“Are you looking for a fight?”
“Let’s say I’m looking for your famous balance. I give, you give.” She tapped her chest, pointed at him, then wiggled a hand between them. “And it levels out in the middle. Think about it. I’ve got to get ready for class,” she added, and strolled away.
Twenty minutes later as her first class of the day started their socialization exercises, she watched Simon walk to his truck. He called his dog—and shot Fiona a look from behind his sunglasses.
He drove away—without the duffel.
She considered it a small, personal victory.
Midway through the day, she’d logged “visits” from Meg and Chuck, Sylvia and Lori, topped off by her daily check from Davey.
Apparently no one was going to leave her alone. As much as she appreciated the concern, it occurred to her just why she’d chosen a place several miles outside the village. As much as she loved company, she needed those small pockets of solitude.
“Davey, I’ve got a call in to Agent Tawney—who’s probably going to make yet another trip out here. I’ve got my phone in my pocket, as promised, and barely thirty minutes between classes. Less when one of the clients is an islander because they stall until whoever’s next on the Watch Out for Fee list shows up. I’m not getting any of my office work done.”
“So go do it.”
“Do you really think this guy’s going to drive up here in the middle of the day to attempt an abduction between my Basic Obedience class and my Advanced Skill Set?”
“Probably not.” He took a swig from the Coke she’d provided. “But if he does, he’s not going to find you alone.”
She cast her eyes up to the puffy clouds dotting the sky. “Maybe I should start serving refreshments.”
“Cookies would be good. You can’t go wrong with cookies.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Look, here comes one of the next class. Go protect and serve someone else.”
He waited until the car came close enough for him to see the driver was female. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget the cookies.”
Davey gave a nod to the other driver as he got into his cruiser and she parked.
She climbed out, a tall, pretty brunette with a swingy wedge of chin-length hair and what Fiona thought of as city boots. Stylish and thin-heeled under trim gray pants.
“Fiona Bristow?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, what great dogs! Can I pet them?”
“Sure.” Fiona signaled, so her dogs stepped up to the woman and sat politely.
“They’re so sweet.” She shoved her enormous shoulder bag behind her back and crouched down. “The pictures on your website are good, but they’re even better in person.”
And where’s your dog? Fiona wondered. But it wouldn’t be the first time a potential client came out to scope her and her setup before signing up.
“Did you come to monitor a class? I have one starting in about ten minutes.”
“I’d love to.” She angled her face up, all fresh style and perky smile. “I was hoping I’d hit between classes so I’d have a few minutes to talk to you. I checked the schedule on your website and tried to time it. But you know how the ferries are.”
“Yes, I do. You’re interested in enrolling your dog?”
“I would be, but I don’t have one yet. I’d love a big dog, like one of yours, or maybe a golden retriever, but I’m in an apartment. It doesn’t seem fair to coop one up that way. But once I get a place with a yard...”
She rose, offered a smile and her hand. “I’m Kati Starr. I work for—”
“U.S. Report,” Fiona finished, in a tone that went cool. “You’re wasting your time here.”
“I just need a few minutes. I’m doing a follow-up, actually a series of stories on RSK Two, and—”
“Is that what you’re calling him?” It revolted her on every level. “Red Scarf Killer Two—like a movie sequel?”
Starr traded in her smile for a tough-eyed stare. “We’re taking it very seriously. This man has already killed four women in two states. Brutally, Ms. Bristow, and with his latest victim, Annette Kellworth, that brutality escalated. I hope you’re taking it seriously.”
“Your hopes aren’t my problem. My feelings aren’t your business.”
“You have to understand your feelings are relevant,” Starr insisted. “He’s reprising the Perry murders, and as the only woman known to have escaped Perry, you must have some thoughts and feelings on what’s happening now. Insight into the victims, into Perry and RSK Two. Will you confirm the FBI has interviewed you regarding these latest homicides?”
“I’m not going to comment. I already made that clear to you.”
“I understand you may have felt reluctant initially, Fiona, but surely now that the death total is up to four, and these abductions and murders are heading north, from California to Oregon, you must want to be heard. You must have something to say—to the families of the victims, to the public, even to the killer. I only want to give you a platform.”
“What you want are headlines.”
“Headlines draw attention. Attention needs to be paid. The facts need to get out. The victims need to be heard, and you’re the only one who can speak.”
She might have believed that, Fiona considered, or at least part of it. But reality dictated that the attention focused on the killer with the catchy nickname.
“I have nothing to say to you, except you’re trespassing on private property.”
“Fiona.” All calm and reason, Starr pushed on. “We’re women. This man is targeting women. Young, attractive women with their lives ahead of them. You know what it is to be that target, what it’s like to be a victim of that kind of random violence. All I’m trying to do is get the story out, get the information out so maybe his next target is more aware, and maybe she’ll keep having her life ahead of her instead of ending up in a shallow grave. Something you know, can say, may be what helps her live.”
“Maybe you mean that. You’re only trying to help. Or maybe what you want is another front-page story with your byline. Maybe it’s a little of both.”
She didn’t know; she couldn’t allow herself to care.
“But here’s what I do know. You’re giving him what he wants. Attention. You published my name, where I live, what I do. And that helps no one except the man who’s emulating Perry. I want you off my property, and I want you to stay off my property. I don’t want to call the deputy who was just here to escort you off, but I will.”
“Why was the deputy just here? Are you under police protection? Do the investigators have any reason to believe you may be a target?”
So much for facts and the public right to know, Fiona thought. What this one wanted, at the base of it, was dish.
“Ms. Starr, I’m telling you to get off my property, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“I’m going to write the story with or without your cooperation. There’s interest in a book deal. I’m willing to compensate you for interviews. Exclusive interviews.”
“That makes it easier,” Fiona said, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got ten seconds to get in your car and get off my property. I will press charges. Believe it.”
“Your choice.” Starr opened her car door. All pretense of the perky dog lover was stripped away. “The pattern says he’s chosen his next victim, or he’s preparing to. Scoping out the area for the right target. Ask yourself how you’re going to feel when he racks up number five. You can reach me through the paper when you change your mind.”
Hold your breath, Fiona thought. Please.
She put it out of her mind. Her work, her life were more important than a persistent reporter hoping, Fiona imagined, to springboard a book deal off tragedy.
She had her dogs to care for, her little garden to tend to and a relationship to explore.
Simon’s toothbrush took up residence in her bathroom. His socks scattered messily in one of her drawers.
They weren’t living together, she reminded herself, but he was the first man since Greg who slept consistently in her bed, whose things mixed with hers under the same roof.