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The location is still a sore subject with him. He blames himself for what happened with the pills. He won’t even talk about it. He won’t talk about Vivian either.
We’re a lot alike in that respect, so I couldn’t get mad. He shelled up and tightened the lid on his pain. I know the trick well. I’ve mastered it.
“Faith thinks Julian’s stalker is someone close to him,” I say. “Everything that’s happened—from getting into my apartment and office, following him and trashing his car, knowing we were at the shooting range, to knowing his private cell number—it’s all too coincidental. She said she sees it all the time with her clients in Hollywood.”
Hough backs me up. “She’s exactly right.”
“To keep Julian off-balance, she’s exploited every fear he has. Every time he’s reacted, so has she—especially where I’ve been concerned.”
“Not to mention Vivian Hart,” he breaks in. “The night he took her to the publicity party, she was murdered. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”
“Neither do I,” I agree, my gaze still on Julian. He hasn’t moved the whole conversation. “She was eliminating the competition.”
“I caused all this.” Julian’s mouth turns downward, and I can’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes.
He’s wearing down.
Because of me.
“Bale, most stalkers start off just like yours, with little jabs here and there meant to provoke you,” Hough counters. “When you finally lose your shit, they’ve got you. They’ll keep doing the same things over and over until they get what they want. You did everything right by not making a big fuss, believe it or not.”
Julian’s eyebrows rise, his first sign of emotion since the call started.
“Where you went wrong was in hiding it from the police. We could’ve found the missing link by now and nailed her.”
I can see the downward spiral of blame start to form. One I know will suck Julian in again, drowning him in a river of guilt, just like it did when Billy Lamee died.
I’m not about to let that happen.
It’s time to get this show on the road.
“Faith said the way to flush her out is through her favorite way of hiding, which is in a crowd. This woman loves to make her presence known in front of our faces as if to say, ‘Here I am, but you’re too stupid to know it.’ She posts on all of Julian’s fan sites and Surge Record’s group message sites, as well as blog chat pages and Chatter pages.”
I can hear a pen tapping in the background. “How does all that factor in?”
God, are all men this impatient?
“I’m getting to that,” I drawl, a sharp edge to my tone. “I researched the new stalker laws for New York and New Jersey, and they clearly state even one incident can get a conviction if there’s enough evidence proving intent to harass.”
Julian interrupts, his palm pressed against his forehead. “But couldn’t the letters and texts serve as evidence for that?”
“No,” Hough and I say simultaneously.
“There’s no proof there,” Hough finishes for both of us. “There are no prints, and theory would state anyone could’ve sent those.”
I steer the conversation back to the task at hand and tap the laptop screen, bringing up the website I’ve been working on. “The point is to catch her in the act. I’ve bought a domain name and created a fake webpage. I worked all night on the design. It looks pretty damn professional if you ask me.”
“It looks amazing.” Julian finally cracks a smile.
I grin back at him. “When I designed it, I set up a blog page. I got the C-panel web hosting and installed WordStory on it to host the blog page. I set the blog comments on moderator mode. That way, the ones that are made aren’t published to the public unless I approve them. Everything stays private if she starts getting psycho on us.”
“I’m still not following,” Hough murmurs, that damn pen tapping getting louder.
“Okay, let me try to break this down for you. I had Helena post the link for the new, fake superfans-only page on Julian’s real, official website. I sent out a welcome blog earlier. Now, we just wait for AngElmie to take the bait and start posting harassing messages via the fake blog page. WordStory records and panels all IP addresses of users who submit comments. Once she comments, bam, we’ve got her. I’ll print out the harassing messages, along with the IP address, and save them. I’ll scan it and email it over to you. Then you can do whatever it is you do.”
The tapping stops. “What I do…?”
“You know—do your thing and track her ass down.”
