Evenly spaced features. Long eyelashes. Just like the photo still crumpled in his jacket pocket.
Did his muse find the writer handsome?
The thought made his blood boil.
It would be so easy to slide a blade under that stubbled jaw and open him up, watch him bleed out. It would be messy as hell but so very satisfying.
He took out his knife and knelt over the sleeping man, leaning close enough that he could feel each warm exhale.
So easy...
But as he hovered the sharp edge over the writer’s throat, something inside him held back. Was it fear? No, he was never afraid. It was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Maybe curiosity?
He’d never had a rival before. His past muses never had anyone protecting them. This could be an exhilarating challenge. The next logical step of his evolution.
He sheathed his knife and eased off the porch, careful not to make any sound. He knew he should leave before the writer woke up, but he needed to see her.
His beautiful, broken Veronica.
Just a glimpse.
He slipped around the side of the house to her bedroom window. The blinds had been drawn, but the slats were cracked just enough that he could see her on the bed. He pressed his gloved hand to the glass.
Soon, he promised silently. Soon he’d set her free.
She sat up and looked right at the window. The big black and brown dog next to her also lifted its head and seemed to zeroed in on him with scarily intelligent eyes.
Shit, he’d forgotten about the dog.
Time to go.
As he faded back into the shadows, he thought of the book. He still had it. Had read it cover-to-cover, studied every sentence, analyzed every gory detail.
The writer’s mind was as twisted as his.
A new plan took shape in his mind.
He was tired of watching. It was time to play.
But for now, he would let the writer live.
Let them both live.
Just for a little while longer.
Connelly jolted awake and sat up on his elbow, scanning the dark forest. Nothing moved except for the fog rolling in from the ocean, curling around the trees.
So why did it feel like he wasn’t alone? He could’ve sworn someone was just right here, standing over him.
Had he been dreaming?
But it had felt so real.
Had Veronica come outside?
He glanced toward the silent house. He hadn’t heard a peep from inside since he came back around midnight and spread his sleeping bag out on the porch.
No, the presence he’d felt hadn’t been her.
He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, pushing the sleeping bag down around his waist. The early morning air had a bite, but he welcomed it. He’d just do a walk around the property to reassure his overactive imagination that everything was okay.
He slipped on his boots and grabbed a flashlight, then set off into the murky forest, wishing he had Rebel at his side. The mist was thick, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Trees loomed like ominous shadows, and the underbrush was a tangle of vines and thorns.
Connelly’s heart thumped in his chest as he thought back to the stories he’d heard of the monsters that lurked in these woods. The stories that had inspired his last book.
In shadows so deep, the Stalker hides.
Fear his presence, where moonlight dies.
In woods so still, his hunt begins,
Fear his presence, where moonlight thins.
One by one, his tally grows,
For in the shadows, his secret shows.
A twig snapped beneath his boot, and he jerked to a stop.
Shit. He was scaring himself.
Connelly shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the ominous nursery rhyme. He focused on his surroundings, taking in the damp smell of the forest, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and the soft hoot of an owl in the distance.
As he walked, he kept his flashlight trained on the ground, looking for any signs of footprints, but there was nothing. It was as if he was the only one in the forest.
Okay. So he was just paranoid.
He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was a grown man and a former pararescue officer. He was no stranger to danger or fear. Hell, he made a living off fear. So he needed to get a grip.
He turned back to the house and did one more circuit around the perimeter to make sure everything was fine. He made it to Veronica’s bedroom window, and his blood ran cold as his flashlight beam glinted off the glass.
There, in the condensation, was a hand print. A large, human print, as if someone had pressed a gloved hand to the glass.
He grabbed his phone and tried to get a picture of it, but it was too dark without using the flash, and the flash caused too much of a glare. He watched helplessly as it faded before his eyes, then scanned the trees again.
He wasn’t paranoid.
It wasn’t his imagination.
Someone was out there.
chapter twelve
“Not doing much typing today.”
Connelly looked up from his laptop and blinked at Rose Rawlings as she set a mug of coffee in front of him. “I didn’t order this.”
“On the house. You look like you can use it.” She slid into the booth across from him. “Not getting much sleep?”
He thought of the night on Veronica’s porch and waking up to the sensation of someone standing over him, the chill of immediate danger raising the hair on the back of his neck. He felt the chill now, even though Rose always kept the Mad Dog Pub warm and cozy.
He reached for the coffee. “No. Not really.”
Rose propped her chin on her hand, and her new wedding ring glinted in the light. She was a beautiful woman with long black hair, bright blue eyes, and a body built for male fantasy. For a short time, when he first arrived in town, he’d considered asking her out but quickly realized the sheriff was madly in love with her and backed off. He had no interest in getting on Ash Rawlings’ bad side.
Now he considered Rose a friend. Her pub, a quintessential rustic dive, had been his choice of office space more often than not since moving to Steam Valley. He loved the place and usually enjoyed the company, but today, he wished she’d leave him alone.
“Book not going well?” she asked.
He exhaled a short laugh. “It’s not going at all.” And the long nights on Veronica’s porch weren’t helping. He’d have to sleep in his own bed tonight, though he loathed the thought of leaving her alone. If he were exhausted from lack of sleep, he wouldn’t be able to protect her—but was there even anything to protect her from? He wasn’t sure, but he needed to be functioning at one hundred percent, just in case.
He took a long sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter taste and letting it warm him down to his bones. Maybe the caffeine would kick-start his brain.
He lifted the mug to Rose in a toast. “Thanks for this. What do I owe you?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s on the house.”
He expected her to go back to tending the bar, but she stayed put.
He raised a brow at her. “Don’t you have work to do?”
She motioned to the redheaded man washing glasses behind the bar. “I have Jeremy now. I can take a break.”
The man— or kid? He looked young enough to be fresh out of high school and was of average height and build with a shock of orange-red hair. Other than his hair, he wasn’t particularly noticeable, but something about his face looked familiar.
As if reading his mind, Rose leaned in. “That’s Jeremy Firestone. I heard he and his Dad were struggling without Dr. Firestone’s paycheck, and Ash had been on me to hire some more help, so here he is. He’s shy but otherwise a good worker.”
Ah. That was why he looked so familiar. He was a younger version of Hank Firestone, who was a regular at The Mad Dog.
“He looks just like his father.” Connelly watched Jeremy disappear into the back room with a bus tub full of dirty dishes. “How’s he doing?”
“How do you think? He lost his mom,” Rose said flatly. “Which is not an easy thing at any age.”
And she’d know since her mom had been murdered when she was only thirteen.
“Fair point.” Which reminded Connelly he hadn’t spoken to his mom since last week. He should call her.
“So…” Rose waved away the sad topic and tilted her head, studying him. “I heard a rumor you’ve been sleeping on Veronica’s porch.”
He stared at her in shock. “Who the hell told you that?”
“Just a rumor.” She lifted a shoulder. “Small town. Nothing stays secret around here.”
Connelly rubbed a hand over his face. “She won’t let me in.”
They both knew he meant more than into the house.
Rose nodded and slid from the booth as the bell over the door sounded. “Have you spoken to Rylan about it?”
Before he could answer, Ash Rawlings stomped into the pub, his usual scowl firmly in place. He strode over to Connelly’s booth, pausing briefly to give his wife a quick kiss.
“Do you mind closing for a bit? I need to talk to Connelly, and I feel safer doing it here where we’re less likely to be overheard.”
Rose stared up into her husband’s eyes, and her brow furrowed with concern. “I’ll lock up. It’s been slow anyway.”
“Thanks.” He dropped a thick manila envelope on the table and slid into the spot Rose had vacated.
“Is this about the lurker at Veronica’s place?” Connelly asked.
Ash scowled. “What lurker?”
“I found evidence of someone hanging out under her bedroom window last night. There was a handprint in the condensation on the glass. I called the non-emergency number and reported it to your department this morning.”
Ash’s scowl deepened. “Why am I now just hearing about it?”
So the deputy hadn’t taken him seriously. He’d wondered. Had the man even filed a report? Probably not.
“Who did you speak to?” Ash demanded.
He thought back to the conversation and shook his head. “I didn’t catch his name.”
Ash growled softly. “I’ll find out and handle it. Next time something like that happens, call 9-1-1 so there’s a record that my dumb-ass deputies can’t sweep under the rug.”
“Okay,” Connelly said, his gaze flicking between Ash and the envelope. “So if you’re not here about that, what’s this about?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Apprehension curdled the coffee in his stomach as he reached for the envelope. He’d seen crime scene photos before and, having been trained by the Air Force to treat the worst kinds of wounds under the worst kinds of conditions, he wasn’t usually squeamish.
But this...
This was different.
Because this was a scene directly from his twisted imagination. A woman, her body mangled and broken, lay in a pool of blood. Her face was a mask of terror, her eyes wide and staring. The next few photos were just as graphic. Bile rose into his throat, and his hand shook.
“What the hell is this?”
“That...” Ash leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Is your victim.”
Connelly looked up. “I didn’t do this.”
“No, but you wrote it,” Ash said grimly and pulled out a copy of The Shadows Within. Connelly recognized it as the one he’d signed for Rose a few months back, but now it was tabbed with sticky notes and marked up with highlighter.
“Chapter Three. The first death.” Ash opened the book and slid it toward him.
He didn’t have to read it. He knew the scene. Remembered agonizing over each word as he worked late into the night to meet his deadline. It was that first inkling in the book of something’s not right here, a reader’s first shiver of fear. It was one of the last scenes he’d written before sending it to his editor because he’d felt like he needed to know the rest of the story before he could do it justice. He’d wanted it to be quietly gruesome. He’d wanted his main characters—and his readers—to be unsure whether the death was a freak accident or something more sinister.
The whole book played with fear. The Shadow Stalker—his fictional version, not the legendary one that supposedly hunted in the mountains around town—fed off fear and attacked people struggling with phobias. His first victim, Caroline Harris, was acrophobic, afraid of heights, and died from a fall off a cliff because she thought someone was chasing her.
Connelly looked at the crime scene photos. The similarities were eerie. The twisted limbs, the shattered bones, the blood-soaked ground. The fear etched into the victim’s face. Even the color of the victim’s hair and her red coat. Like she was cosplaying as the book character.
But this was real.
This was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s loved one. Some sick fuck had taken his words and brought them to life in the most horrifying way possible.
He looked back up at Ash and found he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Did the fall kill her?”
“No. She was shot. We believe she was dead before she went over the cliff. There were also signs of sexual assault.”
“That’s not like my book.”
“So I discovered when Rose gave me her copy to read this morning.” He tapped the open book. “But the killer left your book behind with this scene highlighted. He wanted us to make the connection.”
“Jesus. What the fuck?” Connelly dragged his hands through his hair and stared down at the highlighted passage. “What was her name?”
“May-Lynn Tapia. She was twenty-six and taught kindergarten over at the elementary school.” Ash leaned back in his seat and studied him for a long moment. “Listen, Connelly. Whoever did this to May-Lynn is clearly fixated on your book, and if I were a betting man, I’d lay down money on the probability of their obsession shifting to the book’s writer. You. So you need to be careful until we catch this guy. That means no more sleeping on Veronica’s porch.”
“How does every-fucking-body know about that?”
“It’s a small town. People talk.”
He was starting to prefer the anonymity of Seattle, where he knew the neighbors in his high rise by sight and not name. “I can’t leave her alone, and she won’t let me in.”
