Nicole unlocked the passenger door. “Fine,” she said, still annoyed. “I just wish you had told me.”
Malcolm nodded. “I'm sorry.”
Nicole shrugged, then stepped out of the car. “I appreciate your offering to help me pack my apartment. I know how busy you are. We don't have to get everything today.”
They walked up the stairs in silence. She was digging around in her purse for her keys when she realized she wouldn't need them. Someone had broken into her apartment. She jumped back from the door in disbelief. Malcolm swept her behind him.
“What are you doing?” she hissed as close to his ear as she could get. He ignored her and reached toward the door. Nicole snatched his arm back. “We should call the police. Where's your cell phone?”
Malcolm pried her grip from his arm and pushed open the door.
Nicole swallowed back a scream. Her apartment looked as though a tornado had torn through it. Bags of food had been ripped open and spilled all over her kitchen, dining area, and living room. Their sticky, gritty, and powdery contents coated her countertops, floor, and carpet. Her cabinets had been emptied of dishes, mugs, and glasses, and the items had been smashed and ground into her linoleum.
Dazed, Nicole followed Malcolm into the destruction. She could feel the vibrations of hate clinging to the air. Who? Why? When? The questions ricocheted through her mind.
To her left, the entire contents of her bookcase had been tossed. Books and magazines had been ripped. The intruder had used one of her shoes to shatter her television set. The shoe was lodged in what remained of the screen. Nicole winced, her stomach muscles clenched at the thought of what the rest of her apartment must look like.
She turned her head and saw the butcher's knife embedded dead center in her discount kitchen table. Her knees shaking, Nicole stumbled as she approached the table, lured to it by the obvious strength used by the person who had wielded the knife. As Nicole approached the scene, she saw the knife pinned a note to the table. The message read,
Time is a luxury, but not for you. Leave my family alone.
A memory switched on, and the horror of its implication pushed her away from the table. She stumbled over a book on the floor. Nicole glanced down and extended a trembling hand to pick up a cover that had been ripped from
InterDimensions
book two.
“Don't touch anything.” Malcolm's firm tone reached out and grabbed her from the edge of hysteria. “I'm going to call the police.”
Nicole nodded, the lump in her throat too big to allow words to escape.
Â
He sat slumped in the SUV across the street from Nicole's apartment. He was several buildings down from his usual parking space, but still close enough to observe the activities taking place around the building. He'd seen Nicole and Malcolm arrive. He'd watched them get out of Malcolm's car and enter the building. He'd stared at the building's façade, breathing deeply as he imagined them climbing the stairs to her apartment. The same stairs he'd mounted earlier.
He'd ripped and shredded and shattered her belongings, allowing the anger to flow through him and express itself in the destruction. Yet, barely an hour later, his hands still trembled with rage. Why wouldn't she listen to him? Why couldn't she understand?
Two police cruisers pulled up in front of Nicole's building, breaking his concentration. Minutes later, two men joined them. The younger man was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. His companion wore khaki pants and a rumpled trench coat over a white shirt and tie. He judged them to be plainclothes detectives. They scanned the street as they spoke with the patrol officers. Crime-scene investigators joined the group.
Why were they here? Had Nicole called them, or were they going to talk to someone else? Why would Nicole involve the police? All she had to do was leave his family alone.
Although he sat shielded by the SUV's tinted windows, caution prompted him to slide lower in his seat. He believed his actions were completely understandable and acceptable. After all, a man had to protect his family. But he knew not everyone would view it that way.
He watched as the officers and investigators strode to Nicole's building with the detectives ambling a stride or so behind.
An hour passed. He grew hungry and cold but ignored the discomfort. He was doing this for his family. He would wait as long as necessary.
The uniformed officers left first. He frowned as he saw them carrying envelopes. Had they collected items from Nicole's apartment? But he couldn't be certain they'd gone to her apartment. They climbed into their separate cruisers and drove away. Shortly afterward, the detectives emerged from the building, got into their vehicle, and left. Only Malcolm, Nicole, and the crime-scene investigators remained.
Still he waited. He wanted to see Malcolm leave. He wanted to make sure Nicole understood his message. He didn't want to repeat himself.
He started to shiver. His stomach growled. And still, he waited. He fought to remain focused and was rewarded when Malcolm and Nicole appeared. His gaze shot to the suitcases Malcolm carried. Could it be? Was it possible? Had she finally understood?
He watched as Malcolm stored the suitcases in his trunk, then assisted Nicole into the car. He had won. Nicole was leaving. He had protected his family. The crisis was over.
With relief, he watched them drive away before starting his car and heading home.
Â
At work the next morning, Malcolm stared at his computer monitor in his office, seeing instead the shattered, disbelieving expression in Nicole's eyes. She'd barely uttered five words since they'd arrived at his home yesterday. He'd led her to his guest room, helped her get settled, then left her to sleep. He'd checked on her twice during the night. She'd seemed so still, too still. He'd wondered if she was pretending to sleep so he would leave her alone with her thoughts.
The violence reflected in the attack on her apartment had shaken him as well. He didn't doubt the stalker had committed the destruction. That someone so violent and insane was following Nicole scared him witless. The stranger had somehow gotten into her security building and through the locks on her door. What if she had been home? Had his purpose been to frighten her, or had he intended to hurt her? Would he try to get to her again? Malcolm wondered whether Nicole would be safer back in New York.
The intercom buzzed. Malcolm leaned forward and pressed the hands-free button for the speaker.
“Yes, Rita?”
“Mr. Bryant.” His assistant's cool, censorious tone warned him he had an unwanted visitor. “Nathan Rutherford of the
Silver Screen Preview
is here without an appointment. Again.”
Malcolm sighed and rubbed his neck. Now what? He should have stayed home, but there was too much to do in the office.
“Give me fifteen minutes before sending him back, would you, please?”
“Of course, Mr. Bryant,” Rita agreed before disconnecting.
Malcolm finished revising the
InterDimensions
production schedule. He was saving the document when Rita knocked on his office door. Malcolm shook off his irritation at the unscheduled appointment and stood to greet the reporter. Alienating the press would only hurt the
InterDimensions
project more. He approached the threshold, his hand outstretched.
“Nathan,” he greeted, shaking the younger man's hand. “What can I do for you?”
Nathan's smile didn't mask his calculating gaze. “Thank you for seeing me, Malcolm. I'd like to talk with you about the progress you're making on the
InterDimensions
project.”
Malcolm smothered a sigh and prepared to do some fast talking. He gestured toward the chairs facing his desk.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Nathan sank into one of the straight-backed chairs and pulled his steno pad from his briefcase. He wore baggy, gray denim pants. His ill-fitting black blazer fell open over his white shirt. He crossed his legs and placed his notebook on his knee. “So, how's the project going?”
Malcolm came around to take his seat behind the desk. “We've adjusted the time frame. The original schedule had some cushion built in so the revised delivery date isn't that far off the original completion date.”
The reporter nodded and jotted down a few notes. After a moment of silence, he snared Malcolm's gaze. “How's the murder investigation going?”
Malcolm froze. He should have realized Nathan had planned this unscheduled visit with the intent of a surprise attack. The reporter was well known for his sensationalism. He could have called Malcolm if all he'd wanted was a project update. For a status on the investigation into Tyrone's death, he would have to interview Malcolm in person, where it would be much harder to evade questions.
Malcolm forced himself to lean back in his executive chair. “You'll have to call the police department for that information. I'm not the one conducting the investigation.”
“I know the police questioned you. Twice,” the reporter continued.
Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “That's right.”
Nathan's piercing gray gaze scanned Malcolm's expression. “What did they ask you?”
“I'm not going to discuss that with you. I don't want to jeopardize the investigation into my best friend's murder.”
Nathan wrote hasty notes. Malcolm's gut burned with anger that this questionable reporter was quoting him for an article he hadn't agreed to do.
“Is it true you're a suspect?” Nathan persisted.
Malcolm's patience began to unravel. “Do you have any questions about the movie production?”
“All of these questions are in connection with the production,” Nathan insisted. “After all, the production has been affected by your partner's death. How is Ms. Collins reacting to this scandal?”
Malcolm stood. “That's the end of this interview,” he announced, striding to the door.
Nathan turned in his chair to keep Malcolm in his sights. “What is your relationship with Ms. Collins? Why is she staying with you when everyone else has left?”
Malcolm ignored the question and held open his office door. “Make an appointment if you want to speak with me in the future.”
Nathan rose, a taunting smile twisting his lips. “I had hoped to get your side of the story. If I don't get the answers from you, I'll just have to get them from another source.”
“Your implication being you don't care whether your story is accurate.”
Nathan's smile wavered. “That's not what I said. I wantâ”
“But it's what you meant,” Malcolm interrupted. “You do whatever you think you need to, and I'll do the same.”
The reporter's cockiness faded under Malcolm's implacable gaze. “Are you sure you don't have anything you want to say to me?”
Malcolm shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pleated Dockers. “Nothing that can be printed. Now get out.”
The reporter closed his steno pad, picked up his briefcase, then brushed past Malcolm on his way out.
Malcolm resisted the urge to slam the door.
Â
The words kept coming back to her.
Time is a luxury, but not for you.
Nicole knew those words. This was the second time the stalker had included them in a message to her. Their use obviously was deliberate. And he knew she would recognize them. But Nicole needed to be sure.
She couldn't go back to her apartment to verify her memory, though. The thought of seeing that hate and violence again made her shudder. Besides, the police had sealed her apartment as a crime scene. Even if she could gather the fortitude, she wouldn't be able to get in. She'd have to go to a bookstore. She'd have to leave the relative security of Malcolm's house and risk the wide-open spaces.
Nicole peeked through the window blinds. Was he out there waiting to get her alone? She jerked her hand away from the blinds and turned from the window.
This is ridiculous.
She wouldn't stay locked in this house like some kind of prisoner. She was free to come and go as she pleased.
As long as she was careful.
Now, how was she going to get to a bookstore? She'd call a cab and have the driver take her to the mall. There was a large bookstore in the nearby fashion mall. Decision made, she checked her watch. If she hurried, she'd be back before Malcolm returned home.
Â
“Nicole.”
She started at the unexpected sound of a man's voice drawling her name in the mall. Clutching the plastic bag that carried her purchase, she turned to confront the voice's owner.
Omar leaned against the bookstore display window, looking for all the world as though he'd been waiting for her. Under his moss-colored leather jacket, a wine-red shirt skimmed his well-muscled torso before disappearing into the waistband of his designer jeans. With his forearms flexed over his chest and his ankles crossed, he looked like an advertisement for casually elegant clothes.