Allison Brennan - Stalked

I walked briskly, then jogged, and by the time I got to my apartment I was running. I felt it in my stomach that something was wrong, just like I did the night of the storm when I woke up and went to Rachel’s room and she wasn’t there.

I ran up the two flights of stairs to my apartment and heard Cami crying from my bedroom.

“Cami? Cami? It’s Peter.”

The cries stopped, and I ran down the short hall to where she stood in the doorway. I looked over her head and saw everything.

Arcs of blood on the walls. The smell of death. The butchered pig in my bed.

Cami turned to face me, her face white and wet with tears. “I can’t be here,” she said. “I’m sorry. Oh, God!” She ran out and I let her go. I stared at the gross violence and knew that next time it would be me.

I called the police, and this time a new cop came to my apartment.

His name was Charlie Mead. He looked at my room, then looked at me and said, “Tell me about it.”

I told him everything. I told him about being followed in high school, about the roadkill left in my locker, about my bike being sabotaged. I told him why I ran away, how I was sent to live with my father, and why I filed for emancipation. It all came out in a rush; I don’t think I’d ever said as much at one time in my life.

Charlie said, “Let’s make sure your girlfriend is okay.”

I nodded, and he drove me to her aunt’s house. I’d never been inside, but I’d dropped her off several times over the year I’d known her.

Charlie walked with me to the door. I stood behind him, mostly because I didn’t want Cami to be scared. Charlie could convince her that she’d be safe, and he had some smart questions I hadn’t even thought about. Like had she seen anyone, had she touched anything, had she ever seen someone following us.

Charlie was the first cop I’d met since I filed my first report who I thought might find the person who was doing this to me.

An elderly woman answered the door.

“Ma’am, I’m Officer Charles Mead. Is Cami here?”

“There’s no one by that name here.”

“Cami Jones,” I said. “She goes to SU. This is where her aunt lives; I’m her boyfriend, Peter Gray.”

The woman scowled. “I don’t know any Cami Jones. My name is Edith Jones, Jones is a very common name.”

“You’re her aunt!”

Charlie put his hand on my arm, but I shook him off. “She calls you Aunt Edie.”

Mrs. Jones glared at me. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters; I have no nieces or nephews. I’m a widow, and my only son is married and lives in Montreal with his wife. I’ve lived in this house for fifty-two years!”

I didn’t believe anything she said, but Charlie walked me back to his squad car and made some calls. I sat in the back and stared at the house. This was it. Jones was on the mailbox. I’d driven Cami here a dozen times.

I looked at the houses nearby, and I wasn’t mistaken. Was her home life so bad that she didn’t want me to know where she lived?

Charlie said, “Let’s get some coffee, Peter.”

I didn’t say yes or no, because I was still trying to figure out what I had missed with Cami. I understood pain and knew she was a kindred spirit. She’d suffered but never talked about it.

Charlie drove to a nearby Starbucks and we went inside. He paid for me and we went to a table in the back.

“Thank you,” I said, and sipped the black coffee. I didn’t like coffee much, but I needed something to do with my hands.

“You need to listen to me, Peter. This is important.”

I nodded.

“Edith Jones was telling the truth. She has no nieces. There is no Cami Jones registered at SU.”

“ Cami must be short for something. It’s a big school.”

“I had them run every C. Jones registered. There are four. Three are men. One is a senior from Albany, lives with her boyfriend in town. Christina Jones.”

I heard what Charlie said but didn’t understand.

“Maybe-”

Charlie interrupted. “The crime scene unit dusted your apartment for fingerprints. There were none.”

I frowned. That made no sense.

“Someone cleaned your entire apartment,” Charlie said. “Your fingerprints were on the door and the doorframe of your bedroom. That’s all we found.”

My stomach clenched. I looked at Charlie but didn’t see him. I saw Cami put her hands to her mouth.

She’d been wearing gloves.

I ran to the bathroom and threw up. There had to be an explanation. There was an explanation.

Why? I didn’t know her. I’d never met her until last fall. Who would do that to me? How could I not see it?

A knock on the door startled me.

“Peter, come on out.”

I washed my face with cold water and came back to the table.

“Do you have a picture of Cami?”

I slid over my cell phone. “The only pictures I have are on my phone.”

Charlie started scrolling through my phone. He frowned and said, “Your SIM card is missing.”

I took the phone and looked. The card was gone.

Cami had used my phone earlier, before I went to class.

“She planned it.”

“We’ll find a picture of her. On Facebook maybe?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have any social media. I hate the Internet. I don’t even have a television. I had an e-mail account once, and a reporter found me and wanted to interview me. So I deleted the account. I have an e-mail account through the university because I had to get something for my classes.”

“You shouldn’t go back to your apartment. Do you have someplace to stay?”

I shook my head. “I need to disappear.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Yes, I do.”

I’d never thought about killing myself. Maybe in passing, but then I’d think of Grams and knew she’d be heartbroken. She was dead, but sometimes I felt her. I lived for those moments.

“Don’t run, Peter. Someone had been stalking you since high school. They’re escalating. Only you know who it is.”

“But I don’t! It was all a lie. Cami was a lie. But I swear, she was not at my high school.”

“Let me do a little research on her. Maybe something will come up. You can work with a sketch artist; we’ll get a good picture of her.”

Charlie Mead really wanted to help me.

“I’ll try.”

“Stay with me tonight,” Charlie said. “I’ll find a safe place for you tomorrow.”

One night turned into two years. I lost a sister when I was nine, but I found a brother when I was nineteen.

New York City

Jimmy Bartz was picked up late Saturday night by uniformed officers in Queens. Suzanne and Joe decided to let him stew the rest of the night, and Suzanne arrived at DeLucca’s precinct at eight Sunday morning.

“We could have come in together,” Joe said.

“No, we couldn’t,” Suzanne said. Joe had wanted to go home with her last night, but she had put her foot down and after one beer had left alone. The worst thing was that she had wanted to give in, but reason vetoed her heart. Heart? Who was she fooling? It was her body that craved Joe. She didn’t want to fall back into bed with him because then her heart would be at risk and it would only end badly. Just like last time. Because she would not give him any ultimatum that affected his relationship with his son, nor did she want to play the role of mistress with a man who was hiding her from his ex-wife.

“Has he talked?” Suzanne switched the subject back to the case at hand.

“No.” Joe checked in with the desk sergeant. “Can you bring Bartz to interview?”

“Room one,” the sergeant said. He got on the phone.

Joe led Suzanne through the bullpen to his desk. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Joe sat down at his tidy desk. Suzanne glanced around at the stacks of paper on everyone else’s desk. “You have the cleanest crib in town.”