Paranoid(85)

“Okay, maybe I overreacted,” she admitted, thinking of how the blinds rattling the other night had caused her to become frantic, how she sensed someone watching her when there was no one around, how a prank text had caused her to consider her brother reaching out from the grave—on a cell phone no less. How she was always nervous, on edge. But then there were the murders, the vandalism, and now there was the shoe print. She cleared her throat. “I’ll work on keeping it more together.”

“Can you?” Harper asked earnestly, even ignoring her phone as her big eyes pleaded with her mother.

Rachel lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know, but I can give it a try.”

Still obviously skeptical, Harper said, “Okay,” and as Rachel turned to leave, she added, “Thanks for bringing me the tea.”

“No prob.” As Rachel closed the door to her daughter’s room, she told herself she had to find a way to get hold of herself. She had let her own worries, her fears and anxiety, get the better of her for far too long. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong. She headed upstairs, the mantra playing over and over again in her head, but she knew mind over matter wasn’t as easy as it sounded and one couldn’t just will oneself not to be anxious, but she would try, just as she had promised her daughter.

She’d just about convinced herself that she would beat this thing when her phone vibrated in her pocket and the same simple phrase that she’d seen before appeared in a text: I forgive you.





CHAPTER 26


Rachel nearly stumbled on the top step as she stared at the message. Her heart went into overdrive as she made her way to the office and dropped into her desk chair. Frantically, she punched the function to return the call.

No answer.

Not unexpected.

She tried again.

Nothing.

“You son of a bitch,” she ground out and texted back: Who is this?

No reply.

Who are you?

Silence, of course.

Why are you doing this?

But she didn’t expect an answer and none came.

So she fought back uselessly and typed: Stop texting me!

Oh, yeah, like that’s gonna stop a freak with his sick pranks. Get real.

She looked out the window to the foggy front yard and now invisible street. Was he even now staring at the place? Hidden by the curtain of thick mist. “You sick bastard.” She made her way around the upper story, pausing at each window to look out and check that it was closed and latched. Which of course they all were, as she’d double-checked last night. She did the same on the main floor, ignoring Harper’s indignant, “Oh, Mom, what now? You think I’m sneaking out? I thought you were going to start treating me like an adult.” In Dylan’s room she stepped over trash and some cartons of who knew what to double-check his window, then went downstairs to the basement and pushed aside some boxes she needed to recycle in the exercise room, before determining that her family was safely locked inside.

“This is ridiculous,” she told herself as she hurried up the stairs. In the pantry she double-checked to see that the damned jerry-rigged system was engaged. It was, a green light indicating all systems were go.

The place was locked up tight and alarmed, but this ritual of fear was exhausting, she realized as she climbed the stairs to her office one more time. As she reached the top landing, her cell vibrated again and, expecting another cruel text, she pulled it from her back pocket.

She felt a wave of relief when she saw her father’s number come onto the screen: Heard about last night. Harper finding the body of that woman. How is she?

Rachel: Bad news travels fast.

Dad: Small town and I have a few friends still on the force.

Of course. Rachel: She’s pretty shaken up, but working through it. I think she’ll be okay.

Dad: I hope so. Heard about the new articles in that trashy paper today. You okay?

Rachel: I guess. You?

Dad: I’m fine. Tougher than I look. Don’t like seeing my family put through this all again, though. Would like to strangle Mercedes Pope.

Despite her worries, Rachel couldn’t help but smile. Get in line.

Dad: How about your mother? How’s she handling all this BS about Luke?

Rachel: Haven’t heard.

Dad: Got to be hard on her. Maybe you should give her a jingle?

Because you can’t, Rachel thought sadly. You two can’t even be in the same room at the same time.

Rachel: Good idea. I will.

And then: Hey, maybe we could get together?

She felt like she could talk to her father; right now, she would like to run a few things past him. He was an ex-cop, a once-upon-a-time detective.

Dad: I’m here.

Rachel: I’ll give you a call.

Dad: Look forward to it.

As she finished texting, she heard the sound of water running in the bathroom downstairs. Someone was showering. That was progress. Once more she glanced at the anonymous text and her stomach clenched.

This has nothing to do with Luke.

That was the problem.

In the back of her mind, though she knew it was crazy, a part of her wondered if the message was from her dead brother. Who else would need to forgive her?

Cade?

One of her kids?

Her mother?

Dad?

Who?

Once more, she tried calling the number and once more she was disappointed. Whoever had left the text had intended to and then gone dark. One message she could have believed was a mistake, but two? No way.