Page 45 of You Found Me
The way he looked at you.
Fondled you.
He’s been dealt with.
He… She glanced at the photos. Scott.
Scott had been dealt with.
She tried to call out a name, but guilt and fear strangled the sound. She pulled in a shaky breath and tried again. This time, her voice came from the diaphragm with all the force of a lifetime of practice projecting to the last row of a crowded stadium.
“Ward!”
Chapter Eight
Ward read the stalker’s manifesto three times.
The letter contained the same delusional crap as the dressing room version, with the added bonus of deranged jealousy. Beneath that was an unhealthy dose of desperation that made every hair on Ward’s body stand up and salute.
The bastard had gone up a notch in Ward’s estimation. What he’d pulled off was masterful.
He’d waited until Della was out of the house, which meant a good portion of her security would be out with her. He’d clearly known that.
He’d snuck past the cameras and security at the front gate and slithered around every measure Ward had put in place to keep the house safe.
All without tripping an alarm.
Without getting caught.
Weeks of planning. Squads of security. Round-the-clock surveillance.
The bastard had gotten past all of it with a few fizzled wires and pizza.
Goddamn fucking pizza.
The urge to punch something was so strong he found himself clenching his fist around the damn letter like he could wring the evil out of it.
I’m going to provide you with the perfect home. It’s private and beautiful, and it’s all for you.
Ward crinkled the letter.No, you fucking won’t, asshole.
The commitment in his chest burned with renewed focus. He wouldn’t walk away from this case even if he really was fired. Not now.
“Ward?” Della whispered.
He forced himself to relax his grip on the letter and look at her with what he hoped was calm control. “Let me see that.” He gestured at the photo in her hand. If she’d held on to this particular picture, it probably had significance for the stalker too.
She let go of the photo, then turned to stare at the ones still scattered across the bed. “What does he mean by ‘dealt with’?” Della’s voice sounded tight and tense.
“I don’t know. Yet.” Ward smoothed the crinkles out of the photo.
It featured Della riding the Hollywood stud’s shoulders at the damn pool party.
He stared through the angry hash marks to the face he knew was underneath. Scott Baldwin. Up-and-coming A-lister with five minor roles and one major on his sheet so far, according to Spencer’s report.
The nasty note combined with the hatchet job on the guy’s face was a bad sign for Scott.
“Come with me.” He put the photo back on the bed but tucked the letter into his pocket. He didn’t want it getting lost or stolen during the chaos that was about to descend.