Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
The TV and lights came back on. Frankie turned off her flashlight and set it next to her on the couch. A minute later, she heard Waylon coming up the porch steps. He paused, probably knocking snow off his boots and shaking it off his hat and coat. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
Frankie turned to give him grief. “That was definitely more than five minutes, Beefcake. You forfeit—” She stopped.
The man standing in the doorway with a balaclava in his hand was not Waylon. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, as if they were about to enjoy a cozy evening together.
Between one breath and the next, her brain tried to make sense of the situation. What was he doing here? A crazy coincidence, and in the middle of a blizzard? Impossible.
And where’s Waylon?
“Why are you here?” she asked the man who had repaired her alarm system twice. Frankie scrambled to remember the name on his shirt. “Leon?”
The man laughed—a soft, almost delighted sound. But when his eyes met hers again, they were flat and shining like black ice.
“I know so much about you and here you are, not even sure about my name. That breaks my heart, Frankie.”
Her body went cold, colder than the wind outside. Her hand slid beneath the blanket, fingers curling around the heavy flashlight. It was warm from sitting against her leg. She gripped it tighter.
“What do you mean you know me? You’ve been to my house twice.”
“Oh, no, you’re wrong about that. We met before I ever set foot in your house.”
Leon walked around the cabin, brushing his hand along the back of the couch, across the top of the table, lightly gripping the back of a chair. His eyes never left Frankie’s as his hand claimed everything he touched.
His stare said he didn’t need to touch Frankie to claim her. She was already his.
God, please, where is Waylon?
“I’m sad that you don’t remember me,” he said, almost wistful. Leon’s expression broke into a smile. Then it resumed being as cold as the storm outside. “You laughed at me. That was unkind, Frankie, when all I was doing was reaching out to you.”
“What? When?”
He paced faster. “I watched you. I learned you. You were raw. Alone. Sad. I was patient. So patient.” He tilted his head. “I thought maybe you were different. Until you laughed. And then,” He wagged his finger at her, scolding her with an indulgent smile. “You tried to get rid of me. That wasn’t nice either. WereWwoofer .”
Realization hit like a slap.
“You sent the dick pic. I reported you. How do you know I laughed?—”
“Because I built BeMyNeighborCO,” he said proudly, like unveiling a masterpiece. “It’s mine. It’s how I find lonely women like you, Frankie, and sneak into your pocket. It doesn’t matter that you deleted the app. I’m still there. It’s how I learn who you are. Every message. Every photo. Every contact. Through your mic and camera, I saw everything. I heard everything.”
His smile faltered. “It wasn’t funny.”
“You stalked me because I laughed at your pathetic dick?” Her voice sharpened, disbelief overriding fear for one fleeting moment.
Leon’s expression twisted. “I watched over you but you dismissed me. You thought you were too good. You threw away what I offered. You threw away me .”
He was unraveling now, pacing faster, eyes gleaming as he warmed to his own twisted story.
“I’ve been in your pocket for months,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Before I ever rang your doorbell. I watched you cry alone in that tiny rental. I saw your loneliness. I offered you connection. You laughed .”
Her skin prickled. She kept her grip on the flashlight, her knuckles aching from the pressure.
“The times my battery drained. That was you.”
“It was. Takes juice to keep the camera and mic running. And tonight, well, I couldn’t let you call anyone for help.”
“And you used Derek,” she said.
Leon’s grin split wider. “God, he was perfect. Derek was even more pathetic than you. You should’ve seen how fast he downloaded the app after I faked a message from you. I was going to make sure Waylon saw you talking to Derek and then I’d listen to you try to defend yourself when he saw the conversation on your phone, telling Derek to send you lingerie, telling him you didn’t trust Waylon, thought he was dangerous. I wanted to hear him beat the shit out of you, Frankie. Think about it—decorated veteran, emotional issues, rocky past with his ex. Then he gets obsessed with you, you try to leave, he snaps. Kills you. I would’ve laughed and laughed and laughed.”
“He would never hurt me.”
Leon stopped moving. “You’re right. Waylon believed you. He’d never hurt you. And Derek, that fucking idiot, got himself arrested. So you were never going to be punished.” The tight little smile he gave her was pure evil. “I had to do something about that.”
God, please, don’t let Waylon be dead .
“Where’s Waylon? What did you do to him?”
Please. Please. I’ll do anything. I can’t lose him .
Leon’s shoulder lifted and dropped nonchalantly. “How would you feel if I told you he’s lying dead in the snow outside, hmm?”
The world stopped. Every snowflake in the sky hung suspended. The wind cut off, the trees stopped shaking. Frankie saw Waylon’s blood staining the snow. He lay with his arm outstretched, reaching for the cabin, for her inside.
She blinked away the horrible image in her head. He couldn’t be dead.
“You’re lying,” she breathed.
“I had to remove a threat. That’s what predators do when they want to claim their prize.”
Frankie blinked hard, trying not to cry. Tears wouldn’t help Waylon and they would get her killed. She needed to be as cold as Leon and at the same time hold onto the hope that Waylon was only injured.
She clenched the Maglite tighter as she kept him in her peripheral vision, watching the way he started circling the room again, watching her like she was just another piece he’d moved into place.
“What are you going to do now? Kill me right here?”
“And leave evidence that will get me arrested? No, you’re going to come with me. And no one will ever find you. Not your friends, not Waylon, no one.”
“So he’s alive?”
“Only as long as you cooperate.” Leon stopped by a window, peering out into the whiteout. “If you don’t come with me, he’ll die out there. If you do, I’ll call 911 once we get where we’re going, and he’ll have a fighting chance.” Leon turned to her. “So what will it be?”
“Do you promise?” She kept her voice as frightened and weak-sounding as she could, to mask the rage inside her .
“Of course I do, Frankie. Now come here. We need to go.”
She nodded and rose from the couch, still wrapped in the blanket. The Maglite stayed hidden in her hand. She walked toward him, biting her lip, pretending to hold back a sob.
“That’s my girl.” He turned toward the door.
Now or never .
Frankie rushed him and swung.
The Maglite cracked against the back of Leon’s head with a dull thud . He stumbled with a grunt of pain. His hand went to his head, blood streaking his glove.
“You—little—bitch—” he spat.
She bolted into the hallway. Her lungs burned, her heart hammered. The blanket she’d worn dropped somewhere behind her. She slipped on the floorboards and almost crashed into the wall, catching herself just in time to veer into the bedroom. She slammed the door behind her but didn’t have time to turn the lock. Didn’t have time for anything. Her duffel bag sat on the dresser across the room. She yanked the zipper wide and dug past jeans, a hoodie, and a sweater. She found the gun case and had it halfway unzipped when the door flew open behind her.
“Don’t!” she shouted, spinning around with the gun.
But she didn’t get the chance to raise it.
He crashed into her. She hit the dresser, the edge biting into her spine, but she didn’t let go of the gun. Leon grabbed her wrist, tried to twist the weapon away. They shoved, elbowed, fought for leverage. Her muscles screamed. The gun was between them, both their hands on it, slipping, shifting.
“Let go,” Leon snarled.
“Go to hell.”
Their feet slipped on the rug as they wrestled for control. Frankie’s shoulder slammed into the wall, pain sparking down her arm. She wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t.
The gun went off.