That last trip to her mother’s home was her seventh in the six months since Celia had been attacked. Her mother wanted her to move to Louisville and help with her sister. Celia wasn’t doing well. She couldn’t sleep despite tranquilizers and sleeping pills. She sat in the living room looking out the picture window and chain-smoking. She wouldn’t wash her hair or eat unless someone was there to coax her.
Resa’s mother was at the end of her rope, and so was Resa. She’d offered to pay for Celia to go to a psychiatric facility, but her mom wouldn’t hear of that.
So Resa had told her there was nothing else she could do. She’d been away from her work too long, and her work was in Nashville. Her stress level wasn’t helped by her guilt over leaving her mother to deal with Celia.
She lifted her hair off her neck. A dull pounding headache reverberated through her skull. She was exhausted, and yet she felt jittery. It would be another long night without sleep. And tomorrow, she had two fittings and a consultation.
A country-music award ceremony was coming up in August. Her most important challenge yet. She was designing outfits for two of the nominees and a performer. She had to get some sleep. She couldn’t afford to screw up her biggest chance at exposure for her clothing designs.
She turned onto Valley Street, headed toward her new apartment. As she straightened the wheel, she glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark sedan had turned behind her, about three car lengths back.
She examined the shape of the headlights and the grille. It looked like the same car she’d spotted following her last week—last Tuesday to be precise.
Just like last week, she had no idea where she’d picked him up. She hadn’t noticed anyone behind her, then suddenly there he was. It had to be him. The Lock Rapist. Who else would follow her?
Despite the warm May night, her palms grew clammy and cold. Fear skittered up her spine. She reached over and dug the Glock out of her purse, a futile gesture. Even if she were able to load it, she’d never get off a shot in time to save her life. Her only hope was that maybe if he saw the gun, it would scare him.
The idea that the same man who’d brutally attacked her sister and five other innocent women was following her sent terror arrowing through her chest. But why would he follow her? And how had he found her? She’d moved and changed her phone number and her e-mail address.
Her face might be familiar. After all, she’d been interviewed several times about her sister’s attack. But she’d told all the reporters that she hadn’t gotten a good look at the face of the man she’d seen running from her apartment building.
She looked in the rearview mirror again without angling her head.
If it was he, what was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he made a move? He could grab her at any time. He could break into her apartment while she slept. That was what he’d done with the other women.
Celia had been asleep in Resa’s second bedroom. She hadn’t heard anything. Hadn’t known anything was wrong until a musty cloth covered her face. At that point, Celia’s account of the attack became sketchy and disjointed. Resa figured it was just as well if she didn’t remember the specifics.
The back of her neck prickled. She felt his eyes on her as the car inched closer—closer. She fought the urge to hunch her shoulders. She was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her hands cramped.
“Come on, you monster,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Do something. Just give me one good look at you.” She glanced in her driver’s-side mirror. “Come a little bit closer.”
She squinted, trying to make out the letters and numbers on the front license plate. But the suburban street was too dark.
After she’d seen the car last Tuesday, she’d called the police and spoken to the detective who’d handled Celia’s case.
Detective Clint Banes had been polite and concerned about her fear that she was being followed, but he’d been careful not to give her false hope. He didn’t have enough manpower to put a twenty-four-hour watch on her, he’d said. Not even enough for a night watch.
You’ve got to be careful, he told her. Don’t go out alone. Get his license plates. Or at least the make of the car. If it is the Lock Rapist, and we can ID him through his vehicle, we can find the evidence to put him away.
He offered her the chance to come in and view photos of cars to try and pick out which one was following her. She’d thanked him and hung up.
She turned at the entrance to the gated community where she now lived, apprehension squeezing her chest. She had to stop a few feet ahead to swipe her entry card. She reached up and made sure her car doors were locked.
What would he do? Last week he’d turned just as she approached the well-lit apartment complex. Was he bolder this week? What would she do if he pulled in behind her?
If he did follow her up to the gate, she’d be able to see the color of his car, maybe even get his license plate.
But she’d also be vulnerable. The few seconds before the gates opened were plenty of time for him to jump out of his car and grab her.
She pulled up to the card reader, her card ready, and glanced in the mirror.
The dark sedan slowed down then continued on without turning. He drove under a streetlight, but the light’s glow wasn’t bright enough to give her a clue about whether the vehicle was black or dark blue or some other color.
At least he’d given up for the moment—or gotten tired—or received a cell phone call. Whatever the reason, he was gone for now.
Hardly daring to breathe, she swiped her entry card through the slot, keeping an eye out behind her. As soon as the gates began to swing open, she pulled forward.
The gates closed silently behind her. She was safe.
A shiver racked her body. Quickly, jerkily, she pulled into her parking place and ran up the stairs to her apartment.
As she closed and locked the door behind her, the feeling of safety dissolved into fear as her brain replayed what had just happened.
Her hands flew to her mouth as her throat closed up, threatening to cut off her breath.
She wasn’t safe. The Lock Rapist knew where she lived.
EARL SLATTERY quietly unlocked the door of the modest clapboard house. He sneaked in, eased the door closed and put on the chain. So far, so good.
He’d had a profitable evening. He’d found out where Theresa Wade lived. With a little judicious sneaking around he’d discovered a breach in the fence on the back side of her apartment complex. He had all the information he needed.
Now if he could just make it upstairs to bed without his wife waking up—
Bright lights blinded him. He jerked violently and whirled.
“Earl, where have you been?”
He cringed at his wife’s strident tone. He’d have thought he’d be used to it after twenty years of marriage. But no. It still shredded his nerves like a cheese grater.
