When she kicks off her flip-flops and treads through the bathwater-warm shallows, she recognizes the man’s muscular frame and close-cropped hair. Bronson Severson from the dojo.
He appears to be in a state of bliss, his face turned up to the sun, eyes closed to thin slits.
“Ms. Gellar,” he says without looking up. “I thought that was you.”
“Mr. Severson.”
“Call me Bronson. Please.”
“Only if you call me Darcy.” She sits in the sand with her arms wrapped around her knees. “I didn’t realize you live around here.”
“I don’t. Actually I’m on the west side of the village. You probably saw my truck parked down the road from your house.”
“You know where I live?”
He slips a bucket hat over his head and slides the rim down to his brow.
“Yes, from your sign-up form. I recognized the street when I entered your information into my database. You’re in Steve and Patty Mitchell’s old house.”
Darcy locks her elbows and leans back on her hands, digging her toes into the sand.
“Seems you’ve met everyone in Genoa Cove.”
Bronson shrugs.
“Small village. Live here a few decades and you’ll memorize half the population’s birthdays.” A tug on the line grabs Bronson’s attention. He calmly removes his hat and grasps the fishing rod, almost annoyed the fish interrupted his relaxation. “So it’s just you and the kids, that right?”
Darcy shifts her weight. How much does this man know about her?
“My son and daughter, yes,” she says, hoping he didn’t learn about Tyler.
“Hunter and Jennifer.” A jolt of electricity shoots through her bones upon hearing her children’s names. He notices her alarm and raises a calming hand. “My nephew plays on the football team, and I guess he was at a party with Jennifer last month.”
A party? Darcy’s brow furrows. How many times has Jennifer sneaked out?
Bronson, in no rush to reel in the fish, nods for several seconds, considering.
“Crap, I probably sound like a creeper. Hope I didn’t throw you off asking about you and your kids.”
“It’s okay. You were a cop.”
“A nosy one apparently.” He jerks the rod, and the line goes slack. “Lost another one. For the record, Genoa Cove is a safe place to raise kids, a lot safer than Smith Town. But the area has its challenges, the occasional hurricane not being the least. Don’t hesitate to call if you or the kids need anything.”
The tension releases from Darcy’s shoulders. Bronson is a retired police officer and her instructor for self-defense class. She should be thankful he’s taken an interest in a single mother and her kids. What if Darcy was in Amy’s shoes, looking over her shoulder for a sick stalker who knows too much about her past? It might be helpful to have a guy like Bronson keeping an eye on them.
“There is something you could help me with.”
She tells Bronson about Amy, leaving out the Michael Rivers angle. It’s a matter of time before he runs an Internet search for Darcy Gellar and learns about her infamous and abbreviated FBI career, but he doesn’t need to find out yet. Amy is the one who needs protection.
“The Smith Town and Genoa Cove police departments never saw eye-to-eye, but I remember a few guys over there. Let me make a call and get back to you. At the very least, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have someone drive past her residence until this stalker thing works itself out.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all. We’re neighbors now. People in Genoa Cove look out for each other.”
Bronson packs his fishing gear and groans when he stretches. He grabs his chair and stops as if he remembers something.
“Darcy, do you have an alarm system?”
“As a matter of fact, Gilmore Security will install my system tomorrow.”
“Then you did well. Gilmore is the best in the region. I’ll take them over those national brands any day. What about a gun?”
“A Glock-22.”
He nods.
“Fine weapon.”
They walk together along the path back to the neighborhood, the sand too hot for Darcy without her flip-flops. Bronson climbs into his red Dodge pickup with another invitation to phone him at the first sign of trouble. It makes her wonder if Genoa Cove has more problems than he’s letting on.
Inside the ranch, Darcy rubs the chill off her arms as her body adjusts to the air conditioning. She rummages through the refrigerator for a snack and hears a thump from down the hall.
Someone is inside the house.
The kitchen window is open. She checked every window before she left the house.
An image of the serial killer’s tag on the side of Amy Yang’s house flashes in her mind. As she told Bronson, she locks the gun in her bedroom safe. The noise came from her daughter’s room.
Jennifer’s door bangs open.
Darcy throws herself against the wall as her daughter toils down the hallway, rubbing at her eyes. She’s barefoot in a SpongeBob nightshirt, her hair tousled as though she’d been sleeping.
“What are you doing home? It’s not two o’clock yet.”
Jennifer touches her stomach.
“Sick. Jenna drove me home.” Jennifer totters into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Scratching her head, she considers an orange and places it back in the crisper drawer. “Word of advice: never trust fish day in a school cafeteria.”
“Why didn’t you call? You need to tell me if you leave school.”
“I called. You didn’t have your phone with you.”
Jennifer fills a glass of water and tilts her head at Darcy’s phone on the table.
“Did you open the kitchen window?”
Jennifer holds up her forefinger as she gulps the water. After finishing, she wipes her mouth on her forearm.
“Yes.”
“Jennifer, how many times do I need to tell you to keep the house secure? You were home alone.”
“Seriously, Mom. It’s Genoa Cove. Who’s going to break in? The Kardashians?”
“It’s not a joking matter, especially with a rapist in the area,” Darcy says, cranking the casement window closed. “And you’re letting the hot air inside.”
“I’m letting the fresh air inside. This place smells like an old carpet and Hunter’s feet. Oh, speaking of which.”
Jennifer reaches for a folded sheet of paper on the table and hands it to Darcy.
“What’s this?”
“You better take a look.”
Darcy unfolds the paper and feels her stomach fall out from under her. It’s a note written in angry reds. Vulgarities. Homophobic slurs. Threats to beat the shit out of the target. Her hands tremble as she scans the vicious note.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was stuffed into Hunter’s locker this morning. Don’t worry. I grabbed the note before he saw.”
“Don’t worry? Whoever wrote this wants to hurt Hunter. Why would somebody write this?”
Jennifer raises her hands.
“Probably because he’s dating the prettiest girl in school, and dumb-ass jocks get jealous.”
“He’s dating Bethany?” Darcy notices Jennifer’s questioning stare. “We ran into her at Antonia’s yesterday. Hunter said they were friends.”
“Friends. Right.” Jennifer burps into her hand. “I’m gonna yak up a fish sandwich. I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me.”
Darcy can’t understand why Jennifer is taking this lightly. The note is hateful and shocking, a decisive leap beyond bullying. This person wants to hurt her son.
Threats of physical violence are a matter for the police. Hunter will hate Darcy for calling the authorities, and perhaps the note is only bluster and empty threats, but she won’t take chances with his life.