It turned out Whitley spilled a lot more than a little brandy on the rug. He told Maddie that Parker hadn’t killed himself; it had just been set up to look that way. Maddie, in her role as the desirable temptress, did her best to talk Whitley into giving her a name, but it was to no avail.
If Parker hadn’t killed Charlotte, I was convinced we had two different killers on our hands. Aside from the fact both murders looked staged, the crimes were committed in very different ways. From a logical standpoint, it didn’t make sense that a killer would poison their first victim and shoot the other.
In the short time I’d known Parker, I’d come to understand how someone like him could have potential enemies: a jealous girlfriend, someone outraged enough at Charlotte’s death to seek revenge, or maybe an old flame from the past. And what about the mysterious man in black?
I turned onto the freeway toward home and checked my rear view mirror. For the last four miles I had been followed. At first I chalked it up to coincidence, but the longer I drove, the more I didn’t think so. And given the poor job they did of hiding themselves behind me, I was certain the person was an amateur.
It was seven miles from the freeway off-ramp to the exit where I lived. A few miles from the exit, I stepped on the gas and moved into the left lane, passing a few cars in the process. I checked my mirrors and no longer saw the car behind me as I made my exit. Had it all been in my head?
A few seconds later the same car barreled off the ramp toward the stop sign. At the rate it was going, I thought it would miss the stop sign all together, but at some point the driver realized the road came to an end and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked back, expelling a grey substance into the air before coming to a complete stop. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and felt around for my cell phone with the other. I picked it up and held it to my ear, but it didn’t make a sound, and I noticed the keys weren’t lit up either. The phone was dead.
I didn’t want to lead my stalker straight to my house, so I headed toward the gas station. I may not have remembered to charge my phone, but I always carried my gun.
The car behind me stopped, and the driver’s side door opened. Someone got out. I shifted my body over to the passenger side of my car, opened the door and slid out. I knelt on the ground positioning my body so I could watch the person approach. Five feet away, then four feet, then three. It looked like the silhouette of a woman. Her hands were stuffed inside her coat pocket.
“That’s far enough,” I said.
She stopped.
“Ms. Monroe?”
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“I know you’re following me, show yourself,” I said.
“It’s me.”
“Stop with the games,” I said. “Who’s me?”
“It’s Bridget. Please, I need to talk to you.”
I stood up but kept to the side of my car. I had to make sure. “Let me see your hands.”
She removed her hands from her jacket pocket, palms up.
“Why the hell are you following me?” I said.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I called you, but it kept going to voicemail. I left you a ton of messages, but you didn’t call back. And then I saw your car back there and tried to get your attention, but you didn’t see me, so I figured I would follow you. Not the best plan, I know.”
“You still haven’t told me why,” I said.
Her voice vibrated, and I couldn’t tell if she was cold or nervous, or both.
“I didn’t know who else to call or what I should do.”
“About what?” I said.
“I left this morning to run some errands, and when I got back to my place, someone had been in my apartment. Some of my personal items were broken, and my files were scattered all over the floor. I took one look at it, and I left.”
“Did they take anything?” I said.
“I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”
I holstered my gun and walked toward her. Her eyes were bloodshot. I put my hand on her arm and she leapt backward.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’ve been so jumpy today.” She looked at her hands. “I can’t stop shaking.”
“It’s alright,” I said. “Take your time.”
I reached out to her again, and this time she allowed it.
“I know where we can go,” I said.
She nodded.
“And Bridget,” I said, “I think it’s time for you to tell me the truth.”