Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel (13 page)

"That's the question Ethan kept asking himself. He would say, I wish the guy would show himself because I'd make sure the CIA gives him a job immediately."

She stared at Vance. "He never thought the guy could be CIA?"

Vance looked to a place over her shoulder then settled his gaze back onto her. "You know how fucking creepy that shit would be, that a CIA creeper caught onto Ethan in college and managed to follow him through to…"

To his death.

Very creepy. Worse still, that he'd now latched onto Vance. "What if this is about more than a stalking?"

"I thought about that," Vance admitted. "But Ethan's stuff, his personal effects, all got sent to me." He went to the closet and pulled out two boxes, placing them down next to each other in front of her.

She opened one of them, almost hesitantly, feeling somehow like she was invading Ethan's privacy. What she saw inside made her realize his privacy had already been violated a million times over. How he hadn't lost his mind was beyond her.

"He couldn't keep a home because the guy would cancel the lease, turn the gas and electric off. Cancel credit. Ruin it." Vance shrugged. "Ethan repaired it and the guy would fuck with it again. If I look at it clinically, it's like one big mindfuck of a training, but training has a means to an end and this was neverfuckingending."

That was most certain. Abby sifted through letter upon letter—hundreds of them. "Why am I thinking I'm only scratching the surface?" she asked after looking inside one and seeing pictures of Ethan, doing the most mundane of tasks. Constant surveillance. She couldn't imagine living like this, then wondered if she actually had during the entire time she and Ethan had been dating.

Vance glanced at her ruefully. "He'd rented storage facilities. By the time I'd gotten to them, they'd been taken out of his name and emptied. Ethan must've shipped these off and then…" He paused, bowed his head. "They got to me the day I found out he'd been killed."

"Do you think this guy has been keeping tabs on your life the entire time?"

Vance stared at her, surprised. That expression soon changed to upset, then frustration. He stood, then walked over to the window, hands stuck in his pockets at he stared out into the night.

Whether Vance hadn't thought of that, or he'd been trying to pretend he hadn't thought about it, Abby wasn't sure. But she did have another piece of the puzzle about to fall into place. "Can you tell me…" She trailed off, almost afraid to ask and partially because she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"You want to know how Ethan died," Vance said flatly. She nodded. His eyes closed like the thought physically pained him, and then he opened them. "You deserve to know. I didn't tell you because…"

"I know," she assured him quietly.

"He was found hanging. It was a suicide."

Her hand flew up to her mouth to stifle her sob. Her mind spun. And then another puzzle piece clicked into place, and instead of being upset, she was mad as hell. "The CIA believes it was suicide, don't they?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice tight.

"They're covering for someone," she continued and he shrugged. "Those bastards."

"There was a note."

"The guy can write like Ethan," she said. "Vance, you know there's no way—"

"Suppose he did, Abby?" he asked, a plaintive tone in his voice, and she listened, because he deserved that. "All those years of torture, of being followed… maybe Ethan realized he'd never get rid of the guy. That there was only one way out."

"Even so, Vance, I still consider it murder. The fact that Ethan was driven to kill himself, to me is worse than the stalker killing him outright. There are no clean hands for him." She heard the vicious edge to her own voice. She was shaking, and if the stalker was here in front of her, she swore she could easily kill him with her bare hands, rip him apart. Gladly listen to him suffer.

"Don't, Abby," Vance warned and she started, realized that she'd been speaking her murderous thoughts out loud.

"I know you feel the same way," she told him.

"Ethan would never want you to go there. Not after…"

Not after she'd watched her father lose himself to a deadly obsession with a serial killer.

How easy to get pulled in. She'd never understood, until right this moment. Other cases had gotten personal for her, but this? This was beyond anything she ever could've imagined. There was no wanting to talk, to reason, to psychologically outwit the stalker.

She wanted him dead. And she could easily sink into her rage. Roll around in it, squeeze it, let it drip through her fingers like oozing slime. It was enthralling. Exhausting. Seductive.

Wanting to avenge Ethan's death somehow made her feel superhuman.

But she wasn't. And that was the trick, the part she had to remind herself of and step off the rage ride.

Because this was orchestrated by the stalker too. He wanted this reaction from everyone in Ethan's life. It pleased him. Fed him.

Because when she was enraged, the stalker was in control. And no fucking way to that. She drew a deep breath and met Vance's worried eyes. "I'll stop you from going to that place. And you stop me."

Vance nodded. "Deal."

"So why would the CIA cover for a stalker?"

"They might not be. They might truly believe that Ethan killed himself," Vance reasoned. "The flip side is that maybe they're using the killer to their advantage. Maybe he's been told to make those kills, or those kills are covers for something bigger. Maybe the CIA had no idea what he was doing to Ethan."

She stared at him. "Would Ethan have made those kills—if the CIA ordered him to?"

Vance hesitated and she knew what he wanted the answer to be. But it was "Yes." There was no way around it.

"How much have you investigated Ethan's supervisors?"

"Not at all. Poking around is too much of a red flag."

"What a setup this guy's got," Abby muttered.

"Yeah…" Vance trailed off and looked around almost uncomfortably.

What a helpless feeling this was. Vance must be feeling worse about it, since he was the one actually being stalked. She was just the periphery—the collateral damage. "Are there any studies of men stalking men?"

"Not many," he admitted. "Most of them are based on former lovers."

"Is there any evidence this guy has sexual feelings toward Ethan?"

"No. He seemed to want to be Ethan. But when he was Ethan, for all intents and purposes, it's not like he put the moves on you," Vance pointed out.

"Asexual," Abby pondered quietly. "Or impotent."

"Which could be hiding a lot of rage," Vance said just as quietly and she swore she could feel the pain radiating from him.

Sometimes she forgot how much he must be in mourning for Ethan, how much he was going through. Vance was actively being stalked by the same man who stalked and killed his brother, and he was no closer to a reason why—or a clue as to who the suspect was.

But the stalker was, unfortunately, many steps closer to Vance, and by default, to Abby.

Now, Vance stared hard at her. "I think I should get you home and assign someone different to you."

"No," she said automatically, almost at the same time he started talking, as if she knew what he'd been about to say. It was inevitable that he'd want to protect her. He just hadn't realized that by protecting her himself he'd be bringing her more attention, and more harm.

"Abby, this is ridiculous. You dodged a bullet already. You were out of harm's way, out of this guy's reach and I brought you back in—"

"No, he brought me back in," she pointed out. "He used me to bait you."

"If I leave you alone, then he'll have to find another way in. And he's already in. He doesn't have to use you," Vance countered. "Go into hiding for a month. Shake him off and let him reel a little so I can grab him. If you don't do it for me, do it for Ethan, all right? You know he'd have wanted that."

"And he'd also know I'd never go for that," she told him.

"Fuck me." Vance stood, ran his hands through his hair. "You goddamned have to let me protect you."

She couldn't imagine what he was going through. As a man, he was programmed to honor and protect, and he was in need of protection. It was humbling and scary for both of them, but she'd be damned if she'd be driven away by convention. "I'm going to protect you, dammit. Ethan would want that too, and you're not taking that away from me. If I'd been there for him, maybe…"

Her voice broke. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding onto the guilt of not realizing what was happening with Ethan, how much he'd been hiding from her. She'd been so wrapped up in her own crap that she couldn't see anything, and Ethan had been too good to her to tell her any differently. "Please," was all she could end with, and then she ended up in Vance's arms, her face buried against his strong chest.

F
inally
, she pulled back to stare into Vance's deep, whiskey-colored eyes, and an immediate jolt of arousal surged through him. "Are you only with me because you've got guilt…because you promised Ethan? I can handle that, I really can, but you need to tell me. If this is just to keep me safe, then just keep me safe."

He put his hands on her lower back, holding her in place. "It's not only about keeping you safe, Angel. Hasn't been since the first day I saw you. Got worse when I heard your voice. Worse still when I saw how fucking miserable your job was making you."

"I don't want to talk about my work now. Or yours. There's time for that. There's more than enough time," she murmured as she climbed up him—it was the only way to describe it—and settled herself on his lap, almost at his eye level but not quite. Her fingers brushed his jawline as she stared into his eyes.

Something had changed between them. Their dynamic wouldn't, because that was a natural thing between them. Maybe his guilt over Ethan that he'd been carrying since he'd started watching her had suddenly washed away, replaced with the thought that this—whatever was happening between him and Abby—this was right.

And it hadn't been right for either of them. Not for a hell of a long time.

He leaned his head down and covered her mouth with his, tasting the sweetness he'd missed over the past week. He'd thought he'd never be in this position with her again, never have another chance to hold her.

"Thought I'd lost you," he murmured against her mouth.

"Not even close. I'm hard to get rid of, in case you haven't noticed," she told him, her laugh vibrating against his lips.

Tonight, like it had been the night they'd come here from the bar, was all about them. Nothing—no one else. There'd be time for that later.

He swept her onto the bed, stripping his shirt as she lay there watching. Appreciating.

He couldn't lie to himself. He was angry—at Abby, and at himself, at the whole situation that brought them together and threatened to tear them apart at the same time. All he had was the moment in front of him and he'd be damned if he didn't take it. Being close to her, taking care of her was all part of the promise he'd made. He'd had no idea that what Ethan predicted would come so damned true but he should've known. From the time they were kids, everything Ethan said came true, no matter how much of a disbeliever Vance tried to be.

She wasn't struggling, but rather watching and waiting, readying herself for the next hurdle. He was half proud and half ashamed for having brought her to that point but couldn't argue that it wasn't necessary. She had to stay safe whether he was able to keep her that way or whether she had to do it by herself.

Ethan's words echoed in his ears—
Our time here is always limited, brother—don't be so surprised…

Fuck you, E.

And that would be the last time he thought of his brother as he hovered over her. She looked up at him expectantly. Knowingly.

Willingly.

Abby wasn't the type to seek out relationships—or closeness. Especially not on the heels of what was happening with Ethan. She took her friendships seriously, and she'd been through enough hell in her life to understand how precious each one was, and how well each should be mourned.

He lowered his mouth onto hers and kissed her, the way he'd been dreaming about nearly nightly since he'd let her leave the relative safety of the CIA compound. He'd been her stalker for the past six-plus months, but he still couldn't figure out who else was watching them.

She didn't protest as his hands roamed her body. In fact, hers went to his ass, attempting to yank his jeans down without unbuttoning them. He shifted to help her, kicking off his boots as he went, and before he knew it his jeans were off and she was flipping him on the bed so he was naked and pinned under her.

She straddled him and smiled. Ran her hands over his bare chest and he shuddered under her touch, surrendering to it. How this would all end—and whether it would end well—was all up in the air. Tonight, though, was up to Abby.

His skin was hot under her palms, his muscles tense, his arousal pushing against her jean-clad sex. She pulled her T-shirt over her head and his hands went to her breasts, fingering her nipples through her bra. She reached back to unhook it and toss it as he stared up at her.

And then she grabbed his cock and lowered herself onto it, slowly—torturously so—while he fisted the sheets so he didn’t slam her down in his impatience to just fucking have her.

Finally, he was fully seated inside her. He propped himself up, dragged himself backward, taking her with him so he could sit up with her in his lap. Then he murmured, "You're mine, Angel. All fucking mine, and I'm not letting you go."

She wrapped around him as they took each other, every thrust of hips upward sending his words home, reiterating them.

He was claiming her. No doubt about it. But she was also doing the same thing to him as she rode him, adding her movements to his in a perfect rhythm.

Yeah, she was claiming him the way she’d tried to before. The only difference was, this time, he was letting her.