Dark Pursuit

He snapped the phone shut. “The tech can’t come.”

OBSESSION

fifty-two

Don’t think I will be taken. Don’t believe for a minute I will be tricked.

They think they are so clever. That I can’t see.

Let me ask you—who is more ruthless? More driven?

I didn’t choose this gift, it chose me. In anyone else’s hands the black and green silk is just cloth. It takes cunning, ingenuity, the ability to shed light where there is none, to give it Purpose.

I don’t regret what I have done.

I will protect myself at any cost.

Try me, you’ll see. I welcome it. I can’t wait for it.

You think you can heal me? Redeem me? Like this is some curse to be rid of?

So little you know. And you claim to be enlightened.

What I have is freedom. And no one will take it from me.

I am ready. Strong.

My hands itch.

fifty-three

Darell sank into a chair at his office table. His limbs wobbled from the brunt of Kaitlan’s anger.

The brat. Thought she knew everything.

He frowned. What had just happened? Something gone wrong …

His mind churned like a wheel in mud.

The answer surfaced. Pete’s computer tech couldn’t come.

So what? Darell could do this without details of the hacking. They knew Craig did it—that’s what counted. He’d pretend he had the proof.

Darell’s gaze fell on Pete’s laptop. Screensaver photos rolled—Pete and his Great Dane on the beach, cuddling a little boy in a white cane rocker. Pete was crazy about his grandkids.

“Now what?” Kaitlan’s voice accused. Her eyes darted from Darell to Pete.

Darell sighed. “It’s fine, Granddaughter, fine.” His mouth dragged downward. Would she even be thankful when this was over?

“But how—”

“I don’t need the proof right now, all right? We’ll get it soon enough. Pete, call the tech back and tell him to come tonight.”

“Yeah, okay.” Pete nodded. “So you wing it. It’s all in the presentation.”

“But without proof stuck in front of him, Craig won’t admit it,” Kaitlan cried. “We’ll have nothing.”

“Then let him deny it!” Darell smacked the table. “When we get proof I’ll press charges and the police will still have to investigate. That’ll lead to everything else.”

“But—”

“Quiet!”

Darell seethed at the laptop. A new picture rolled in. Pete, feeding a pink-clad baby with a bottle.

Darell shook his head, clearing it. Time he took back charge of this situation. “Pete, I want to see what you’ve done in the library.” He pushed out of the chair, glowering at Kaitlan. “And I don’t want another word out of you.”

fifty-four

Margaret and Pete trailed her grandfather out of the office. Kaitlan refused to follow.

Left alone, she stalked the hardwood floor, insides roiling.

None of this would work. The plan was stupid, stupid. Margaret knew it too. But would Kaitlan’s grandfather listen? Oh, no. He just wanted to write his book.

Fear and dread clumped in Kaitlan’s lungs. She passed a window and stalled, gazing into the fog. A wind sent swirls of mist dipping, turning, whisking ghost fingers against the pane.

She pictured the dead woman’s silently screaming face and shuddered.

The clock read 1:40 p.m.

Kaitlan fretted her way out of the office and up the hall. She found herself in the formal living room on the other side of the entryway. All muted colors of browns and beige, everything perfect. She could remember when her grandfather would hold grand parties here. When wine glasses clinked and women trilled laughter and men tried to emulate the great King of Suspense, standing straighter in his presence, working their eyebrows.

Once, even, her mother had come.

Kaitlan slid onto the corner of a couch, brought her knees up, and hugged them. When this plan failed she would have to flee the area, she and her unborn baby. Go … somewhere.

But in what car—with Craig’s ability to track her license plate?

The gate’s bell sounded. The reporter.

Margaret’s footsteps clicked up the hall. Around the corner, unseen, Kaitlan listened dully as she answered the bell.

“It’s Ed Wasinsky.”

“Yes, good! Come on up.”

Kaitlan wandered out to the entryway as her grandfather and Pete appeared. Soon two men were at the door, a notepad in the reporter’s hand, a camera balanced on the shoulder of his partner. Ed Wasinsky was tall and broad-chested, thick blond hair parted on the side. Wide lips, a Grecian nose. Booming voice. The guy had TV written all over him.

He looked at Kaitlan’s face, and his eyelids flickered.

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

Sam, the cameraman, was a bald guy with a bulldog face and one gold loop earring. “Where can I put this?” He jerked his head toward his equipment.

“In here.” Pete gestured toward the north wing, then led him down the hall.

Ed shook hands with Kaitlan’s grandfather. “So good to meet you, sir. I’m a big fan.”

Of course. Wasn’t everybody? The man who lived to write.

“Thank you. Glad you could do this.”