Page 115 of The Defender
I hugged Truffle to my chest, my heart hammering.
“I understand,” Vincent said. “I’ll be there soon.”
“What happened?” The question burst forth before he’d even hung up. I couldn’t help it. I was too on edge to wait.
Vincent looked at me. His impassiveness cracked, revealing a mixture of relief and amazement. “They found the intruder.”
CHAPTER 30
VINCENT
Forty minutes after I got Smith’s call, Brooklyn and I were seated in his office, listening to him explain the situation. He’d given me vague details over the phone with the promise of elaborating in person.
“It took us a while, but we were able to trace the number to the perp’s burner phone,” he said. “He made a mistake and connected to the internet on that phone. We found the IP address and, by extension, him. The text itself isn’t incriminating enough to arrest him, but we used it to get a warrant and search his house. We found this in his bedroom.”
Smith slid a photo across the table. Brooklyn and I leaned in together. Her sharp inhale mirrored the twist in my gut.
The photo showed a shrine to me. There was no other way to describe it. A giant framed photo of me sat propped against the wall. It was surrounded by news clippings, signed memorabilia, and collages of paparazzi shots. I recognized bottles of the cologne I repped as a brand ambassador and a limited-edition doll of me that came out a few years ago. It wasn’t the crochet doll they’d left in my house, but it was similar enough that a shiver snaked down my spine.
“Oh my God,” Brooklyn said. “That’s…”
“Disturbing, yes.” Smith pushed another photo across the desk. “Do you recognize him?”
I stared at the photo. A man in a Blackcastle shirt stared back. He looked like he was in his early to mid forties. Dull brown eyes, hair the color of dishwater, and a face that was unique only in its complete lack of distinction. If I passed him on the street, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought.
I shook my head. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Ethan Brown. He’s an office manager at a paper company. Blackcastle season ticket holder, amateur sports blogger, and all-around super fan. He confessed to paying a hacker to get your private phone number and to digging through your rubbish for items to include in his DuBois shrine.”
“Jesus.” Bile surged up my throat.
“We’ve charged him with trespassing and unlawful acquisition and use of personal data. I also highly recommend you file an injunction against him.”
“What do those charges mean? Will he be able to come after Vincent while he’s awaiting trial?” Brooklyn asked.
She’d insisted on coming with me earlier. I hadn’t argued. She was the only person I trusted to keep me levelheaded in situations like this.
“There won’t be a trial,” Smith said. “Trespassing is a civil offense. While his obtainment of private information is in breach of the Data Protection Act, it doesn’t mandate imprisonment, especially since Vincent wasn’t harmed. The most we can do is fine him.”
My stomach sank. That was it? After months of anxiety and being on edge, all the perp got was a fine and a slap on the wrist?
“What about the break-in?” I said. “He left that doll in my house.”
“He hasn’t admitted to that crime, likely because he knows it carries a heavier sentence. We don’t have concrete evidence tying him to the break-in yet, but we’ll find it. We know who he is now.” Smith swept the photos back into a folder. “That’s why I suggested you file an injunction. If he violates it, it’ll help us build our case.”
“Did he say why he’s fixated on Vincent in particular?” Brooklyn’s brow furrowed. “What’s the point of all this if he—Ethan—doesn’t want anything from him?”
“Fans often form parasocial relationships with celebrities. Sometimes, they cross the line, as is the case here,” Smith said. “There’s no other rhyme or reason to it.”
The whole thing seemed anticlimactic, but I supposed that was better than the circus a trial would bring. I filled out some paperwork, thanked Smith for his help, and left.
“I’m shocked they found the perp,” Brooklyn said on our way back to my car. “I was convinced they were just sitting on the case.”
“Me too.” I made a mental note to call my lawyer tomorrow and file that injunction ASAP. “I guess that’s it. Case closed, as long as the guy stops harassing me.”
“I think he will. Now that he knows the police are onto him, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to pull something new.”
“Maybe.” But something hitched in my mind, a missing piece that snagged like a thread on a nail. “Do you find it weird that he went to so much trouble to cover his tracks with the doll and photo, but got sloppy enough to use the internet from his burner?”
