pocket?"
"Appears that way." Andre's matter-of-fact answer left me cold. I'd been caught up in some sticky situations before, but I'd never felt like this—stalked, hunted. I might as well be wearing a big bull's eye on my back.
"And when I took off, he followed me to that bar, waited for me to go to the bathroom, and then slipped something in my second drink. I guess he wasn't expecting you to show up and rescue me." I smiled. "How'd you get me home anyway?"
"He showed up here with your guitar in one hand and you slung over the other shoulder," Ashley snickered.
I glared at her.
"Well, it was funny until we found out someone is trying to kill you." She made a sad face.
A thought occurred to me. "Maybe they have a security system at the bar with cameras. Did you check with Eli?"
Andre shook his head. "Called him first thing. They don't have a camera system, but he did serve a fellow a beer near your side of the bar when you were in the bathroom. He said he remembered the guy because he wasn't dressed like a pirate. He had on a Braves baseball hat, and when Eli made a comment about the Braves, the guy didn't seem to have a clue what he was talking about."
"Any other descriptors?"
"Short brown hair, tan, slim build, late twenties, lots of tattoos."
"And into scrapbooking?" I asked. "That just doesn't fit. I think it's more plausible there are at least two people working this. Someone infiltrating and setting up the accidents and another person making the scrapbook pages."
Andre shook his head in wonder.
"No offense—but wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to just shoot her?" Ashley asked.
I glared at her. "Thanks for that pleasant thought!"
Andre held up a hand. "She's right. This looks like a classic stalker case, but something just doesn't add up. If this person is a maniac, then they're highly skilled at this. They're smart enough to set up these elaborate accidents." Andre sighed.
"Maybe they're just trying to scare me," I suggested.
"That would explain the kooky scrapbook pages," Andre nodded.
We lapsed into silence. Phil and Roger were across the room with their heads bent over a laptop. Not a good sign. Why was this happening to me? I didn't go out of my way to piss people off. I liked to think of myself as a nice person. Evidently, someone out there didn't agree.
I groaned thinking about what Mark would say. It wasn't exactly easy to be my boyfriend. It was completely not my fault, but things had a history of going wrong on a regular basis in my life. Mark had rolled with the punches for the most part. We'd met under some pretty strange circumstances, and I'm sad to say not much had changed over the last six months.
Ashley handed me a glass of water and patted my shoulder. "Hey, look on the bright side, Sis. You've got a stalker. You're now officially a rock star."
CHAPTER THREE
My phone rang, jolting me out of my roofie induced haze. The detective and the nurse had been in and must have left silently after I nodded off for the third or fourth time.
It was Mark. I knew he wasn't going to be happy. In fact, I'd be lucky to get away without hearing, "I told you so" a dozen times. While our relationship had had its share of rough, even dangerous, moments, this was the first time I'd been drugged by someone.
"Hi, Mark," I croaked.
"Diana? Are you okay? I just got Andre's message. What happened?" His voice was choked.
"I'm fine now. Luckily Andre was with me when it happened."
"So, I heard the message right? Someone drugged you?"
"It appears I have a stalker," I said more calmly than I felt.
"Diana, stalkers tend to follow you around and watch you. It sounds like you've got a psychopath following you. You were drugged!" Poor Mark, being with me was not a walk in the park.
"I know. I guess he didn't tell you about the scrapbook pictures."
There was a long pause.
"Did you say scrapbook pictures?"
"Yeah, they're like warning letters depicting attempts on my life."
There was cursing on the
"Appears that way." Andre's matter-of-fact answer left me cold. I'd been caught up in some sticky situations before, but I'd never felt like this—stalked, hunted. I might as well be wearing a big bull's eye on my back.
"And when I took off, he followed me to that bar, waited for me to go to the bathroom, and then slipped something in my second drink. I guess he wasn't expecting you to show up and rescue me." I smiled. "How'd you get me home anyway?"
"He showed up here with your guitar in one hand and you slung over the other shoulder," Ashley snickered.
I glared at her.
"Well, it was funny until we found out someone is trying to kill you." She made a sad face.
A thought occurred to me. "Maybe they have a security system at the bar with cameras. Did you check with Eli?"
Andre shook his head. "Called him first thing. They don't have a camera system, but he did serve a fellow a beer near your side of the bar when you were in the bathroom. He said he remembered the guy because he wasn't dressed like a pirate. He had on a Braves baseball hat, and when Eli made a comment about the Braves, the guy didn't seem to have a clue what he was talking about."
"Any other descriptors?"
"Short brown hair, tan, slim build, late twenties, lots of tattoos."
"And into scrapbooking?" I asked. "That just doesn't fit. I think it's more plausible there are at least two people working this. Someone infiltrating and setting up the accidents and another person making the scrapbook pages."
Andre shook his head in wonder.
"No offense—but wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to just shoot her?" Ashley asked.
I glared at her. "Thanks for that pleasant thought!"
Andre held up a hand. "She's right. This looks like a classic stalker case, but something just doesn't add up. If this person is a maniac, then they're highly skilled at this. They're smart enough to set up these elaborate accidents." Andre sighed.
"Maybe they're just trying to scare me," I suggested.
"That would explain the kooky scrapbook pages," Andre nodded.
We lapsed into silence. Phil and Roger were across the room with their heads bent over a laptop. Not a good sign. Why was this happening to me? I didn't go out of my way to piss people off. I liked to think of myself as a nice person. Evidently, someone out there didn't agree.
I groaned thinking about what Mark would say. It wasn't exactly easy to be my boyfriend. It was completely not my fault, but things had a history of going wrong on a regular basis in my life. Mark had rolled with the punches for the most part. We'd met under some pretty strange circumstances, and I'm sad to say not much had changed over the last six months.
Ashley handed me a glass of water and patted my shoulder. "Hey, look on the bright side, Sis. You've got a stalker. You're now officially a rock star."
CHAPTER THREE
My phone rang, jolting me out of my roofie induced haze. The detective and the nurse had been in and must have left silently after I nodded off for the third or fourth time.
It was Mark. I knew he wasn't going to be happy. In fact, I'd be lucky to get away without hearing, "I told you so" a dozen times. While our relationship had had its share of rough, even dangerous, moments, this was the first time I'd been drugged by someone.
"Hi, Mark," I croaked.
"Diana? Are you okay? I just got Andre's message. What happened?" His voice was choked.
"I'm fine now. Luckily Andre was with me when it happened."
"So, I heard the message right? Someone drugged you?"
"It appears I have a stalker," I said more calmly than I felt.
"Diana, stalkers tend to follow you around and watch you. It sounds like you've got a psychopath following you. You were drugged!" Poor Mark, being with me was not a walk in the park.
"I know. I guess he didn't tell you about the scrapbook pictures."
There was a long pause.
"Did you say scrapbook pictures?"
"Yeah, they're like warning letters depicting attempts on my life."
There was cursing on the
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