the blond ponytail looking through a pair of binoculars.
Charlotte searched the entire crowd, from one tree line to the next. If the rest of Alex’s team was here, did that mean …?
Trip Jones.
Her pulse skipped a beat then drummed into overtime. How had she missed seeing the oversize mountain of a man in the black uniform and boots standing near the media cars and trucks, squinting into the drizzling rain because he had no hat?
The water added nutmeg-colored streaks to his light brown hair. The rain had to be running down the back of his neck, making his crisp uniform damp and sticky. One hand rested on the butt of the gun strapped to his thigh, the other tapped at the tiny microphone clipped to his ear as his lips moved in some sort of terse reply. But she detected no hint of discomfort in his implacable stance, no trace of complaint in the methodical back-and-forth scan of his eyes.
“Maximus, I think we owe the guy a new hat.” And an apology. And maybe an explanation for her odd behavior.
And maybe while she was doing that, she could study those hazel eyes again, to see if she’d only imagined the gentle humor and unflinching support there when he’d handed her Max and told the others at that ambulance to bug off.
Of course, to do that, she’d have to meet him again. She’d have to be close enough to make that eye contact. She’d have to speak. Rationally. But she hadn’t seen any pigs flying around—
A sharp knock on the window beside her made her jump halfway across the seat. Max’s woof matched her startled gasp. Clutching her hand over her thumping heart, Charlotte reminded herself to breathe and called herself twenty kinds of fool once she identified the man with the wire-rimmed glasses waiting patiently outside the car.
Jeffrey Beecher was the executive assistant for the event company handling the memorial reception today. The earbud he wore and corkscrew cord that curled down beneath his suit jacket confirmed that he was the hired help. Her stepmother often employed Jeffrey and his crew to coordinate parties and fundraisers. Charlotte didn’t attend those functions, but her father ran thorough background checks and made sure that she was introduced to any staff who came onto the estate. Just in case she would need to leave her rooms during an event, she would be able to identify the employee and not go into a panic.
She briefly considered staying where she was and not responding to the knock. But Max had barked and she had yelped, and the man with the business suit and umbrella really was standing ever so patiently in the rain, so he had to know she was in here.
Just do it, Charlotte. She had no place to withdraw to right now. Engage.
Crawling back across the leather seat, Charlotte pushed the button and lowered the window a few inches—just enough to peek through and smell the green, woodsy dampness in the cool outside air. “Yes?”
Jeffrey’s umbrella blocked the rain as he bent over far enough to line his eyes up with hers. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and smiled. “Miss Mayweather. Sorry to intrude on your privacy. But I need to tell you there’s been a slight change in plans.”
“Oh?” She didn’t like change. She didn’t like surprises.
Something of her confusion must have read on her face, because he put up a hand and patted the air in a placating gesture. “Don’t worry. We’ll still get you up to lay a flower on the grave and say your goodbyes. But I’ll have to ask you to wait in the car a little bit longer.”
She reached down to stroke Max’s ears. “Is something wrong?”
He quickly shook his head to reassure her. “We weren’t anticipating the numbers of reporters here at the cemetery, so we’re having to improvise. Clarice,” his boss, “actually invited them to attend the reception. As long as they stay outside of the gates, of course.”
Charlotte climbed up onto her knees again, her gaze flitting over to the news vans and photographers and the mountain of a man keeping watch over them. Would they really try to intrude on the family’s privacy with Trip standing guard?
Her father apparently thought so. “Mr. Mayweather is going to send your stepmother and stepsister on to the house so that the press corps will follow them. Then he’ll come back for you to lay the flowers on the grave.”
“What about Kyle?”
“Oh, yes.” His gaze darted over to Kyle Austin, jogging down the hill. Charlotte saw her blond-haired stepbrother collapse his umbrella, climb into his white Jaguar and speed away from the service. She had no time to speculate where he was going in such a hurry because Jeffrey was pulling an envelope from inside his jacket and sliding it through the crack in the window. “Kyle said a man handed this to him, but he needed to get back to the office, so he asked me to deliver it to you.”
Charlotte plucked the envelope from his fingers. “What man?”
“He didn’t know him, but he said he had on a uniform of some kind. Your name is on the envelope.” Jeffrey shrugged. “I’m assuming it’s a condolence?”
She turned it over to see her name neatly typed on the front. But there was no return address, no glimpse of handwriting to give her any clue as to who it might be from. Maybe this was Trip Jones’s idea of sending her an apology?
Only, he wasn’t the one who needed to apologize.
She pulled the envelope into her lap and tried to be civil. “Thank you, Jeffrey.”
“No problem.” Something buzzed into the earbud he wore and he answered with a “yes, ma’am” before pulling away. “Sorry to intrude on your privacy, Miss Mayweather, but I’d better get to the estate and make sure everyone’s ready when the guests arrive. See you there.”
Probably not. Charlotte rolled the window up and sat back to open the envelope and pull out the neatly folded letter inside, alternately checking out one window and then the other for any sign of her mysterious pen pal. So a man in uniform had given it to Kyle. One of the security guards? Someone on the florists’ staff? A courier? Police officer? Trip?
Or someone very different.
It’s your turn, Charlotte.
All those brains, yet you never saw me coming.
I’m here now. Watching. Waiting.
The old man couldn’t stop me from getting to you.
No one can. I’ll take what you owe me and enjoy watching you squirm.
Scared yet?
“Oh, God.” The silent assault pushed the blood to her feet, making her feel dizzy, light-headed. Her vision blurred the vile words as she crumpled the letter in her fist. “Max?” She instinctively reached for the dog. “Max?”
He hopped onto the seat beside her and she hugged him tight. But she still felt cold, isolated, afraid.
“Why is this happening to me?” she whispered into the dog’s fur, rocking back and forth. “Why does he want to hurt—?”
The phone in her coat pocket rang and she screamed out loud. Max barked but licked
