Last night had been Melrose Avenue. The night before, Westwood Boulevard. Tonight, she’d go west. Santa Monica. Not that it mattered. He could be following her car. He could be in the house five minutes after she left. He could kill her in her sleep.
The phone made her jump, and she almost dropped her plate. Dammit, she should have unplugged it. Who was this guy? How in hell did he know so much about her life? He’d even gotten to her book club.
They used to meet at the bookstore every other Wednesday. But then the women started getting notes on their windshields. Two of them got flat tires. None of her friends had connected the vandalism to her because she hadn’t told them about the bastard. But she knew. So she quit. They’d all believed her lame excuse, which was a relief, because she wouldn’t be able to stand it if he hurt someone she knew.
“Milo? You ready?”
He clearly was, if jumping around and wagging his butt was anything to go by. Christie didn’t even glance at the mirror as she got his leash. She just headed into the garage, all her senses on alert as she turned on the light.
Senses. She didn’t have any senses left. Sleep deprivation had made her stupid and reckless, and that made her a fool. It was the house that had held her. Goddammit, she loved her home. It wasn’t just the money she’d poured into it, either. She’d made it her cocoon, her safe haven. Every room created for her pleasure and delight.
She locked the car doors after Milo climbed in, and then steeled herself to open the garage door behind her. It went up slowly, her gaze locked on the rearview mirror. The car was running, in reverse, her foot resting on the gas.
The second she was clear, she jammed out, then hit the brake hard when she got to the end of her driveway. A quick check both ways and she pressed the remote for the garage door. Once it was down she tore out again, tires squealing. How she wished he’d been in the way.
“THAT CAN’T BE RIGHT,” Christie said, shifting on the blue chair across from the bank’s vice president. “I’ve never had any dispute with the IRS.”
Jennifer Abbott, in her nice gray suit with her nice beige nails and her nice practiced smile, looked at her computer screen, then back at Christie. “There’s nothing I can do, except advise you to talk to the IRS.”
“Please check again. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
Christie watched as the woman typed on her keyboard. She thought about last night, how she’d laid in bed, planning out her move. How she would call the Realtor from a pay phone, take her savings and her dog, and head toward Arizona. There was no plan if there was no money. But he couldn’t have gotten to her bank. That was impossible, even for the cleverest stalker. He was just a man. A sick, twisted prick, but still…How could he get the IRS to do his bidding?
“I’m sorry, Ms. Pratchett. All three accounts have been seized and there’s nothing at all we can do from here. I’ll give you the information they gave us. There’s a number you can call.”
Christie sat very, very still. Because any second she was going to lose it, and she didn’t want to, not here. Not sitting in the bank where she’d been a customer for over twelve years. She’d call the FBI, of course, but even if they did get right on it, it would still take time to clear it up. She had no hope in hell that they’d figure out who was behind this latest horror. That left her with the money in her purse, which wasn’t a lot. If she were lucky, her credit cards would still be good, but she doubted it. And that meant…
She had no idea what it meant. That the bastard owned her? That he’d be coming for her now? That he was laughing his ass off, knowing he’d destroyed every inch of her life?
She cleared her throat, unable to stop her body from trembling. “Can you tell me when this was done?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“I see.” Christie stood up, not quite sure her legs would hold her.
“I’m certain everything will work out in the end,” Jennifer said, handing her the printout with the IRS information. Then she picked up her phone.
Dismissed, Christie headed back to her car. The drive home was a daze, and when she got into the house she didn’t even bother locking the door behind her. She had nothing. Maybe a hundred bucks. Would that even get her out of town?
It had to, because if it didn’t, she was going to fall apart, and no one would ever be able to put her back together again.
Of course, Milo was there with his big brown eyes and his wagging tail. She gave him a hug, then she went to her office. Methodically, without even thinking, she opened the drawers and pulled out all the paperwork she’d be taking with her. Passport, insurance, bank records—which probably wouldn’t do her any good—and her mortgage papers. Everything went into her briefcase. She did the work carefully, her hands still shaking. She paused when she found a copy of her parents’ living wills.
She should head toward Illinois, toward the nursing home where her father lived, if you could call it living. Her mother’s apartment near the home was so small there was no room for Christie. They were getting by on so little, her mom had cried when Christie told her she’d lost her job. For years, it had been Christie’s money that had provided anything over the bare necessities.
Nate hadn’t left much. A small bank account and a motorcycle. The money had gone to Mom and Dad.
Behind the will, she found a picture of Nate in his uniform. God, he’d been a handsome devil. She turned it over and saw a phone number she’d forgotten all about. Not that it would do her any good now.
She remembered when he’d given it to her. Nate’s voice was so clear in her head, even now. He’d told her she should call that number if she ever needed help. That if she were ever in trouble, he would come. No matter what.
There was no reason to pick up the phone. He’d been dead seventeen months. But she did, anyway. She picked it up and dialed, and when the man answered on the second ring, she barely heard him say “Gino’s Pizza.”
“I’m—” She had to clear her throat again, and damn, enough with the tears. “I’m Nate Pratchett’s sister.”
“No Nate works here, miss.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“Sorry.”
“Everybody’s sorry,” she said. “Everybody wishes they could help. But they can’t.”
“Did you want a pie?”
“No. I want help. But you can’t do that. Never mind.” She hung up.
It took her a long time to move again. In fact, it was Milo to the rescue yet again. He knew. He knew she was in pain, that she was desperate, and in all the world, he was the only one who did a thing. He loved her.
Once she could move again, she started where she’d left off. Going through every piece of paper, taking only the essentials. She thought about bringing her address book, but when she flipped through it, there were only work contacts and the few friends she’d managed to avoid since this began. After the book club fiasco, she’d been scared to let anyone in. Scared she’d get them hurt, or worse.
It was dark when she stood up. Time to feed Milo.
Once again, she went through the motions. Giving Milo his dinner, taking him to another street, this time in Beverly Hills. But driving back, she almost fell asleep, and it was only furious honking from a Hummer that prevented a head-on collision.
So she wouldn’t leave tonight. If she could just get a few hours of sleep, it would be okay. She could pack her clothes in the morning. Now, all she wanted was to be home. To get in bed. To please, God, wake up and find out this was all a nightmare.
She got part of her wish. Safely home, she locked everything up, took a fast shower. She put on her most comfortable old T-shirt. It was stretched out and so thin it was held together by hope, but it was soft and it comforted.