“No. There’s not a thematic connection that I can find.” Though he’d look, and would keep considering that angle. “But the connection right now seems to be that things escalate when the songs you wrote yourself do well.”
She put down the doughnut she’d lifted to her lips without taking a bite. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not yet. I figure if we pull on it, it will.”
“How did you...”
He shrugged. “I’m good with patterns.”
“Good with or genius with?”
He smiled at her, couldn’t help it. He’d been trained as an undercover FBI agent. Took on whatever role he had to. He’d learned to hide himself underneath a million masks, but his personal attachment to this job and the safe world he’d created made it hard to do here. “Hate to bandy a word like genius around.”
She laughed and for a brief second her eyes lit with humor instead of worry. He wanted to be able to give that to her permanently, so she could laugh and relax and feel safe here.
Because that was his job, his duty, what he was good at. Completely irrelevant to the specific woman he was helping.
He looked down at his computer, frowning at the uncomfortable and unreasonable pull of emotion inside him. Emotions were what had gotten him booted from the FBI in the first place. He didn’t regret it—couldn’t—but it was a dangerous line to walk when your emotions got involved.
“So, I think we can rule out crazed fan. It’s more personal than that.”
“Fans create a personal connection to you, though. They think they know you through your music—whether it was written by me or someone else doesn’t matter to them.”
“It matters to someone,” Zach returned. “Or the incidents wouldn’t align so perfectly with the songs you wrote.”
She pushed out of her chair, doughnut untouched, only a few sips of the hot chocolate taken. She paced. He waited. When she seemed to accept he wasn’t going to say anything, she whirled toward him.
“Look, I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Hide and cower and...” She gave the chair she’d popped out of a violent shove, then raked shaking hands through her hair. “A good man is dead because of me. I can’t stand it.”
The naked emotion, brief though it was, hit him a little hard, so he kept his tone brusque. “A good man is dead because good men die in the pursuit of doing good and because there are forces and people out there who aren’t so good. Guilt’s normal, but you’ll need to work it out.”
“Oh, will I?”
“I’d recommend therapy, once this is sorted.”
“Therapy,” she echoed, like he was speaking a foreign language.
“Stalking is basically a personal form of terrorism. You don’t generally get through it unscathed. Right now the concern is your physical safety, but when it’s over you can’t overlook your emotional well-being.”
“You spend a lot of time evaluating your emotional well-being, Zach?”
“Believe it or not, they don’t let you in or out of the FBI without a psych eval. Same goes for in and out of undercover work—and a few of those messed me up enough to require some therapy. Talking to someone doesn’t scare me, and it shouldn’t scare you.”
“That hardly scares me.”
But the way she scoffed, he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was none of his business. Her recovery was not part of keeping her safe, and the latter was all he was supposed to care about.
“Let’s talk about the people on this list,” Zach said, pushing the computer screen toward her. On the screen was a list of people she’d told her brother she thought might want to hurt her.
Daisy rubbed her temples. “Vaughn gave you this?”
He rose, retrieved some aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and set it next to her elbow. “Your brother gave me copies of everything pertaining to the stalking.”
Daisy frowned at the aspirin bottle, then up at him. “Am I supposed to tip you?”
“Full service security and investigation, Ms. Delaney. Speaking of that, Delaney’s a stage name, isn’t it?”
“What? You don’t have a full dossier on my real name and everything else?” She smirked at him.
He shook his head. The Delaney connection wasn’t important. As unimportant as the way that smirk made his gut tighten with a desire he would never, ever act on.
What was important was her take on the list and what kind of patterns and conclusions he could draw. So he turned the conversation back to the case and made sure it stayed there.
Sleep was a welcome relief from worry, except when the dreams came. They didn’t always make sense, but Tom’s lifeless body always appeared.
Even hiking up the mountains at sunset. It was peaceful, and Zach was with her, smiling. She liked his smile, and she liked the riot of sunset colors in the sky. She wanted to write a song, itched to.
Suddenly, she had a notebook and a pen, but when she started to write it became a picture of Tom, and then she tripped and it was Tom’s body. She reached out for Zach’s help, but it was only Tom’s lifeless eyes staring back from Zach’s face.
She didn’t know whether she was screaming or crying, maybe it was both, and then she fell with a jolt. Her eyes flew open, face wet and breath coming so fast it hurt her lungs.
Somehow, she knew Zach was standing there. It didn’t even give her a start. It seemed right and steadying that he was standing in her doorway in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, a dim glow from the room behind him.
Later, she’d give some considerable thought to just how cut Zach was, all strong arms and abs. Something else he hid quite well, and she was sure quite purposefully.
“You screamed and you didn’t lock your door,” he offered, slowly lowering the gun to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and gestured toward her. “You might want to...”
He trailed off and in her jumble of emotions and dream confusion, it took her a good minute to realize the strap of her tank top had fallen off her arm and she was all but flashing him.
She wasn’t embarrassed so much as tired. Bone-deep tired of how this whole thing was ruining her life. “Sorry,” she grumbled, fixing the shirt and pulling the sheet up around her.
“No. That’s not...” He cleared his throat. “You should lock that door.”
She
