The Inquisitor

It was so unexpected, so thoroughly brazen, that it took a moment before the implication registered. “Moving where?”

“There are several units available. Have you been satisfied with the management? They seem nice enough, but you never really know until you’ve lived somewhere—”

“Are you saying that you’re moving into my building?”

“I couldn’t afford anything on the crest. Just into the complex itself.”

The audacity left her breathless. Renting one of those units not only meant that he’d be living practically next door to her, it effectively destroyed her claim that he’d been spying on her when he’d been parked across the street last night. He could say that he had simply been checking out the place before signing a lease.

“You can’t do that.”

“As of tomorrow, I can.”

Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Her own lease ran from midmonth to midmonth, so it was possible he was telling the truth.

“Why?”

“I’m a good neighbor, Dr. Kincaid. I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”

“And I guess I can expect more of what you did today.”

There was a beat of silence. Given his glibness in answering every other question she’d thrown at him, she was surprised he didn’t have a ready response for this one.

“And what was that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You wrote on my car.”

His mouth opened, and then he closed it to shake his head. She thought she heard a breath of laughter, but it was cut off so quickly she couldn’t be sure.

“Believe it or not, I don’t write on cars. I haven’t since I was twelve. Something interesting?”

“What?”

“Whatever was written on your car.”

“Not to me.”

She couldn’t make a dent in that wall of supremely confident male arrogance. He mocked both her anger and her threats, treating her as if she were some hysterical female who just didn’t get it. Not the killer. And certainly not him.

Despite everything, her impression was still that they were not one and the same. She wasn’t afraid of this man. No matter what he said, she knew he’d been following her. And yet standing within two feet of him, she had no sense of danger.

That wasn’t the result of any logical thought process, because it couldn’t be. It was strong and instinctive, however, and she was practiced enough in making that kind of evaluation that she respected this one.

“I’d still like to know what it said,” he repeated, the mockery carefully controlled.

At this point she could see no reason not to tell him. Actually, she found that she wanted to tell him, which implied, as incredible as it seemed, that she believed he hadn’t written those words.

“It said ‘Help me.’”

A crease formed between his brows. “Somebody wrote ‘Help me’ on your car? While it was in the staff parking deck?”