Total Victim Theory by Ian Ballard Page B

to “interact with me”—a term broad enough to include anything from him writing me an e-mail to him stopping by for a face-to-face chat. The more “interaction,” the better from the FBI's perspective, since that ups the odds of nabbing him.
    As far as that night goes, the cell phone records confirmed that he was really close. But that came as no surprise, since he knew about my Snoopy pj's. How he managed to follow me remains a mystery—
    Suddenly the thud of a bass beat starts up from Ronette's room. A moment later, she peeks her head into my doorway. “Does that music seem like it's at the right level?”
    “At the right level, how?” I ask.
    “I mean, does it seem realistic? Like a volume you or your friends would set your music at—but not so loud that it attracts undue attention to itself?”
    “It's fine.”
    “Sorry,” she says. “Just trying to make sure everything feels authentic, you know what I mean?”
    I honestly don't know what she means, but she ducks out again before I can express my perplexity. We're setting up to be ready by tonight. Bloom thinks if it's going to happen again, it's going to happen soon. Like in the next few days. Chris has my cell number, plus they published my new address in directory assistance and on the CU website. So, if Chris has even passable research skills, he'll be able to track me down. My job's just to act chill and be the bait. Maybe that role sounds questionable, but they've assured me there's only a very modest chance of me being killed.
    But I'm sure Johnny Utah here has it all under control—and speaking of, Bryce has popped up again in the doorway. He's holding a black gun and cleaning something on the barrel withwhat looks like a miniature toothbrush. I get the feeling there's some weird ulterior motive behind this display. Like he thinks cleaning a firearm will impress me.
    “So the van is all set up,” he says. “It'll be parked a block away and stocked with a couple of agents keeping an eye on everything twenty-four seven. Meanwhile, Ronette and I will be with you all the time. We're not going to let you out of our sight.”
    “So you're gonna go to class with me and everything?” I ask.
    “Yep, we're theater majors now. The Bureau set it all up and the university was super cooperative. They even gave us parts in that play you're in.”
    “Really?” I ask.
    “Bryce Brantley starring in
Caucasian Chalk Outline
.”
    “
Caucasian Chalk Circle
,” I correct him. “What part did they give you?”
    “Junkyard attendant. Three lines.” he says. “Gonna do a bang-up job, too.”
    There's movement behind us. “What are you gonna bang, Bryce?” asks Ronette, who's suddenly standing right behind him.
    She flashes Bryce a smile, then steps past him into my room. She's got something glittery in her hand. “See this, Nicole,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.
    “Yeah?” I say.
    “What I have here is a silent-alarm bracelet.” She holds it out. It's silver and has little oval pearls inlaid along its length. “The pearl in the middle is a button. If you hold it down for more than six seconds, it triggers an alarm that me, Bryce, the agents in the van, and the Boulder police will instantly hear. Try it on.”
    I take it from her and fasten the clasp around my wrist.
    Ronette continues. “If you push that button, way more help than you could possibly need will arrive in less than five minutes. Of course, it's very unlikely you'll ever need it, but it should at least give you some peace of mind.”
    I extend my arm and look it over. Not bad, though it looks more like something a person from my mom's generation—or a passenger on the Titanic—would wear.
    “Keep it on all the time. Never take it off,” she stresses.
    “Even in the shower?” I ask.
    “Yeah,” says Ronette. “It's designed to be waterproof.”

14
    Mexico
    The dead woman beyond the lip of the dune is Lisa. My Lisa. The only one there will ever be. I’m lying beside her