Chapter 9 Puzzle Pieces
PUZZLE PIECES
After some pleading, Sasha convinced Wes to let her crash in his dad’s office at Dane and Wes, due to worry.
“We need to find you a place to stay that feels safe to you,” he explained. “I can’t have you here. It’s a liability. And Phyllis has a big mouth.”
“Please don’t kick me out,” she whispered. “I can’t go home. I’m scared he’s there.”
Oh, but what if he’s here? she thought.
He was everywhere.
The stalker had become almost mythological in her mind.
Like he was floating in the sky, or invisible, or able to move through walls.
Of course, he couldn’t do those things. He wasn’t reaching out to her, at all, anymore.
Wes had seen to that. He installed programs on her devices, blocking all unknown numbers and email addresses.
The world kept turning, but she was frozen, forever stuck in impotent terror. The fear had nowhere to go. It just festered and grew.
“That’s normal, Sasha. You’re in a state of hypervigilance. It’s a common effect for stalking victims. You’ve given him superhuman properties.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“But it’s a false feeling. He isn’t superhuman.
And he’s sloppy. He’s basically told you when he’s going to show up, every week.
He’s all about a pattern. Not the element of surprise,” he said.
“People stalk for so many reasons, but the main one? Forcing the victim to engage in a relationship with them. By upsetting you, scaring you, he’s lured you into acknowledging him.
We’ve already ruled out a scorned lover.
But my hunch is that it’s someone with a sense of injustice, who’s been wronged.
Someone who feels you owe them something. An actor.
“I compiled a list of all the actors you auditioned in the past year. These are printouts of their headshots.” He handed her the stack, and a white pencil with DANE & SON DETECTIVE AGENCY stamped on the side, in gold. “Can you go through and mark the ones you rejected?”
Chewing her bottom lip, Sasha flipped through the photographs. Most were men she’d rejected—but there was only one that she’d rejected multiple times. Jones Wright.
“When was the last time you rejected him?”
It came to her immediately. “Oh my God. He didn’t get the lead for Zone of Action. And it was a huge success. I mean, it won an Emmy.”
“Your first incident was the night after the Emmys, correct?”
Sasha gasped—and then her mouth snapped shut like a mousetrap. She looked up from the photos, thunderstruck.
“Those rumors about the male ego? Sad, but true,” confirmed Wes.
“How are we going to get him?” In the too-quiet room, her voice sounded shrill, hectic. It was 7:00 p.m., and Phyllis had gone home. Only Sasha and Wes were in the offices.
“As you know, I’ve had your house surveilled around the clock.”
“But you haven’t left the office.”
“I had a guy do it. One of the most important elements of this line of work? Always have ‘a guy.’ ” He quirked a brow.
“Anyway, no leads yet. But today’s Tuesday.
If history serves, he’ll be there around midnight.
This time, I’ll be there to catch him. Take photos, ID him.
So we can nail down his identity and get you that restraining order. ”
“Good. Good.” She handed Wes back the photos and the pencil. “Do you think I should change my number?”
“Better to get a second number,” said Wes, “and only give it to people you want to hear from. But check your old mailbox regularly. When someone you want to speak to calls, hit them back with your new number. This way, you’re not signaling to him that you’re frightened.
He wants the rush of knowing he’s terrorizing you. ”
“Oh. Smart.”
“And have a friend record a new outgoing message on your old line. In case he’s repeat-calling just to hear your voice. A female friend, though. A male voice will piss him off.”
Sasha took mental notes, nodding silently. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
They settled into an uneasy silence, Sasha’s eyes scanning the moving boxes and empty files in the room. “So, this is your dad’s office, huh?”
“Yeah. We’re partners. We were partners.”
“Is he retiring?”
“No, he’s dying.”
The words just hung there. She studied his face. Underneath Wes’s neutral expression, Sasha glimpsed a flash of sadness. The dark circles stamped under his eyes were etched with pain.
“Oh, I didn’t know. I-I-I shouldn’t have . . .”
“No, you’re good,” said Wes, waving her off. “He had a massive stroke, and he’s in a rehabilitation center now. The strokes keep happening, though. The doctors aren’t sure how long he’s got.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you close?”
“No. But I looked up to him,” he answered. “I shouldn’t speak in the past tense.”
“However you need to speak about him, do that,” she said. “I once read something interesting about grief. It pointed out that the ocean appears to be moving, but it isn’t. Energy is moving through it. That’s what grief is like. It moves through you, and you have to let it.”
Wes stuck the pencil in his mouth, chewing distractedly. “That’s damned good advice.”
“Can I stay longer, then?” She smiled weakly.
Wes shook his head at her ruefully. But it was hard to say no. She looked absolutely lost. And her blanket was slipping off her shoulders.
“May I?” he asked.
“May you what?”
Wes reached over to her, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders.
He was effectively tucking her in, even though she was in a seated position.
It was such a gentle, tender gesture. A small thing but laced with so much sensitivity.
Sasha had a sudden urge to lean her forehead against his chest. God, she was tired. And he was so strong.
“Thank you.”
Their eyes met, and a spark flared between them.
The air went electric, vivid. But it lasted only a split second, and they looked away, fast. Neither one of them felt strong enough to address what they’d just felt.
Sasha was scared for her life. Wes was grieving a dying parent. They were unmoored and not themselves.
“You look like you could use some tea,” said Wes. “I think we have chamomile or something in the kitchen.”
“Chamomile sounds perfect,” she said with a faint smile. “You’re so good at your job.”
“Nah, this isn’t being good at my job,” he countered. “A great detective doesn’t blur lines with clients. It’s about doing the job, coldly and efficiently. Not becoming roommates.”
“I’m sorry. I know, I pushed you to do this. Why am I like this?”
“What? Bossy?”
“I’m not bossy.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Ugh, I know.”