glanced up at the Portofino, then back at the stretch of beach that overlooked the bay. It was the end of the workday, and many people were out with dogs that had been cooped up in apartments while they’d been at the office. I watched small dogs prance, big dogs race, and contemplated how odd it was that the world around me was continuing as usual when my personal world would never be the same.
It was the beginning of a slow song that had me getting out of my Honda Accord and walking across the short expanse of grass to the rocky shore. I hugged my torso as I did, a wave of sadness crashing over me as I remembered how Eli and I had liked to take walks here in the evenings with Rayna.
And, Lord, the tears started again.
“Vanessa Cain?”
At the sound of my name, I whipped my head around. And saw a tall, thin black woman who looked vaguely familiar.
I brushed away my tears as she approached me. “Vanessa, I’m Cynthia Martin from the Miami Herald. You were Eli Johnson’s girlfriend, correct?”
My eyes widened. I stood there stupidly, in complete shock.
“I know this has been a very hard day for you.”
Suddenly, I realized what was going on. I asked, “You’re a reporter?”
“Miami Herald,” the woman repeated, this time handing me her card.
And then it clicked. I knew why she looked familiar. I’d seen her today at Bayside. I’d seen her face in the crowd.
Which meant she’d been stalking me.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Cynthia said. “But I do have some questions about your boyfriend. If I could have just a few minutes of your time.”
“Excuse me?” Slowly but surely, outrage was bubbling inside of me.
“A few questions, that’s all.”
“I heard you. I—I understood what you meant. Why do you want to ask me about Eli?”
“He was your boyfriend, right? Or…” Cynthia’s eyes lowered to my left hand, landing on my engagement ring. “Oh.”
I whipped my hand behind my back. “How do you know who I am?”
“Your fiancé’s death has been big news here,” Cynthia replied, not at all answering my question.
“You—you’re spying on me?”
“It’s my job to find people,” she said simply.
“How?” I demanded.
“Your name is on the deed with Eli’s,” Cynthia answered.
“Of course,” I mumbled.
“And I don’t expect you to remember, but I met you once before,” she added. “At a fund-raiser for Jackson Memorial Hospital. I had to coax Eli into letting my photographer take a picture of the two of you together, but that must have been before you got engaged.”
“That’s right,” I said softly, remembering the event. And remembering Eli’s reluctance at having us be photographed together. He had explained that he didn’t want the media to start harassing me. I’d appreciated his concern, but didn’t think that one picture was a big deal, and he’d ultimately agreed to a photograph.
The one thing I’d liked about Eli was that although he’d been a professional athlete, he didn’t crave the spotlight. Certainly not like Christian Blake, who was often pictured in the paper at some club, with a different woman on his arm each time. Eli freely admitted that he hadn’t been the most popular player on the Braves, but said that had been fine with him because it was the team’s superstars who constantly had their privacy violated and dirt dug up about them. He’d made his money, and was happy that he could live a relatively normal life.
After Eli proposed, I’d placed an announcement in the Miami Herald, and when I showed it to him, he couldn’t have been less enthused. Again, he’d said how he wanted to protect me from any media scrutiny by being associated with him. Personally, it seemed to me that he was overreacting, since during the time I’d been with him we’d been able to walk the streets, shop, and dine at expensive restaurants without any paparazzi bothering us. Yes, some guys recognized him from time to time, but since Eli hadn’t played professionally in seven years, he was hardly a blip on the media’s radar in terms of current celebrity gossip.
“I followed you from your office this afternoon, but I left you alone because you looked so distraught.” Cynthia’s words drew me from my thoughts like any slap in the face would. Feeling utterly violated, I grunted and marched past the woman en route to my car.
“Tell me what it was like learning your boyfriend had been murdered,” Cynthia called out. “That he’d been gruesomely shot with a bow and arrow.”
The words made me halt, but only for a moment. I quickly kept going and scrambled into my car. Cynthia hurried to my window and rapped on it with her knuckles. Ignoring her, I revved the engine, surged forward, then did a fast U-turn and sped down the street. In my rearview mirror, I saw her hurry to her own car, a gold-colored Saturn that had been parked behind mine.
Not about to give her the chance to follow me, I raced down the street, then turned left onto Fifth in a bold move that could have gotten me into an accident if a car had been coming. I zipped into the right lane, glancing in my rearview mirror as I did. Cynthia was stopped at the light. I kept going straight, hoping she’d think that I was heading back to the causeway. But when I hit Alton Road, I made a hasty right turn and sped north.
When I reached Tenth Street and saw no sign of the gold Saturn, I finally started to calm down. But the calm lasted barely a few seconds before my heart spasmed in my chest.
Cynthia had found my name on the deed, which meant she knew where I lived. She wasn’t the only reporter in the city. If she could find me, how many others would?
Cynthia, however, had met me before, and therefore knew where I worked. She’d likely tried to get the jump on other reporters by showing up at my office building. But if other members of the media had found my name on the deed and wanted to reach me for comment…
Urged on by the suddenly desperate feeling that I needed to protect my daughter, I made a series of turns and sped the rest of the way home.
Sure enough, I saw a throng of people milling about outside my condo. I didn’t need to see the cameras to know they were reporters. In my numbed haze, I’d driven right by my building and not even noticed them before.
Some surrounded the front door. Some hovered near the entrance to the building’s parking lot. Slowing, I drove past my condo, wondering what to do.
As I circled the block, I realized that I didn’t have a choice. I had to get inside, had to get to my daughter. And my best bet was to drive into the condo’s parking lot, as I always did. At the very least, it would provide me the protection of my car should the reporters recognize me, and I doubted any of them would risk getting run over simply to get the perfect photo of the grieving fiancée.
Eli and I had been photographed at the hospital fund-raiser, and that picture had made the pages of the Miami Herald. So had the photo that accompanied our engagement announcement. Clearly, the reporters surrounding my building figured they could spot me when I approached.
I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Before I rounded the corner that would take me back to my condo, I slipped off my sleek sunglasses and put on the large pair I always kept in my car. Then I placed my cell phone at my ear, and acted like I was in the middle of a fun conversation. A short while later, I drove past the reporters as though they didn’t faze me one bit. Cameras swung my way, as did curious glances, but I kept my cool and inched forward, even laughing loudly into my phone as I pressed my key card to the electronic sensor.
And then I was on my way into the indoor parking for the residents of Cosmopolitan Towers.
Inside,