Page 109 of Fame and Obsession
His mention of the crime documentary Access Live spoke of at the gala sparks a memory. I must make a face that catches his attention because he pulls out his notebook again.
But something about Vivian’s attack rings familiar.
“Not a true crime fan, Mr. Bale?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, stalking toward the door. “I’m too busy being in fucking shock over my ex-girlfriend’s death to shoot the shit about your favorite TV show.” I glare at him and swing the door open. “Assuming you’re not here to charge me with anything, you can leave.”
Detective Hough nods to the two officers, and all three walk toward the door. As Officers Grimes and Paloma exit, he stops, turning back with a quizzical look. “Where were you going before, Mr. Bale?”
“Ironically, to see your brothers in blue across the river,” I say, goading him.
“I’m not following.”
“NJSP—I’m sure you’ve heard all about my stalker problem.”
He laughs dryly. “Mr. Bale, contrary to what celebrities think, we don’t sit around the station listening to gossip shows. We have the real world to deal with and there are bad guys in it.” He leans against the door frame. “The only way I’d know if you had a stalker is if you walked into the precinct and told me.”
“Which is where I was going when you detained me.”
“Why don’t you come to the station with us so I can ask a few questions concerning Miss Hart? I’ll have someone take your statement about the stalking incident so we can process the file.” He lifts an expectant eyebrow.
“Is that a suggestion or a request?”
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t ask again. I’m too busy processing words that don’t seem real. Violence that has broken into my inner circle.
It finally hits me that Vivian is dead.
She wasn’t my stalker. Vindictive as she was, she was still someone’s daughter. At one time she’d been important in my life. She sure as fuck didn’t deserve to die. Especially not the way they described.
I stiffen as my brain finally makes the connection that’s been plaguing me. “You said she was stabbed seven times?” My heart slams against my chest when he nods. “Were they stomach wounds?”
Detective Hough’s eyes round, and his cool reserve fades. “How’d you know that?”
Phoebe.
Jesus. Her scars. There are seven on her abdomen. I know—I’ve kissed each one of them.
“Let’s go, Detective Hough. There’s a lot to explain, and it goes back about twelve months.”
* * *
By the time I leave the police station it’s dusk. I ditch my Surge appointed security guard and waste no time making my way to Phoebe’s brownstone.
Within seconds I’m pounding on the front door.
“Phoebe? It’s me. Let me in.” The apartment is quiet, the faint echo making it sound like it’s been empty for weeks.
It only makes me more determined to get inside
My head knows it’s Vivian who was attacked, but I can’t settle these thoughts in my head until I hold Phoebe in my arms.
Pounding harder, I yell even louder. “Open the door, or I’m coming in anyway.”
Inside, I hear a heated exchange of words, then a calm male voice filters through from the other side. “Bale, if you break this door, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I need to talk to her. Open the door, Harlow.” I bang again, each crack of metal against bone matching the pain in my chest. “Open this goddamn door, or I swear it’s coming down.”
Before I can react, the metal door swings open, and Gage Harlow stands fuming, his fist curled around a silver baseball bat. “She’s not here.”
