What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(32)

“Josh.” He held out his hand. Like she was actually going to shake it.

She took another step back. “Why are you following me?”

“I wasn’t following you.”

She made a sound of disgust. “Yeah, right.”

Something flashed through his eyes. “This is a public street. Just because I was walking behind you doesn’t mean nothing.”

Her fingers tightened on the pepper spray. “Look, I’m not stupid. You weren’t walking behind me. You were hiding in the alley.”

He hunched his shoulders. “Okay, maybe I wanted to see you.”

“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. He reminded Joy of her oldest stepbrother. The sort of boy who was always trying to get a peek of her in the shower, or fingering through her underwear drawer. “You’re a creeper.”

“Don’t call me that.” His expression became petulant.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“I was just trying to work up my courage to talk to you.”

“Men who want to talk to me don’t hide in the alley.”

“I’m shy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shy?”

“I am.” He continued to move toward her, his movements slow and lumbering like a sloth. “Can we just talk?”

“No. Stay back,” she said.

“Please.”

She brought the pepper spray out of her pocket, holding it out in warning.

“I said stay back, you perv.”

“Why do you call me names?” He scowled, but he continued forward. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. “That’s not very nice.”

“I’ll spray you.”

He stopped right in front of her. Close enough she could catch the foul scent of his breath.

Coffee and stale cigarettes.

Gross.

“There’s no need to be a bitch,” he groused.

Her upper lip curled in disgust. “God. Jerks like you make me sick.”

“He told you not to be a bitch, Carrie,” a voice whispered directly in her ear.

Joy parted her lips to scream, belatedly realizing that the crunch, crunch she’d been hearing hadn’t come from the man standing in front of her. But before she could make a sound, a gloved hand clapped roughly over her mouth and she felt a pinprick at her neck.

Instantly her brain went fuzzy.

Shit. She’d been drugged.

The man who called himself Josh moved in close, watching her features slacken with the concentration of a child watching an ant being fried beneath a magnifying glass.

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, catching her as her knees went weak. Her last thought was . . .

They have the wrong woman. My name’s not Carrie.





December 23, Missouri



Griff had a firm understanding of his strengths. And his weaknesses.

He had an above-average intelligence. He could outrun most casual joggers without breaking a sweat. He could coax a computer to do anything he wanted.

But people . . .

He was usually clueless.

With Carmen Jacobs, however, he seemed to sense exactly what she was feeling. Which was why he kept her busy with the need to check out of the hotel and to return her SUV to the rental agency. He kept his truck for the long drive. He also insisted that she purchase a plane ticket to Baltimore.

If she was being electronically monitored, he wanted whoever was watching her to think she was going to spend the next twelve hours traveling from airport to airport.

By the time she’d regained command of her shaken composure, they were already heading along I-70 to Louisville.

“I still think we should go to Baltimore,” she complained, sitting stiffly in the leather seat as she studied the crowded highway that stretched in front of them.

It was two days until Christmas and everyone was anxious to get to their destination.

He risked a quick glance at Carmen, taking in her tense profile.

He sympathized with her urge to try to track down the stalker. The thought that there was a potential killer out there hunting more women made his gut twist with dread.

But he wasn’t going to let her charge into an obvious trap.

Besides, he couldn’t dismiss the flower order. It might have been a typo, but he didn’t think so.

From the beginning the stalker had tried to establish an intimate connection with Carmen.

If he was just a random whackadoodle who’d been inspired by her book, there would have been no need to send her the pictures. Or follow her to Kansas City. Or send her the flowers.

This was personal.

“We could chase shadows. I’m sure that’s what the bastard wants,” he said. “Or we can try to figure out who he is.”

She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know why you’re so convinced that it’s someone from my past.”

He slowed as a car raced past him, spraying snow and ice and rock salt onto his windshield.

“Who else would call you Carrie?” he demanded.

“It could have been a clerical error,” she insisted.

Griff ’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t miss the edge in her voice. This was about more than her need to track down the killer.

She didn’t want to go back to Louisville.