corner, I sat on the side of the bed, raked a hand through my hair, and contemplated how long I was going to let myself sleep tonight. I’d love to give myself a solid eight hours—especially since Evangeline wasn’t due on the set until late afternoon—but I knew I’d probably only take four and then get up and just...wait. I wasn’t expecting any problems, but I’d feel better being awake and standing guard.
Not that it was appreciated.
With a weary sigh, I stood and pulled off my belt and tossed it. My hand was on my button fly when I heard a blood-curdling scream. Immediately I was running toward Evangeline’s room, but unfortunately the door was locked. Without hesitation, I kicked it down.
And that hurt like a son of a bitch.
“Evangeline!” I called out. She wasn’t in her room and nothing there looked out of place. The bathroom door wasn’t locked, and I quickly stepped inside and found her in the corner on the floor wrapped in a towel. She was soaking wet, and I couldn’t tell if she was crying or not. “Evangeline? What happened?” I kept my eyes on her face to try and keep her calm.
She was pale. Too pale. And she was trembling.
“Evangeline? Sweetheart? What’s going on?” I asked softly, my hands gently grasping her shoulders, looking for any signs of injury.
One hand reached out and shakily pointed to the linen closet. Slowly I stood and turned toward the closet. I stopped and looked over my shoulder at her one more time. I thought she was shaking even more. Going back to her, I lifted her in my arms and carried her out to the bedroom and gently placed her on the bed before going back into the bathroom.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and stop at the open door.
There, on a bed of white towels, were the heads of three decapitated rats.
Seven
Evangeline
I ’d been living with fear for weeks now, but I’d never in my life been as terrified as this.
The stalker was in my apartment. My apartment . Despite all the security I had surrounding me, he was actually inside my bathroom—to put those horrible, sickening rats in my linen closet.
Phone calls and messages were bad enough. They made you feel exposed, vulnerable, at the mercy of someone else’s will. But an intrusion like that was something worse, something more. This apartment wasn’t my home—it was just the place I was staying while I shot this film. But it still felt like my private space, and it was a horrible violation, as well as an obvious threat.
If he could get into this place—despite Cole’s best efforts—then he could get to me anywhere, any time he wanted.
Nowhere I went would be safe.
I was huddled in a ball on my bed, still wearing nothing but a towel and wet hair, and I was trying to talk myself into pulling it together. But I couldn’t. I kept seeing those mutilated bodies on the white towels. Here. Where it was supposed to be safe.
A wave of nausea slammed into me as Cole came back into the bedroom, looking as grim as anyone I’d ever seen.
He would be beating himself up. I knew exactly how he was feeling. And ironically, despite everything, I felt a pull of empathy—recognizing how badly he’d feel about this failure and how much he would take it to heart.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”
I blinked at him, uncomprehending. When he’d found me in the bathroom, he’d been protective, almost tender. He’d called me “sweetheart.” A little part of me had heard the words and liked them.
But he was nothing like that now. He was cool and hard and professional, and it was like a slap in the face.
“Get up,” he repeated. “We can’t stay here. The apartment has been compromised. I need to get you somewhere safe.”
That did make sense, even through the fuzziness of my mind, but I couldn’t get my body to react immediately. “The rats...” I began, hit with more intense nausea as the picture of the bloody corpses revived in my mind.
“I’ll have someone
Not that it was appreciated.
With a weary sigh, I stood and pulled off my belt and tossed it. My hand was on my button fly when I heard a blood-curdling scream. Immediately I was running toward Evangeline’s room, but unfortunately the door was locked. Without hesitation, I kicked it down.
And that hurt like a son of a bitch.
“Evangeline!” I called out. She wasn’t in her room and nothing there looked out of place. The bathroom door wasn’t locked, and I quickly stepped inside and found her in the corner on the floor wrapped in a towel. She was soaking wet, and I couldn’t tell if she was crying or not. “Evangeline? What happened?” I kept my eyes on her face to try and keep her calm.
She was pale. Too pale. And she was trembling.
“Evangeline? Sweetheart? What’s going on?” I asked softly, my hands gently grasping her shoulders, looking for any signs of injury.
One hand reached out and shakily pointed to the linen closet. Slowly I stood and turned toward the closet. I stopped and looked over my shoulder at her one more time. I thought she was shaking even more. Going back to her, I lifted her in my arms and carried her out to the bedroom and gently placed her on the bed before going back into the bathroom.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and stop at the open door.
There, on a bed of white towels, were the heads of three decapitated rats.
Seven
Evangeline
I ’d been living with fear for weeks now, but I’d never in my life been as terrified as this.
The stalker was in my apartment. My apartment . Despite all the security I had surrounding me, he was actually inside my bathroom—to put those horrible, sickening rats in my linen closet.
Phone calls and messages were bad enough. They made you feel exposed, vulnerable, at the mercy of someone else’s will. But an intrusion like that was something worse, something more. This apartment wasn’t my home—it was just the place I was staying while I shot this film. But it still felt like my private space, and it was a horrible violation, as well as an obvious threat.
If he could get into this place—despite Cole’s best efforts—then he could get to me anywhere, any time he wanted.
Nowhere I went would be safe.
I was huddled in a ball on my bed, still wearing nothing but a towel and wet hair, and I was trying to talk myself into pulling it together. But I couldn’t. I kept seeing those mutilated bodies on the white towels. Here. Where it was supposed to be safe.
A wave of nausea slammed into me as Cole came back into the bedroom, looking as grim as anyone I’d ever seen.
He would be beating himself up. I knew exactly how he was feeling. And ironically, despite everything, I felt a pull of empathy—recognizing how badly he’d feel about this failure and how much he would take it to heart.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”
I blinked at him, uncomprehending. When he’d found me in the bathroom, he’d been protective, almost tender. He’d called me “sweetheart.” A little part of me had heard the words and liked them.
But he was nothing like that now. He was cool and hard and professional, and it was like a slap in the face.
“Get up,” he repeated. “We can’t stay here. The apartment has been compromised. I need to get you somewhere safe.”
That did make sense, even through the fuzziness of my mind, but I couldn’t get my body to react immediately. “The rats...” I began, hit with more intense nausea as the picture of the bloody corpses revived in my mind.
“I’ll have someone
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