Sinister Secret (Alexis Parker Book 21) Read online

  Martin chuckled. “You can’t distract me that easily. We were discussing our weekend plans. Are you flying out to see me? We said we’d alternate every other week. It’s your turn.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “How can you not know, especially when you miss me as much as you do?” He snorted. “Wait, I’m sorry, I meant to say especially when you miss Marcal and Bruiser. Because they’ll be here too.”

  “I know, but this thing with Lucca might get in the way.”

  “Don’t let it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s an option. Why don’t you fly back this weekend instead? It sounds like you could use a break.”

  “I have meetings Friday and Monday. If I do, we won’t have much time together. Plus, if the Board hears I’m in town, they’ll want an update on the progress I’m making, and I’ll lose half of Saturday doing that, like last time.”

  “Don’t you update them during the week?”

  “Every damn day. I’m still working East Coast hours, so I spend the first part of my day on the phone with Luc Guillot and everyone else at the flagship MT building, getting updates on the things I’m missing before everyone else shows up to work. And then I spend the rest of the day running things at this branch and looking for investors for my new project. No matter what I do, it never feels like enough.”

  “Workaholic.”

  “Says the woman who’s been camping out in her office ever since I flew back to L.A.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. When you come home, so will I.”

  “Does that also apply to the house in Malibu?” he asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Three

  By morning, I was convinced Andrew Holland had worked alone. Amir’s search hadn’t found anything, and none of the supposed internet experts on the Lightning Killer had any theories to the contrary. That left three possibilities. Daria was being stalked by an unknown suspect. Andrew Holland’s ghost was haunting her. Or she was imagining the entire thing. I knew two of those weren’t true. I just wasn’t sure which two.

  I stood behind Lucca, surveying my surroundings. Rows of townhouses lined both sides of the cul-de-sac. From what I could tell, this was your typical suburban neighborhood. It wasn’t particularly upscale with its cracked sidewalks and peeling paint, but it was a safe place to live.

  “Did you ring the bell?” I asked.

  “I know how doors work. Just give her a minute. She’s probably eating lunch,” Lucca said.

  “You’re the one who set up this meeting. Maybe you should have waited until later in the afternoon.”

  Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he rolled his eyes. “This was the only time I could get away from work,” he said.

  “What kind of case did Jablonsky assign you?”

  Lucca glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll never lose that itch.”

  “What itch? I’m making polite conversation by taking an interest in your life.”

  “Sure, you are.”

  The heavy door banged open. The hinges squeaked loudly. The woman on the other side flinched. She rubbed her right ear, making the large silver hoop hanging from her earlobe jangle against the smaller gold hoops hanging beside it while the tortoise shell glasses flopped up and down on her nose. She had a small jade colored stud in her left nostril.

  She stared up at the top hinge. “I need to get that fixed.” She looked at Lucca, her mouth opening in a wide smile. “You heard that, right?”

  “Yep.” Lucca stepped closer, squinting at the hinge. “It didn’t do that the last time I was here.”

  “I know, but it rained. The door always sticks when the humidity is high. I must have gone a little crazy tugging on it and knocked something out of whack.”

  Rain? It hadn’t rained in the last two weeks, but I kept my mouth shut. Maybe she didn’t use her front door that often.

  “I’ll take a look at it before we leave.” Lucca stepped to the side. “Daria Waylon, this is my friend, Alex Parker.”

  She swallowed uncomfortably, her smile tightening. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said. Lucca warned me she was skittish around new people. I kept my hands at my sides and didn’t move toward her.

  “Alex was my partner when I originally transferred here from D.C. She works private security now. She’s one of the best. I think she can help.”

  “I remember. We discussed this on,” she bit her lip and turned around to look at something behind her, “Monday.”

  “That’s right,” Lucca said. “Is it okay if we come inside?”

  “Oh,” Daria blinked a few times and stepped backward, “right. Come in. Just wipe your feet.”

  Lucca rubbed the soles of his shoes on the welcome mat before entering her home. “How have you been these last two days? Has anything else happened since we spoke?”

  “I heard scratching at the window last night, but I didn’t see anyone. I called the police station, but the patrol officer didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Did he check outside your window?” I asked, following Lucca’s lead and checking the bottoms of my shoes before stepping inside. First impressions were important.

  “He says he did.” Daria glanced out the window. “You can ask him yourself. He’s been out there ever since.”

  I turned, seeing the nose of a police car poking out from around the corner. “I’ll do that after we have a chance to speak.”

  The front door led to a narrow hallway, which branched off in two directions. To my right was the living room, which opened into the dining room and circled around to what I assumed must be the kitchen. The living room and dining room were pristine. Not a single thread was out of place.

  Daria led us past these rooms and down the hallway, glancing back every two steps. Ten feet later, the hallway ended in a large room. Another hallway jutted off to my left, leading to the bedroom and bathroom. From here, I could see a washer and dryer built into an alcove in the wall.

  Daria slumped into a desk chair, swiveling to face us. The desk in front of her was covered in piles of fabric, sketchbooks, and planners. A three foot by six foot whiteboard hung on the wall beside her desk. It had been sectioned off with black tape to make a monthly calendar. A stack of journals sat on a nearby folding chair. She reached for the top journal and flipped back a few pages. Using her finger, she scanned the lines.

  “Did anything else happen?” Lucca asked after she had time to read.

  “That was it. Just the scratching at the window. The cop said it was probably a blowing branch. He didn’t find any footprints or anything. No signs of tampering.”

  “That’s a relief,” Lucca said.

  Daria frowned at him. “Great, so I’m insane.” She sighed. “More insane.”

  “You’re not insane.”

  Daria climbed out of the chair and went into the kitchen. She picked up a half-eaten sandwich and took a bite, wiping the mayo from the corner of her mouth. “Would you guys like something to eat?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  She pointed to the coffeepot. “Help yourselves. I made that fresh, just for you.”

  “Thanks.” Lucca grabbed two mugs from a nearby cabinet. He filled them, replaced the pot, and opened the fridge to grab some milk. Based on his behavior, he must have spent a great deal of time here. “Milk or cream?” he asked me.

  “Either.”

  He poured a splash of half and half into each mug and handed me one. Then he took the pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge, filled a glass, and put it beside Daria. I cocked an eyebrow at him, but he shook away my unasked question.

  While she ate, I wandered around her square kitchen. It had two openings. One led to her workspace, and the other led to the dining room. The view from each opening could make a person think she was looking at two separate homes.

  “Alex,” Lucca patted the chair beside him, “maybe Daria will give you a tour later.”

  “Right, sorry.” I sat down while Daria finished her lunch.

  “Don’t be.” She blotted her lips with the napkin. “I get it. I must look and sound like a crazy person.”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I feel like one.”

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked. “Eddie’s already filled me in on the basics, but I’d prefer hearing everything from you.”

  “What is it you do exactly?” She reached for a pen and a pad of sticky notes.

  “A little bit of everything,” I said out of habit. Lucca nudged me beneath the table. He’d warned me the previous night to be as straightforward as possible. “I’m a private investigator. I work for Cross Security.”

  She scribbled that down, as if it might be on a test later. “Phone number.”

  I gave her the number for Cross’s main line, and then I gave her my cell number. “I’ve provided protection and security before.”

  “Like a bodyguard?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She stopped writing and focused on Lucca. “Has it come down to this?”

  “I don’t think so, Dar. Nothing indicates you’re in danger, but you said you don’t feel safe. I wish I had more time and resources to devote to this. But I don’t. Alex is the next best thing.”

  I resisted the urge to comment.

  “That’s because no one believes a threat exists.” She chewed on the end of the pen. “The police said my risk is low. They ran an assessment.”

  “So did I,” Lucca said. “Alex will too, if you’ll allow it.”

  Daria leaned back in her chair. “I know what I saw. He was outside my window. I saw him. I’ve seen him more than once. Following me on the street. Waiting for me when I come hom
e. He only gets so close before backing off. He’s playing with me. I know it. I can feel it.” She peered into the main room, which she used as her workspace. “Things are starting to disappear again. A pencil here. A piece of fabric there. I don’t think I’ve misplaced them or forgotten about them. I think he took them, just like last time.”

  “Daria,” Lucca said, his voice firm but gentle, “we’ve been over this. Andrew Holland, the Lightning Killer, is dead. He can’t hurt you again.”

  Defiance reflected in her dark brown eyes, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she brushed her long, raven-colored hair back behind her ear, revealing a hearing aid. “Are you sure?”

  I had asked Lucca the same question the night before, but just like the night before, he said he was.

  “That means it’s someone else.” She quietly cursed. “You know, this sucks. It’s not bad enough one psycho nearly killed me, but now some other lunatic wants me dead. Do I have a sign on my back or something?”

  “We don’t know enough yet to reach that conclusion,” Lucca said.

  “Right.” She dragged out the word. “Because no one believes me.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Lucca insisted.

  “No, but you think it.” She folded her arms over her chest, challenging him to deny it.

  “Ms. Waylon,” I interrupted, “can you describe the man you’ve seen following you?”

  “He looks just like the man who ruined my life. He has light brown hair, and these dark, penetrating eyes. They’re blank, soulless. They give me the creeps. That’s how I know it’s him. No one else has eyes like that.”

  “Was he tall?”

  “I guess, but not freakishly so.”

  “So, not a basketball player?”

  “No.” The timer on her cell phone went off, and she pulled it out to check the notification before typing something and tucking it back into her pocket. “That’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Basketball.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “You and me both.”

  She gave me a genuine smile, warming to my presence. “Good, because I thought it might be due to the brain injury.”

  I pulled a notebook out of my purse and jotted down the guy’s description, which made her smile even more. “Was he fat? Thin?”

  “I’d say average, but he looked strong. Athletic. Menacing.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “When?” she asked.

  “The last time you saw him.”

  “That would have been last week, outside my bedroom window. He had on a red cap, red and white tennis shoes, a long black trench coat, and dark-colored cargo pants.”

  I wrote it down. “I’m impressed. Witnesses rarely remember hair color. You seem to remember everything.”

  She snorted cynically. “Eddie didn’t tell you?”

  I glanced at my former partner. “What?”

  “I have a lot of trouble forming new memories. I have to make notes on everything, just so I’ll remember if I ate or took a shower. I don’t remember what he wore, but I can still read.” She pointed to the fridge where she’d written the time, date, and location of her last encounter. It included the man’s clothing and description. A few other sheets had been stuck to the fridge, detailing her earlier encounters. “As soon as he left, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget. Just like when you leave, I’ll write that down too. If I read it enough and review it enough, some things eventually stick. Not everything is a black hole, but a lot is.”

  That explained the squeaky hinges on her front door. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must be. I’m sorry this happened to you,” I said.

  She let out an ugly laugh. “Oddly enough, that is one thing I can’t seem to forget.”

  I turned to study her notes, copying down what she’d written instead of asking more questions. “Do you recall anything about these other encounters?”

  “Flashes mostly. The red on his shoes sticks out in my mind. He always wears them, but the rest of his ensemble changes. But I recognize him. I know him. I remember drips and drabs about the man who did this to me. The person I keep seeing, that’s him. His clothes and car might change, but it’s still him. I can’t shake that, just like how I can’t shake the way seeing him again makes me feel. The only way I can describe it is like waking up from a nightmare. You know how scared you are, but you’re not sure exactly why.”

  “Are these the only notes you made?”

  “No, I have more. Lots more.”

  “May I see them?”

  “I made copies for you. They’re on my desk.”

  “Not to sound insensitive, but how do you remember that?”

  “I’ve seen them at least a dozen times since I put them there. Repeated exposure leads to memory formation. Once you take them, I’ll probably look for them a few times before I remember you took them, which is why I make notes. It’s weird how my brain works now, but it’s gotten better over the years. The doctors think my mind is finding ways to compensate for the deficit. When I first got out of the hospital, I couldn’t hold on to anything for more than a matter of minutes. Now it’s hours or days. Depending on the situation, sometimes, long-term memories form.” She held up her phone. “Do you mind if I take a photo? I trained myself to put names to faces. It helps my brain form connections faster.”

  Lucca had explained her flashcard method of remembering people by looking at photos and quizzing herself on the facts. Eventually, it’d stick, just like multiplication tables.

  “Go ahead.” I waited for her to take the photo.

  Daria checked the screen, tapped against it, added a tag, and tucked it away. “What do you think about this? Now that you know how it works, how my brain doesn’t work, do you still want to help me?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” But my internal voice had doubts. Daria couldn’t be certain of herself, so how could I be certain of her? Lucca warned me about this last night, but we figured it’d be best to put Daria’s mind at ease. Now, I wasn’t sure that was even possible. “Would you mind showing me around?”

  “Sure, follow me.”

  “I’ll take a look at the front door while you do that,” Lucca offered.

  Daria gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”

  “The hinges squeak,” he said.

  “Oh,” she shook her head, “right.” But the befuddled look didn’t fade.

  Shaking it off, she led me through the immaculate dining room and into the living room. From there, we looped around to her work area before she led me toward the bedrooms. She pointed out the guest bathroom, linen closet, laundry alcove, and the guest room.

  “You said you heard tapping at the window last night. Where were you when that happened?”

  “In bed.”

  “Do you remember that?”

  “Yes. Traumatic things stick. The tapping happened when I was getting ready to fall asleep.”

  “Did you have your glasses or hearing aid in when this occurred?”

  She stared at the floor, shaking her head no. “I know how that sounds, but I heard something out there. I’m sure it was him.”

  “How is your vision and hearing?” I asked.

  “I can get around the house without my glasses, but I can’t see my cell phone screen without them. My hearing’s only impaired on one side. I can hear, just not well.”

  “What about the other times you saw him lingering near your home? What were you doing then?”

  “The time before was right after I got out of the shower. I had my glasses on, but the window was fogged up. Maybe I hallucinated that too,” she said cynically.

  “I never said that, Ms. Waylon. I’m on your side. I want to stop whoever’s doing this.”

  She searched my eyes, trying to determine if she believed me. “You can call me Daria. Mrs. Waylon’s my mom.” She flipped on a light, revealing her bedroom. “Let me show you where I was when it happened. These last two times, he’s been in the backyard, right near the maple tree.”

  I froze in the doorway while she approached the window. Her bedroom looked more like her workspace. But it wasn’t the rumpled bedcovers and notebooks everywhere that gave me pause. It was the religious shrine along the back wall. Religious icons hung on the walls and were propped up against the mirrored back of her two-tiered dresser. Statues of saints lined the top tier of the dresser, their eyes staring down at us. Symbols were painted on the ceiling and were carefully sewn into the throw rugs and various tapestries.