Chapter 3
Single for a Reason
WES
I’m not sure what she’s trying to do here, but if it’s watching me without me noticing, Callie Callahan is the worst fucking… stalker? I’ve ever encountered.
I spotted her the second I turned onto the Portland side street and ducked into Maine Coffee Co.
Thanks to her offering me her full government name, I know a lot about Callie.
I don’t blame her for thinking she’s still mostly anonymous, as not everyone has my particular skill set, but lordy, she should be more careful.
With my previous knowledge of the Callahan family and a little digging, I confirmed that her family is the organized crime group I thought it was, including her late father, her brother who she lives with, and the man she’s looking for—her husband.
The family is involved in fight clubs, smuggling, and drugs. Lovely people, I’m sure.
Callie’s in a pink puffy coat leaning against the building across the street and blatantly staring at me.
She’s clearly freezing standing out there in the February bitter cold, and a few stray snowflakes drift down from the sky, a warning about the storm to come.
She’s wearing gloves and a black beanie hat and looks adorable, yet also like she might be on the verge of frostbite.
For a second, I wish I were here to meet her on a date instead of as a client, but my line of work means I’m not able to have a normal dating life.
So I basically just don’t have one at all.
I order a second coffee at the counter from the barista, who has short blue hair and a nose ring.
She scans my tattoo sleeves peeking out of my hoodie and the ink that snakes up the side of my neck.
I nod politely but ignore her interested expression and return to the table.
It’s logical to assume most women don’t want to date serial killers, so why bother?
I prop my phone in front of me and open my baking-focused social media account.
Ruth Roy’s latest Pinterest-worthy photo of pie distracts me. Fuuuuck me, that same perfect apple pie with rich streusel crumbles that has won her first place four years in a row.
That eighty-year-old menace hates me, but I like to think it’s because she feels threatened as I beat her the first time I entered the pie competition five years ago.
I make a mental note to swing by the winter farmer’s market this weekend to grab some fresh fruit.
I need to decide on what kind of top crust I’ll go for this year.
Remembering my purpose today, I click off the screen so I don’t lose track of Callie. The woman is still staring blatantly at the coffee shop, the least subtle person on the face of the planet. I know she’s watching, so I make a show of tapping my phone again and opening Gone.
Me
You on your way? I’m here
Without turning my head, I watch Callie slip her phone out of her pocket and make a distressed face. She glances my way, clearly indecisive.
I bite back a smirk and wait to see what she’ll do.
CC95
So sorry, I need to reschedule. Something came up. Tomorrow?
The woman is standing me up? We’re about a forty-five-minute drive from my isolated lakefront cabin in Lake Savage, so not exactly around the corner. Ballsy of her to stand up a hired people hunter.
She doesn’t know about the serial killer part, of course.
Normally, I wouldn’t mind making the drive again, but the forecast says we’ll get hit with a pretty big snowstorm tonight.
What’s her plan? Why not just talk to me?
Me
If the storm isn’t too bad
I dramatically stand, shrug into my black jacket, and take a last swig of my coffee, giving her time to scatter, as I’m sure she’ll do. When I get out of Maine Coffee Co and feel the icy cold on my face, I subtly observe her take two steps back. Trying to hide, maybe?
She can’t actually be part of a crime family, because she isn’t pulling this off very well.
My car’s only a block away, and I slowly stroll to it and slide into the front seat, keeping an eye on her rushing to her own car across the street. Surely she’s not going to follow me.
But when I pull my car out of the street parking spot, she makes a crazy U-turn, drawing all the attention to herself. I snort as I slow, stopping early at a yellow light so she doesn’t miss it.
Her impulsiveness reminds me of Noah. I don’t understand people who don’t have a concrete plan in place before doing something potentially dangerous. But she seems harmless, and her nervousness intrigues me in a whimsical sort of way. So I guess we’ll see what happens.
There’s no way she’ll trail me out of Portland once she realizes I don’t live around here, right? I’m a stranger to her, communicate on an anonymous encrypted app, and might be willing to find someone who doesn’t want to be found. Not the kind of person you casually follow out of the city.
But she does.
Callie keeps a bit of distance on the road out of Portland and toward the inner state lake areas, but subtlety is hopeless once we get off the main road and snake along the small county routes to Lake Savage, a tiny town set on a large lake, very popular in the summer tourist season, but quiet in the off season.
We’re on a narrow two-lane road with houses set back from the street, a rough gravelly shoulder, and lots of trees.
So yeah, I can clearly see her following me. Eighty-year-old Ruth Roy would see her.
Then again, that old lady has the senses of a fucking hawk, and the murderous instinct as well. She’s probably a fucking axe murderer.
Once I merge onto the even more sparsely populated lake road leading to my cabin, Callie drops farther back. I slow so she doesn’t miss when I turn onto the long private driveway leading to my lakefront cabin.
I pull up to the cabin and into my garage and consider texting Noah, figuring my brother will be home at his own cabin just a mile down the road.
But I can handle this myself. Whatever this is.
And this isn’t my fault. I didn’t bring her here or try to get her to follow me.
I might’ve made it easier, but the woman seems like she needs something but is too scared to talk to me, so really I’m helping her.
Still, I probably should’ve tried to shake her on the drive home, or gone to Main Street in Lake Savage to get her to leave me alone.
Something about her intrigues me, and it only has a little to do with the fact that she’s cute.
I don’t let myself talk to women very often because there’s no point.
I don’t have many friends, and I definitely don’t have girlfriends.
Only some acquaintances in Lake Savage and my brother, plus the work we do.
The plan right now is to wait for Callie and then send her on her way after a quick chat.
I slowly get out of my car, forgoing the garage door entrance and instead whistling to myself as I stroll around the house and up the rocky path to my cabin’s front door.
I pause for a second to admire the view of the lake.
I’m looking forward to the winter storm that’s due to hit.
There’s a gorgeous silence and serenity that comes when the world—or at least my woodsy part of it—is covered in a thick fresh blanket of snow.
While I’m standing here, I click through to my extensive network of cameras around my property.
It shows Callie’s parked her car on the road and is slowly walking down the driveway.
Like, just walking down the middle of it, crunching gravel, as if I’m not going to notice. Oh, look, she popped behind a tree.
I press my lips together to suppress a grin. I guess I’ll go in and wait.
Once inside, I call out to Sir Fluffy. He comes ambling over from the family room, where he was almost definitely napping in the crook of the old gray armchair.
Sir Fluffy showed up at my door a few winters ago half frozen and hasn’t left.
The elderly black cat limps over and meows, so I squat and pet his head.
This sweet soul is a little mangy, with one ear looking like it was previously chewed on by something with big teeth.
His fur isn’t fluffy or particularly soft, but I didn’t want him to get a complex, so I named him Sir Fluffy. For some dignity in old age.
“Come on, kitty.” He follows me into the kitchen, and I pour a too-large portion of hard cat food into a bowl, then drop a treat on top. As he chomps away at his dinner, I admire the apple pie I baked this morning, under the glass and safe from the cat.
Then I throw a few fresh logs into the fireplace and poke at it until it’s crackling with flame and warmth. All within sight of the large window in my family room.
It’s a performance for the woman who has moved to another tree, closer to the house. At least she’s not standing in the middle of my driveway. Sigh. Maybe I’ll have to bring her inside to talk to her. I have a feeling she’s not gonna knock on my front door.
I slip out of view of the window to grab the supplies I need from the closet by the back door, then pull on my jacket and balaclava.
The last thing I do in the house is to click off the Wi-Fi and turn on the cell service blocker so it appears as if we’re in a dead zone, except for my personal devices.
Noah’s got one too. We don’t prefer to bring targets into our homes, but it definitely happens sometimes.
Then I slide out the back door, gently closing it behind me.
Snowflakes drift lazily down from a white sky. I guess I shouldn’t worry about what the roads will look like tomorrow, when Callie wants to reschedule, because it turns out I probably won’t have to go anywhere.
I trek down the wooded pathway to the shoreline, the frozen lake bright and still, then back up and around the house, approaching Callie from behind. She’s still standing partway behind a tree in her pink puffy coat, staring at my cabin.
I take a second to consider what I’m about to do. Noah is the impulsive one, not me. He would just knock her over the head and tie her up without a second thought.
But Jesus Christ. Callie Callahan might as well have a neon blinking sign over her head. Find me here! I’m watching you! I’m a terrible stalker!
I shouldn’t do this. I could just say, hey, what are you doing? And let her run away from me untouched.
But I don’t want her to run away.
I want to know what she’s thinking. What she’s planning, if anything. I’m almost giddy with the thought of talking to her.
Callie’s not even paying attention to her surroundings, so intent on staring at my cabin, where nothing at all is happening. So much so that I can walk up behind her, and she doesn’t even notice me.
Not until I lift the syringe to her neck.
Fuck, this is why I’m single, isn’t it?