31
Did you miss me?
Lauren clutched the note so hard her hands began to tremble. She couldn’t breathe. Her emotions were like a trio of whips striking her, one, then the next, then the next. Over and over and over.
She was upset. She was angry. She was frightened.
Did you miss me?
It upset her that he could so easily reach out and, with four simple words, make her blood run cold. It made her angry he had that kind of power over her. And it frightened her that there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
What was she supposed to do? Call Mendez? And tell him what? Someone had left a note in her mailbox? She couldn’t prove Ballencoa had left it. It was ridiculous to think he would be so foolish as to leave something with his fingerprints on it. And what if he had? It wasn’t a threat. What could Mendez do? Arrest him for not using a stamp on the envelope?
She could call Greg Hewitt and hire him back to watch over her. An idea she rejected immediately, mortified at the idea of facing him again.
She was upset. She was angry. She was frightened.
Did you miss me?
How had he found her here? Only a few people had this address. She had been vague with the few people she had told about the move to Oak Knoll. She had said they needed a change of scenery, but that they hadn’t settled, didn’t have a permanent location, weren’t sure when they would be coming back. She had alienated so many of her former friends, none had pressed her for details. For a certainty, they had been relieved to have her gone.
How had Roland Ballencoa known? When had he seen her? When had he followed her? Had he followed her home from the shooting range? How could she not have known? How could she not have seen him? How could she not have sensed he was there? There was one road to this property. If someone had followed her . . . Mendez had followed her that day and she hadn’t noticed.
He was out there. For all she knew, he was watching her this minute. It was one thing for her to know where he lived. It was quite another for him to know where she lived—where she and Leah lived.
Did you miss me?
She dropped the note as if touching it was somehow making a connection to him, as if the card was made of his skin.
She felt desperate in every way she could imagine.
And she was on her own to deal with it.
Once again she thought of Lance. The pain of not having him with her was like a knife to her heart, but instead of blood, hot fury boiled out of the wound.
How could you leave me to this? How could you leave Leah? You should be the one dealing with this evil monster, not me.
“God damn you, Lance,” she whispered bitterly. Doubled over, elbows on her thighs, she put her head in her hands. “God damn you. Why couldn’t you stay and fight? Why couldn’t you fight for us?”
The tears that came burned her eyes like acid. The pressure of them made her feel like her head would burst. She was too exhausted to try to hold them back. Now was when she would have given anything to have a pair of strong arms around her, to have a broad shoulder to lean on, to have someone tell her she would be safe and Leah would be safe, and he would take care of everything.
She was so tired of having to be strong.
Now was when she was supposed to ask for help. Now was when she should have called Mendez and let him fill the role of protector. Now was when she could have called Bump Bristol and allowed him to ride over the mountains to her rescue. Now was when she might have once again made use of Greg Hewitt, the only man she’d slept with in two years—if she could have brought herself to face him.
She was so tired. She couldn’t remember the last decent sleep she’d had this week. It was taking a toll on her mentally and physically. Yet she knew there would be no rest tonight either. An overwhelming sense of despair and panic crashed over her at the thought.
As futile as it was to ask, the question still pounded at her: Why? Why? Why?
Why Leslie? Why their family? Why her? Why did it never end? Why could she not let go? Why did she have to feel so guilty for wanting to be done with it?
She was so tired of being upset and angry and frightened. It was exhausting physically, mentally, emotionally. The weight of it pulled on her. Every cell in her body felt filled with lead. She didn’t know how she was able to get up and move around. She didn’t know why she didn’t just fall to the floor.
Because she couldn’t. Because there wasn’t anyone else to do her job. She had to get up. She had to do what she had to do. She had to make sure the house was secure and they were safe from their unwanted watcher.
Did you miss me?
She got up and went to the console table, to her purse, and took the Walther out. The gun felt unusually heavy in her hand. She didn’t know if she had the strength to raise her arm with it, yet she went to the kitchen door with it to check the locks again. She checked the locks on the doors, the locks on the windows.
She almost expected to see Ballencoa staring in at her through the glass. In her mind’s eye she could see him standing right outside, his long narrow face expressionless, his heavy-lidded eyes as black and empty as the night.
Was he there? Or was she imagining things and telling herself they were real? Or was he really there, and she was trying to convince herself she was imagining things? How would she know either way? Her mind swam in the conundrum.
Her heart beat faster as she made the rounds of the house again, checking every door, every window. He might be circling the house. He might be circling the house one door ahead of her. He could be standing inside the last door as she came to it.
Did you miss me, Lauren?
She could hear his voice as if he was right beside her, whispering the words in her ear, his mouth so close the heat of his breath scalded her skin.
She bent her head and shrugged her shoulder against her neck, trying to wipe away the moisture.
Did you miss me, Lauren?
“You bastard.”
No?
“No. I didn’t miss you. I miss the beautiful daughter you took away from me. I miss the husband I loved like he was a part of my own heart. I miss the family I will never have again because of you. I miss me.”
You missed me. You want me. That’s why you’re here.
“I didn’t miss you,” she said bitterly. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
She wanted him to be gone. She wanted him to be dead. She raised her arm, pointed the gun at his chest, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion she should have heard sounded like her daughter’s voice crying: MOM!
“MOM!”
Leslie. Leslie was calling for her. Her daughter needed her.
“Where is she?” she demanded. “Where is she, damn you!”
He looked past her with his blank eyes as a slow, reptilian smile turned the corners of his mouth. Was it a trick?
She turned suddenly, arm still raised, gun in hand.
“MOMMY, NO!!”
Leah.
The look on her daughter’s face was horrified, stricken, lost. Her own mother had just turned on her with a loaded weapon.
Leah woke to the sound of her mother’s shouts—I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
Terrified, she came awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, her heart banging against the wall of her chest like a huge fist.
Who was in the house? Who was her mother fighting with? What was she supposed to do? Should she call 911 ? Should she get out of the house? Should she run downstairs and try to do something ?