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His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“No matter where I go, this black sedan keeps showing up.” I grab one of the iced coffees and take a sip. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
He scrapes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Has anyone tried to talk to you at work?”
I nod. “Yeah, around the time that sedan started following me. Detective Bryant. You know, the one who’s also attached to Grace and Briar’s cases.”
“It’s probably him then,” he says, pounding a fist on the table. “Just like those FBI dickheads at work …”
I nearly choke on my drink. “FBI? You never said anything about the fuckingFBI!”
“Yeah, about that … They asked to interview people at work a while ago. The ones who were at that news conference. Part of me didn’t want to acknowledge it as a big deal, but?—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I ask, anger bubbling up in my chest. “Is that why the detective is following me? Does he think I know something?” I pause for a beat, my rage bursting at the seams. “Do they suspect me of being involved?”
A thick silence settles between us before he speaks again. “I don’t know for sure, but it’s definitely possible they see you as a suspect.” Abruptly, he stands. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle Detective Bryant.”
As he moves to fetch his jacket, I catch him by the hand. “Don’t do anything stupid, Damon.”
“I won’t let them lock us away,” he says, gazing straight into my eyes. “I promise.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek.
I watch as he snatches his jacket and walks out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I can only hope that he’s right—that the two of us can avoid jail time. I have no idea what Damon has planned. But I do know one thing.
Everything has become a hell of a lot more complicated now.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
HIM
Rain turns to slush as it hits the windshield.
The closer it gets to Christmas, the colder it gets. I still prefer it to the suffocating stickiness of North Carolina, however. I crank up the heater and sip my coffee as I watch Detective Bryant.
I’ve spent the past few weeks closely studying him, meticulously documenting his patterns and behaviors. He sits at Smilin’ Delights, a rustic old diner at the edge of Fallbank. He’s been coming here every day, always alone, always nursing a cup of black coffee and munching on a pastry.
But today, he’s different. A stack of folders sits before him on the table, and he furrows his brow as he scribbles on a piece of paper. Occasionally, he takes a sip of his coffee. Leaning back in his chair, he closes his eyes, the wheels spinning in his head as if he’s trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
I won’t let him.
He’s been following Gwen and me for a while now. I noticed it immediately one day, but I pretended not to. He thinks he’s sly, but I know his game. He believes he can link us to the murders. I won’t let that happen. I’ll kill him before he can give a single shred of proof to the FBI.
It’s too risky to observe him inside the diner, so I’m parked outside, among other plain sedans. I watch and bide my time, filling the silence with the radio. The DJ’s overly enthusiastic announcement of prize winners is like nails on a chalkboard.
After what feels like forever, Bryant finally gets up and leaves the diner. He clutches the leather-bound portfolio as he crosses the parking lot, the slush beneath his boots already turning into a mixture of mud and ice. Once he reaches his car, he hesitates, looking around suspiciously. Does he know I’m stalking him?
He gets in, revving the engine before he peels out of the lot, flinging gravel in every direction. I finish my coffee and follow him, keeping a safe distance. He’s predictable, taking the same route every day, so I know he’s heading to the run-down motel on the outskirts of town. I trail him, mostly hanging back until the moment he disappears inside his room.
I make a U-turn at the next exit, avoiding the motel. I’m not ready to confront him just yet, particularly head-on. Checking the radio display for the time, I realize I need to make an appearance at work. Switching to a less grating station, I drive to the newspaper office.
When I arrive, the hum of computers and clacking keyboards fills my ears. Everyone’s busy, scrambling to meet their deadlines before the holiday. I go straight to my desk, settling in my chair as I boot up the PC.
David wheels over to me, greeting me with a smile. “Hey there, stranger. Where have you been?”
“Just doing some research for a story I’m working on,” I reply casually, avoiding his curious gaze as I log into the machine.
“Oh, something juicy?” he prods.
