Fifty-Eight

Lunch with Maude left me more frightened than I’d been before. But it gave me a better sense of who we were dealing with. I didn’t have access to police specialists, like Den did. And he was so busy that our conversations were few and brief.

One thought kept occurring: What if we were wrong? What if Luther wasn’t the man in the security video, not the guy who attacked me? Could we be wrong?

Chad Walters was mean enough to murder someone. But he was not the individual in the security footage. He was a pudgy guy. The guy in the recording was slender. Severn Hartwell was still a possibility, though. He was slim and his chin was kind of pointy. He was desperate. But was he desperate enough to kill?

I walked along Fifth Ave, the lunch crowd dwindling, and a sudden cold crept up my back again. Was someone watching me? I stepped over to the nearest shop. Ann Taylor. I’d never been in one before—too pricey and too vanilla. I peered out the window, my breath as uneven as the heart pounding in my chest.

I searched faces and found nobody remotely suspicious. But this nagging sensation wouldn’t go away.

“Can I help?” a woman said from behind me.

I gasped and turned to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling with her shiny pink lips. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I thought someone was following me,” I said. “I’m a bit paranoid. I guess.”

Her smile vanished. “My mom always said to trust your instincts. Maybe someone was following you.”

Dressed in a smart little blue dress, with jewelry to match, her name tag read Rhonda. She fingered her necklace. “Can I show you some clothes? Are you interested at all?”

I met her eyes. “Not really. I ducked in here because it was the closest shop. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she said with a lighter voice. “I’ll let you be, then. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I turned back to the window, which is when I saw him, standing between a lamppost and a trash container, dressed in all black, shifting his weight and turning his face from side to side.

Luther Stone.

I pulled out my cell phone and tried to dial Den, but my hands were shaking so much that I wasn’t sure who I was calling.

“Brophy,” his voice said. Thank God.

“Den, Luther Stone is standing right outside of the Ann Taylor shop on Fifth,” I said, my voice low and raspy. “Den, he was following me. I’m inside the shop now.”

“Stay where you are,” he said and hung up.

I turned back toward the window. He was gone.

“Fuck,” I said out loud.

“Are you sure I can’t help you?” Rhonda came up beside me. “You’re shaking! Can I get you some water?”

I nodded.

“Why don’t you come with me?” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and lead me to a chair outside the dressing room. Rhonda. So nice.

I melted in to the armchair. My knees and thighs soupy, shoulders and arms frigid. I was cold. So cold. Luther had been following me. For once I’d listened to my guts, and it paid off. The scent of Cotillion breezed by me as Rhonda brought me water and a jacket to wrap around me. Was she wearing Cotillion? My mouth wouldn’t form words to ask.

Two uniformed officers entered the store. One of the other sales clerks led them to me.

“Ms. Donovan?”

“Yes,” I said, chattering.

“How are you?”

I sipped water, hands shaking. I nodded. “Luther Stone was standing right outside. He was between the lamppost and the trash can. I think he was following me.”

The cop’s head tilted. “You think?”

“Yes, I just had this horrible feeling of apprehension,” I replied. “So I ducked into the shop.”

He scribbled something on to his pad. “What was he wearing?”

The sales staff was now more concerned with me and the cops than their store. Even the customers were gathering around.

“Okay, people,” the other cop said. “Just go about your business.”

“He was dressed in all black. Black jeans, I think, and a black jersey, plain.”

The cop lifted his shoulder and spoke into his device. “Suspect wearing all black. Last seen on Fifth Ave. Over.”

“How are you?” he asked me again.

I didn’t want to answer. I felt like shit. But it was more than that. I was feeling ashamed of myself. Ashamed for allowing things to get this far. Ashamed I hadn’t done something more to help nab this guy. The man who’d killed Justine and the look-alike. A part of me understood it was a ridiculous way to feel. I mean, what could I do, right?

But he’d been right behind me. Following me. He was after me now. The attack in the park wasn’t enough. He wanted to finish me off. I swallowed the water.

“I’m shaken,” I said.

He nodded. “You got every reason to be. We’re taking you home. That okay?”

Luther had evaded the cops once again. A city full of police couldn’t seem to track down one slippery man.

As I walked into Justine’s apartment, my stomach settled, my heart calmed. A feeling of serenity came over me. If I could stay inside here for the rest of my life, this wouldn’t be bad. Of all the things I could imagine, stepping outside was not one of them.

I’d be fine here. A recluse. Den and Kate could bring me whatever I needed. Mom and Gram could visit from time to time. I’d order food and incidentals online. I could continue to work from here.

As I walked into the library, books all around me, the chaise where I slept, the delicate rose stained-glass window, I was certain staying here was the answer. I might never leave.