Page 35 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“We need to go outside,” she said quietly. “The police will want to talk to us.”
Jake studied her face for a long moment, and she saw the exact moment he pulled back, when the walls went up in his eyes. But instead of anger, she saw hurt. Deep, wounding hurt.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “They will. And Faith? We’re going to talk about this. All of it.”
* * *
Detective Marcus Webb looked like a man who’d been pulled away from his evening plans. Tall and broad shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair that suggested he was somewhere in his fifties, he had the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent dealing with the worst humanity had to offer. His tie was slightly askew, and there was a coffee stain on his white shirt that told Faith he’d probably been working late when the call came in. But his dark eyes were sharp and alert, missing nothing as they moved between Faith and Jake.
Faith sat across from him at her kitchen table, acutely aware of Jake’s rigid posture beside her. They weren’t touching now, the easy intimacy of earlier replaced by a careful distance that felt like a physical ache.
“Dr. Hartwell,” Webb began, his pen poised over a notebook, “I understand you’ve had some unusual contact from fans recently?”
“Some,” she said carefully. “Nothing that seemed threatening at the time.”
“At the time,” Jake repeated, his voice flat. “Meaning it seems threatening now?”
She shot him a look that he ignored, his attention fixed on the detective.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Webb said, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between them. “When did you first notice unusual attention?”
Faith took a breath, organizing her thoughts. “It started about six weeks ago. Before Halloween. I found a note under my windshield wiper after a meeting downtown. Then he called into my show—claiming to be in love with me, saying he’d been watching me. After that, gifts started appearing. A book of poetry in Boston, roses in Chicago, another bracelet in New York.”
“Hotel rooms?” Jake’s voice sharpened. “How did he get into your hotel rooms?”
“Most likely he tipped hotel staff to make the delivery,” Faith said quietly, not looking at him. “The gifts were always placed carefully—on the bed, on the desk. Not forced entry. The notes said he’d be waiting when I got home. He knew about my house, made references to it during the call.”
Webb’s pen scratched across the paper. “You reported this to hotel security?”
“And to the Hollow Elm police. Officer O’Malley took the report.”
“I’ll follow up with him.” Webb made another note. “What else?”
Faith’s hands twisted in her lap. “You should also talk to my producer, Lucy Potter. She handles all the fan mail and keeps copies of anything concerning. She’s seen this pattern before with other callers.”
“God, Faith.” Jake’s control finally snapped. His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet. He stalked to the window, his shoulders rigid, one hand raking through his hair while the other pressed flat against the glass. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled, but Faith could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Someone’s been stalking you for weeks, and you didn’t think to mention it?”
“I handled it?—”
“You handled it?” He spun around, his face incredulous. “How exactly did you handle it? By ignoring it and hoping it would go away?”
“I reported it to the police?—”
“After he stalked you across the country! What if he’d been there when you walked into that hotel room? What if—” He stopped, running his hands through his hair. “God, Faith, what if I hadn’t been here tonight and you’d gone into the trailer?”
The question hung in the air like smoke. Webb cleared his throat pointedly.
“If I could have the items you received,” he said, “it would help with the investigation.”
Faith’s face fell. “They were all in the trailer. Everything—the notes, the charm bracelet, the cards. I kept it all together in a folder.” She looked stricken. “It’s all gone now except for the diamond bracelet he left me in New York. I can give you that.”
Webb’s expression remained professionally neutral, but she caught the flicker of concern in his eyes. “Dr. Hartwell, in your professional opinion, how would you classify this individual’s behavior?”
The question caught her off guard. “I…escalating. The gifts, the calls, now this. He’s not just watching anymore. He’s acting.”
“Acting how?”
