Page 100 of Game Plan

“Not sketchy at all.”

She shrugged. “At first, I thought we were just going the same way, but then I turned left, and he followed suit. Just to make sure I was not being paranoid, I entered the bookstore. He was right behind me, pretending to shop.”

“So, you saw him?”

“No. He was close, but not that close. Just enough that I knew he was there, without being close enough that I could notice anything about his features.”

“Do you think it could be Carl?” I asked.

She shrugged. “No idea. The guy was tall and had broad shoulders like him, but I don’t think it was him. Call it a hunch.” She huffed a breath. “I guess there’s just one way to find out.”

“You’ll ask him? Are you sure it’s smart?”

“I don’t think he has what it takes to be a mastermind criminal, but I’ll try to get him to confess if that’s the case. From what I know, Carl doesn’t fit the profile of someone who would go to such lengths as to wear a disguise just to scare me. I’ve never seen him wearing anything else other than Corduroy and old men’s cardigans and shirts. Also, he can barely say a word to me when he comes to Hot Shot. It doesn’t add up.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” From what I’d witnessed, I wasn’t certain Nichols fit the profile either. He’d been straightforward when he had threatened me. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Sure. But there’s something else. Seconds after I got back here, someone delivered this.” She pointed behind her.

I spotted the bouquet wrapped in kraft paper. “Someone gifted you flowers? I don’t understand.” I went to pick it up.

“Check the note.”

I read the short message on a piece of white cardstock lying on the desk.

Your lips are red

But you don’t deserve red roses

Only the black dying ones

Which are the same color as your heart

These flowers remind me of you

Because you should be rotting in hell

Where you belong

You fucking cunt

“Cassie, do you think it’s serious? Do stalkers write poems? Not that this is a poem, but it sounds a bit like it. You’re the criminology and psychology expert here.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. It feels more like a bad joke. Or some sort of prank.”

“Do you know someone who’s like obsessed with you, other than Carl? Or could it be someone in one of your classes trying to do some psychological experiment on you? But again, why would someone call you a cunt. It doesn’t add up.”

“I can’t think of anyone. Just make sure you lock the door when you’re here alone. And be careful. We never know.” She stood and turned to face me. “Were you in class when I called?”

“I was at Hot Shot, actually. With Don.”

“Why?”

“Long story. Mason-related. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Fine. Wanna walk me to work? The first latte is on me.”

“You sure you’re okay to go to work now?”