Page 26 of The Thinnest Air
“Maybe she hired someone?” Allison shrugs.
“We find that most victims know their stalkers,” Ronan says. “More than likely, this is someone you’ve interacted with in the past. I mean, it could be someone who saw you once and followed you and figured out who you were, but the odds of that are slim. I won’t rule it out, but just so you know. Statistically speaking and all.”
“So what happens now?”
“Technically it’s not stalking unless there are a series of acts and repeated victimization. A single incident isn’t enough to get someone on a stalking charge,” he says. “Did you happen to see anyone around your vehicle? Did anyone else see anything unusual?”
“We were at the gym, parked out back,” I say. “I can ask if there are cameras ...”
Detective McCormack’s lips flatten as he exhales. “If this person knows what they’re doing, they wouldn’t have risked being caught on film. It’s worth a check, and I’ll handle that for you, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“I understand,” I say.
“Without a description of the suspect, there’s not much we can do from here,” he says. “For now, you need to be hypervigilant. Pay attention to your surroundings, watch for any strange faces in crowds, anyone watching you—following you. If anything happens again, I want you to call the station, all right?”
He grabs a business card from a holder behind his phone, handing it over and pointing to the number printed along the bottom.
“That’s my work cell,” he says, sliding it toward me. “I’ll have the guys do some patrolling in your area for the next week or so, too. See if we find any unusual activity around your home.”
“Thank you.”
I know he’s doing all he can, but I’m still unsettled, uneasy. My stomach is clenched, my vision blurred from stress. Even here, in the cinderblock-walled office in the local police station, I find my gaze darting around, unable to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me.
“We should go.” I turn to Allison, gathering my things. I need to try Andrew again. I’d phoned him on the drive here, but his receptionist said he was in a meeting with a new client. She took a message. That was an hour ago.
Detective McCormack shows us out, returning us to the lobby.
“You did the right thing coming here today,” he says. “You know, I teach a women’s self-defense class at the community center in Ridgewood Heights on Tuesdays. Seven o’clock. You’re welcome to join us. Free to the public.”
Allison glances my way, brows arched. “Might not be a bad idea.”
The detective offers a boyish half smile, though I suspect he’s only slightly older than me—late twenties, thirty at most. His presence is calming, the way he takes everything in stride.
My eyes trace over his broad shoulders, and I find myself inappropriately fixated on the way his arms fill the sleeves of his navy button-down, the fabric straining against the outline of his muscles. Self-discipline’s written all over him, and I imagine him waking at 5:00 a.m. on the dot each morning, going for a run—rain, snow, or shine—and returning for a protein shake, hard-boiled eggs, and a fistful of vitamins and supplements.
Then I find myself wondering if he has a girlfriend, if she’s pretty and sweet or the kind of girl who takes advantage of nice guys like Ronan.
And then I snap out of it, remembering that I’m a married woman. Those kinds of thoughts aren’t fair to Andrew. To the sanctity of our marriage.
“Thanks, Detective.” I force a smile, warmth blooming in my cheeks as if this man could’ve possibly read my thoughts. “I appreciate the invitation.”
CHAPTER 12
GREER
Day Three
“Is there any chance at all that Meredith left on her own?” Wade asks Andrew that night. He’s changed into a different Hawaiian shirt, this one faded and blue, nothing like the cheerful one he wore this morning. A half-eaten, room-temperature pizza sits hardened in a box between us at the kitchen table. My mother’s gaze flicks from her untouched slice to her boyfriend, as if he’s uttered pure blasphemy.
“At this point, I’m not sure what to think,” Mom says, shoving her plate away and clucking her tongue.
“I’m just saying, we have no leads, no evidence, nothing. Is it possible that she orchestrated this in some capacity?” he asks.
I’m fixated on his hair for a moment, the thin, sun-streaked locks hanging limp around his wrinkled face. He’s much too old to have hair to his shoulders, and I wonder at what age he stopped surfing. Wade walks with a limp and wears a shark-tooth necklace. Meredith says he drives a vintage Corvette and has three adult children who no longer speak to him.
He’s exactly the kind of guy my mom would find on the Internet.
My mother twists the diamond pendant that hangs above her crinkly bronze décolletage. “She has a great life, an amazing husband, a perfect marriage. Maybe someone was jealous of her? Or maybe they wanted her for themselves?”
