Chapter 14
Paula
Derek Linden. Twenty-six years old. Freelance graphic designer. Lives in Ballard, Seattle. About eight blocks south of us.
Jason, my boss, sends me the profile at ten in the morning.
I read it sitting in my room with the laptop on my knees and a cup of coffee going cold on the nightstand.
I look at the photo: brown hair, thick-framed glasses, forgettable face.
He's the type who could be sitting next to you on a bus, and you'd never notice.
The type you'd never think could be a stalker.
No priors. No complaints on file. Not even a speeding ticket. My grandmother has a messier record.
Eight blocks from Iris's apartment. Ten minutes on foot.
I go through his blog again. A hundred and forty-three entries.
He's been busy. The first post is from fourteen months ago.
The most recent, last night. Telephoto shots: Iris getting out of the car in the club parking lot.
Iris buying coffee. Iris walking with her headphones in.
Going into the grocery store. Sitting on a park bench, phone in hand, with no idea someone is photographing her.
It's an obsessive profile. Nobody cares about this many photos of Iris except him.
He's not doing it for the handful of people who visit his blog.
To his credit, the quality is good. Clean framing, careful composition. These are photos taken by someone who knows cameras. Good equipment, patience, time.
The blog texts are something else. They reflect his mental state more clearly.
The direct messages to Iris shift tone over the months.
At first, pure admiration: “I watched you practice today.
It's incredible how you move.” Then possession: “I think if we could talk, you'd understand everything.
We're the same. We both know what it's like to be alone.” After the leak, rage: “They gave you a bodyguard.
You think I'm your enemy, but your enemy is whoever separates you from the people who really love you.”
I call Detective Hamilton.
“Is this enough for police to step in?”
“You know it's not yet, Paula. There are no explicit threats of violence.
The photos are in public spaces. Iris is a public figure through her work.
The blog doesn't mention any intention of physical contact. You could request a restraining order, but without priors or direct threats, a judge will probably deny it. And that makes things worse.”
“He sent a package of photos to the club facilities. Photos of her entering a private home.”
“We know. The club director informed us. They're taken from outside, not inside. We need him to cross a line. Direct contact, presence on private property, an explicit threat. Something a judge can't ignore, given how high-profile Iris Vance is.”
“So we're waiting for him to attack her?” I snap, louder than I should.
“We're doing everything the law allows, Paula. And we'll keep doing it.”
I hang up. I know she's right, but I can't hear it. The coffee is ice cold. I drink it anyway.
***
I tell Iris after practice. No filter. I'd rather not soften it. I let her see everything. She sits next to me on the bed, scrolling through the photos in silence.
“That's the coffee shop on the corner,” she says, pointing at one. “I've been going there every Wednesday for years.”
“I know.”
“He knows too,” she sighs.
She keeps scrolling. Stops on one in particular: the one taken of her walking into Zoe's house the night she took care of Wesley.
“He was there,” she murmurs. “That night. While I was singing to Wesley. While I was rocking him to sleep. He was out there. Taking pictures.”
“Yes. But I was there too. If he'd crossed the gate, he'd have at least a restraining order right now. Or he'd be in the hospital, and I'd be dealing with legal problems. I'm not sure which,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
Iris closes the laptop. Very slow.
“What's his name?”
“Derek Linden. Twenty-six. Graphic designer. Lives in Ballard.”
“That's close.”
“Eight blocks south.”
“That's disgusting,” she breathes, voice dropping. “He makes me sick.”
She goes quiet. Takes a deep breath and lets the air out slow.
“You know what the worst part is? I've spent my whole life wanting attention. Wanting people to see me. But this guy looks at me and doesn't see anything. He just sees a fantasy he made up, a version of me that doesn't exist, that he wants for himself. Show me his face.”
I show her the photo from the file. She goes quiet again, thinking.
“Can we go to his house?” she asks.
“No. Absolutely not,” I say before she finishes.
“Can I at least talk to him?”
“No.”
“Can I do anything other than wait until someday we can file for a restraining order?”
“If I could go scare him a little within the law, I'd have done it already,” I tell her. “And trust me, I can be very scary.”
“So we wait for him to cross a line. What line? Shows up at my door? Follows me to the grocery store? Does something to Wesley?”
“He's not getting near Wesley or anyone else. My firm is now monitoring his address around the clock. Alexandra Drummond's orders. If he leaves his house, we know. If he gets near the club, your apartment, Zoe's place, we know.”
“Promise me that if he comes for me, you can protect me.”
“If he comes for you, I don't care about legality,” I say without even thinking.
“Eight blocks,” she says, low.
“Eight blocks,” I repeat.
“I wonder how many times we've crossed paths.”
I don't answer. Because I've asked myself that same question more than once.