The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(25)

I walk over to him and take his headphones off. “I’m going.”

He stares at me.

“You’re better than this,” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw.

“Robbie,” I whisper. “You’re much more than just a football star. You need to believe that.”

His eyes search mine.

“Go and get some help.” I look around his room. “It’s going to be too late for us, but I want it for you.”

He drops his head and stares at the floor. I take his hand in mine. “Come with me,” I whisper. “Please, Robbie, pull out of this . . . if not for me, for yourself.”

“I can’t, Em.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I bend and kiss him softly one last time. I rub my fingers through his stubble and stare into his eyes. “Go and find whatever it is that makes you happy,” I whisper.

“You too,” he breathes sadly. I realize he doesn’t even want to fight it; he knows this is for the best. I smile at the bittersweet moment, and I kiss him softly, with tears rolling down my cheeks.

I get into my mother’s car and stare at his house for an extended time.

That was much easier and much harder than I imagined.

I slowly start the car and pull out onto the road. I wipe my tears with my forearm as I feel a chapter of my life close.

I drive down the road and out of Robbie McIntyre’s life. “Goodbye, Robbie,” I whisper out loud. “When it was good, it was great.”

Monday morning

“And what do you think would happen if you told the police of your suspicions?” I ask.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” the frail old woman replies. She has to be at least ninety. Her white hair is in perfect finger waves, and her dress is a pretty shade of mauve. “They’re useless.”

I dutifully scribble down her reply on my notepad. I’m out in the field today, following up my own lead. There has been a string of satanic graffiti on the fronts of houses lately, and this particular woman’s house has been done three times. Fed up with the lack of support from the police department, she contacted Miles Media, and I was the lucky one who picked up the phone.

“So . . . tell me when this all began,” I ask.

“Back in November.” She pauses as she tries to remember. “November sixteenth was the first time. A huge mural of the devil himself.”

“Right.” I look up from my notes. “What did it look like?”

“Evil.” She gets a faraway look in her eye. “Pure evil, so lifelike, with huge fangs and blood dripping everywhere.”

“It must have been terrifying for you.”

“It was. That was the night when a jewelry store got robbed around the corner, so I remember it well.”

“Oh.” I frown. She didn’t mention this before. “Do you think it’s related?”

She stares at me blankly.

“The graffiti and the robbery, I mean,” I clarify.

“Don’t know.” She pauses for a moment and then contorts her face as if in pain. “I’ve never thought of that before, but it’s all making sense now. The police are in on this conspiracy.” She begins to pace. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” She taps her hand on the top of her head as she walks back and forth.

Hmm. There’s something off here. Is this woman of sound mind? “What did you do when you found the graffiti on your house?”

“I called the police, and they told me that they don’t have time to come out for graffiti but to take a picture of it and email it to them.”

“And you did that?”

“Yes.”

“What happened then?”

“My son got my house acid washed and removed it, but three nights later it happened again. But this time it was an image of someone getting murdered. A woman had been stabbed. The graffiti was so intricate that it looked like a painting.”

“Oh.” I continue to take notes. “What did you do this time?”

“I went down to the police station and demanded someone come and look at my house. My neighbor had his house vandalized too.”

“Okay.” I scribble down her story. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Robert Day Daniels.”

I glance up from my notes, surprised by his name. “His name is Robert Day Daniels?”

“Or is it Daniel Day Roberts?” Her voice trails off as she thinks. “Hmm.”

I stare at her as I wait for her to decide which it is.

“I forgot his name.” She scrubs her hands in her hair as if about to launch into a panic.

“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”

“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.

“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.

“One of those horrible devil stars.”

“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”

“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”

“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”

“The entire house was painted red.”