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  By 10:15, Rodney had fallen into a cycle of fitfulness. His body felt like a tightly wound spring. He’d sit in his Lazy Boy for a few minutes, rereading the same paragraph in his book. Moments later, he’d jump from the chair and pace the room, hoping to relieve the interminable agitation he felt. What was it about this case that vexed him? Why did he have this nagging sense of foreboding?

  As he brought the car to a halt at the corner of 20th and Market, Rodney realized that he’d never intended to come into the city. His decision to go for a quick evening drive had been nothing more than an attempt to run off some of his apprehension. He’d only meant to drive around Ardmore, not go stalking into Center City to look for Happy Petal Florist. But since he was here now . . .

  He found the florist two blocks past Philadelphia City Hall—a small storefront wedged between a Dunkin’ Donuts and a Game Stop. A steel security door had been drawn down over the florist’s main entrance, leaving little for him to see other than a faded graffiti artist’s signature. He pulled the car up to the curb out front, and stared out the windshield, first at the store, and then down the street.

  The rain had done little to stop people from venturing out into the sodden evening. Rodney watched a couple exit the Dunkin’ Donuts, each holding a steaming Styrofoam cup. A lone woman dressed in a dark business suit passed his car; an umbrella protected her from the mist. Her head was bowed forward, and her lips held a deep frown. Worked late. Hates her job, he thought. A yellow cab pulled up in front of him and deposited a pair of young men onto the curb. One of them tossed money through the car window at the driver, and then stumbled over to his companion. They embraced, kissed, and then moved off down the street, their steps wavering and unsteady. A little too much to drink, Rodney thought as he pulled the car away from the curb. At least they didn’t drive.

  Somewhere in this city was a man who was strangling gay, bisexual, and transgender men. The GBT Strangler. He didn’t like that the media had given him a name. Raised the killer’s status which, in his experience, was exactly what these sick minds craved. What were the chances that he could be the same person stalking Kaitlyn? Probably slim to none, Rodney figured. Kaitlyn didn’t seem to fall within GBT’s victim profile. His targets, thus far, had all been male. Rodney kept tabs on Philly police’s investigation, just enough to be familiar with the latest updates on the case.

  It was five minutes to midnight as Rodney pulled the Dodge into the parking garage of the Stetler Building. The bright lights within were a stark contradiction against the dank darkness outside. Driving up the ramp, he noticed that the concrete within the garage was dry with the exception of a single set of car tire tracks. He followed the tracks upward, rounding the corner on each level of the garage until he saw a lone candy apple red Harley-Davidson parked near the elevator. He pulled the car into the spot nearest the motorcycle, shut off the engine and climbed out.

  Rodney gazed around the garage, and, seeing all the empty parking spots, figured that it probably emptied out en masse around quitting time every night. His eyes fell onto the wet tire tracks, which appeared to have pulled into a neighboring spot, and then pulled out to proceed further up into the garage. He checked his watch, wondering how long it’d be before Kaitlyn came out to head home. Nothing to do but wait, he decided, and leaned back against his car, arms folded, and eyes fixed on the elevator.

  While he waited, his mind drifted to his daughter. Kaitlyn represented everything that he hoped Carol would be when she reached that age. But he knew it would never happen. The last time he’d visited her, he could tell that prison life was taking its toll. The change in his daughter after just a year of incarceration was extreme. Gone from her eyes was the innocence that he dearly loved. It was replaced by a callous stare. The fiery hatred in her eyes as they sat across from each other was burned into his memory.

  It was the way she called him “father” that hit him hardest. She’d always called him “daddy,” or “dad,” even up to the moment she was arrested. But now it was “father.” It was a frigid, apathetic word. She must have known how it hurt him. She put a cold-blooded emphasis on the word every time she said it. When she launched into that final tirade, her words were laced with bile. His heart shattered. His little girl was gone forever.

  Had he failed his daughter? Should he have hidden the evidence of the accident? He would never have been able to live with himself if he had. That thought didn’t console him. How could a loving father turn in his own daughter to the police? It was a question he asked himself almost daily. Always followed by, how can a good cop ignore a crime? The paradox wasn’t lost on him. He couldn’t be both. He had a choice to make, and he chose to be the good cop.

  Maybe Julie was right. Perhaps he was using Kaitlyn as a proxy for his daughter. What of it? This was his chance to get it right. When he looked at Kaitlyn, he saw his daughter. He wouldn’t let her down this time.

  He’d been standing there for twenty minutes when the bell on the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Kaitlyn stepped out and proceeded across the garage toward him. When she caught sight of Rodney, she hesitated. He caught the questioning look in her eyes. He smiled, trying to look reassuring, but feeling like he’d failed miserably. Kaitlyn’s steps became more cautious and deliberate.

  “Detective, this is a surprise,” she said.

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  Kaitlyn stopped at the motorcycle, setting her leather handbag down beside it. “Is something wrong? Why are you here?”

  Rodney pushed himself off the car and stepped toward her. He saw her tense up at his movement. “Nothing’s wrong. I was in town looking up your florist and decided to swing by and see if you wanted an escort home.”

  Her shoulders were still tense, eyes questioning.

  “I’m not trying to alarm you. I was just concerned for your safety,” he said, again trying to be reassuring. “I doubt that you are in danger, but the flower delivery made me a little uneasy.”

  She thought on his remarks for a second, and then she smiled. The tenseness in her shoulders faded away. “Thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever had a police escort before.”

  He wondered if she’d had a police escort the night that Jesse Riley drowned, but decided not to ask.

  Rodney kept a car length’s distance between himself and the tail lights of Kaitlyn’s motorcycle. The traffic on Walnut Street was nonexistent, and they both moved with ease along the wet street. The traffic lights were in sync, green the whole stretch, as was the norm in the middle of the night. The mist had turned back into a steady rain, leaving Rodney to wonder how soaked Kaitlyn would be by the time she got home.

  As they passed South 20th Street, a car turned out of an alleyway and pulled up behind him, headlights ablaze in his rearview mirror. Rodney cursed and tried to ignore the blinding glare reflected into his eyes. His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He returned his gaze forward, watching sheets of water spray from Kaitlyn’s Harley as she sped ahead of him.

  Behind him, the car raced forward, coming far too close to Rodney’s Dodge for his comfort. His shoulders tensed. Back off, asshole, he thought.

  For a moment, he caught sight of a petite silhouette behind the wheel of the car. Then the car backed away, the bright round headlights once again shone through his back window. He had half a mind to throw his teardrop light onto the roof. But he was outside of his jurisdiction, and more importantly, stopping the other vehicle would leave Kaitlyn unprotected for the remainder of her journey home.

  The car raced forward again and then darted out to his left. It accelerated up Walnut Street, overtaking Rodney’s car. As they drew parallel, Rodney got his first good look at it. A Volkswagen Beetle. He peered across the narrow gap between them, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver’s face. The rain and the streetlights, however, conspired against him. The wet sheen on the window glass reflected the overhead streetlights back at him and obscured his view of the driver inside. He saw nothing more than a shadowy profile lea
ning back into the driver’s seat. Probably just some punk ass kid. He was only half-convinced by the thought.

  But then the car sped up, passed him, and then drifted back into the right lane between Rodney and Kaitlyn. His stomach twisted as a dozen worst-case scenarios played in his mind. Rodney squinted through the windshield, trying to make out the numbers on the car’s license plate. It was a Pennsylvania tag; he could tell that much. But the rain, which had become a driving downpour, made it difficult to read the letters and numbers. He leaned toward the steering wheel and thought he saw a “B”. Yes, the first letter was a “B”. Then, there was a “G”, followed by a . . .

  Suddenly, the Volkswagen pulled into the left-hand lane, speeding toward Kaitlyn. It pulled up alongside of her and matched her speed. Rodney saw Kaitlyn glance at the car, and then back at him. He watched them race parallel along the road for a few moments, powerless to help. Then the car veered sharply back into the right-hand lane and cut Kaitlyn off. The motorcycle swerved toward the side of the street, and then back toward the center, barely missing a parked car along the curb. The back end of the Harley kicked out from underneath Kaitlyn. She leaned into the fall, coming down hard on the pavement. As the motorcycle skidded on its side along the wet road, Kaitlyn tumbled over and over behind it.

  Rodney slammed on his brakes and skidded to an abrupt halt in the center of the Walnut Street. He leapt from the car and threw the teardrop on the roof; the spinning red light flashed brightly in the wet darkened night. Water soaked his shoes and pant legs as he raced up the street, splashing through the small streams of water flowing toward the storm drains. When he reached Kaitlyn, Rodney dropped to his knee beside her motionless form.

  “Kaitlyn,” he shouted. “Kaitlyn!”

  Glancing up for a moment, he caught the fading taillights of the Volkswagen as it sped along Walnut Street and disappeared into the rainy gloom of the night.

  13

  The red-light flashes in my rearview mirror as I race away from the accident. I don’t know how injured Laura is, but I hope it isn’t too bad. I only wanted to scare her, not kill her.

  I can’t understand why he was following her. But I hope it doesn’t become a problem. I doubt he saw enough of me to make a positive ID, but I’ll need to be more careful from now on. Maybe I should loop back around, leave the car on a side street, and watch from a nearby corner. No, it’s too risky. There’ll be police swarming the area shortly, and someone may see me. Best to get off Walnut Street, and out of the city.

  I turn onto the next side street and race a few blocks down before turning again. Check the mirror. No one’s following. Time to slow down. Don’t want to draw attention to myself.

  The rain splatters on the windshield just like the day of the funeral. I dressed in my finest and watched the ceremony pass in a haze. The green tent provided meager protection from the downpour. Water droplets rolled off the coffin, dripping into the six-foot hole beneath. She was there, along with many others. But I couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop wondering what really happened. “It was an accident,” everyone said. “There was nothing that could be done,” I heard more than once. But I didn’t believe it. Accidents don’t just happen. Someone must be to blame.

  Traffic is light, and I make good time returning to my house. With the car in the garage, I stand by the open garage door and watch the rain fall. I draw in on my cigarette, and the smoke feels cool against the back of my throat. I hate the fact that I’ve started enjoying these damn cancer sticks. I never meant to become addicted. Ha! As if anyone ever did. I just needed something to get me through the first few days after discovering who Kaitlyn Ashe really was. I’d tried cigarettes in college, a fad that lasted only a couple weeks, but now . . . days have turned into months. Soon, it will be a year.

  I toss the half-used cigarette out onto the driveway and pull another one from the pack in my pocket. There’s only two more left. Fuck. I’m going through these things like they’re candy. Half the time I don’t even finish one before I’m lighting another.

  It was snowing the night I mailed the first letter. It took me hours to come up with just the right words, and then another three hours to find those words in newspapers and magazines. That asshole at the 7-Eleven raised his eyebrows when I dropped the stack on the counter.

  “Can’t sleep,” I’d said.

  I never went back there again.

  Piecing together the letter was painstaking, but I couldn’t risk anyone recognizing my handwriting. I knew fingerprints could be lifted from paper, so I wore gloves. I drove to Delaware that night to post the letter. A Wilmington postmark would throw off anyone who tried to track the sender. Every subsequent letter has been postmarked from somewhere different. West Chester. Philadelphia. King of Prussia. Even from towns in Jersey, like Woodbury, Penns Grove, and Paulsboro. Never from Woolwich and never from anywhere in Lower Merion Township. I’m not even sure what I was hoping for with those first couple letters. Maybe just a kindred spirit. Perhaps a shared reflection . . . of Jesse. Just to hear her play that song one more time. But she didn’t. The bitch didn’t.

  I finish my second cigarette before throwing it out into the rain, then close the garage door and move into the house. There’s a bottle of merlot in the wine rack. I grab it and a glass from the kitchen cabinet. This is another vice that has gained a bit too much of a hold over me lately.

  With a filled wine glass in my hand, I drift into the back bedroom. A dim light burns in the far corner, leaving the room in shadow. I cross to the opposite wall and stare at the framed twenty-four-by-fourteen canvas. It hangs on the wall amidst dozens of smaller stills, all of her. It’s a photo taken months ago. She’s dressed in a sequined gown with her hair pulled up in a bun. Her hand clings to Brad’s arm, who is dressed in a tuxedo. This year’s Philadelphia Flower Show Black Tie event. I had a helluva time getting a ticket. But, when I heard she was going to be there, I had to be there as well. I’ve a dozen or more pictures just like this one.

  She looks happy, so fucking happy. She’s got no right to be in such high spirits. Everyone thinks she’s such an angel. But they don’t know her like I do. They don’t have a clue what she’s capable of. Of how easily she can crush someone’s life and walk away without a second thought. She’s a master at acting the part of the innocent while harboring the darkest of hearts. I can’t stand to look at her any longer and turn toward the door. As I cross the room, I can feel her eyes on me. That smile of hers grows and becomes a sneer. She mocks me. Mocks what I’ve become. I can almost hear her laugh echoing through the otherwise silent room. I should’ve killed her tonight. Crushed her between my car and the others on the street. Maybe I would’ve . . . if he hadn’t been there. My hand trembles, the wine splashing around in my glass. I close my eyes, picturing her years ago by the Shallows. She stands on the dock and turns to look at me. That smile. The same smile. I open my eyes, scream, and turn around, throwing the wine glass across the room at the wall. It shatters into a hundred tiny shards. A crimson trail of merlot drips down the wall.

  14

  Rodney was uncomfortable. Although the seat was cushioned and covered in leather, the wooden chair back felt like it was at an odd angle. Just enough to make it impossible to feel at ease. He wondered if that was why Bernie had chosen the chair for his office, to keep the occupant from ever becoming relaxed.

  He glanced at Julie, who sat in a similar chair next to him. She had her legs crossed and her hands clasped together resting on her knee. No sign of discomfort. Maybe it was just him. He shifted in the chair, hoping to find a position that wasn’t as hard on his back.

  The Captain passed through the open office door, crossed to the oak desk along the opposite wall, and lowered himself into the chair behind it. The chair creaked in protest. The sleeves of Captain Bernie Doyle’s shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and his tie hung loose around his neck. Rodney recalled his first year as a detective. Bernie—only a detective himself at the time—had become a ment
or of sorts to Rodney. He’d been a good detective in his day, but Bernie had spent the past few years behind a desk running the division. Rodney wondered if the captain still had his keen eye.

  Bernie’s glance moved from Rodney to Julie and then back again. “I’m sorry to keep you both waiting.”

  Rodney studied the captain’s round face, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the greenish tinge to his complexion. A faint layer of sweat coated his bald head. “You’re looking a bit peaked. You okay, cap’n?”

  Bernie waved his hand to dismiss the concern. “It’s nothing. The wife and I got some bad Chinese takeout last night. I’m faring better than she is. At least I made it to work.”

  Julie brushed a few stray hairs behind her ear. “You sure you should be here?”

  “Believe me. I’m fine. What’s the latest on this stalker case? I heard there was an incident last night.”

  Rodney leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees. “Forensics didn’t find anything useful on the letter. Just Elmer’s Glue and magazine clippings. Kaitlyn . . . Ms. Ashe received flowers at her place of employment yesterday. The note reads like it came from the letter sender.”

  “I’ve called the florist. The order came in through the web,” said Julie. “It was paid using a pre-paid gift card. The name on the order was Jesse Riley, and the sender’s address was 1401 John F. Kennedy Boulevard in Philly.”

  Bernie cocked his head. “Sounds familiar.”

  Julie smiled. “Philly City Hall.”

  Bernie gave a chuckle. “Our stalker has a sense of humor.” He turned his gaze toward Rodney. “Any idea what this ‘Shallows’ thing is?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Rodney felt the hard wood press into his back. It was like leaning against plywood. “Nothing yet. We’ve confirmed that Kaitlyn Ashe was born Laura Hobson and changed her name sixteen years ago.”