Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,65

and start tossing the filth on top of it once it’s burning briskly. I break the DVDs. I rip apart the videotapes. I tear the magazines. Destroying it feels better.

As it all burns, I take out my phone to do a quick search. Dave taunted me about having plenty of clues to put together. So I start doing that. Malus Navis refers to a navigational beacon. So that’s why he said our stalker probably lives on the coast. Though which coast, and in which state . . . who knows. But Dave’s suggestion is sound: I need to look closely at MalusNavis’s public posts and see what they can tell me. Maybe they can give me some directional hints, after all.

I take a deep breath and slip back into the emotional torture that is the Lost Angels site.

It doesn’t take me long to see it. MalusNavis’s language is spare, measured, but in a way it’s as inexorable as an avalanche. He never seems to have much emotion about what he’s doing, but he does have an enormous interest in the concept of an eye for an eye. I find him posting on several different boards—Tammy Maguire is one, but he’s also interested in other names. I write them down. Not all the people he’s been interested in are female; most are names I don’t recognize. Some barely rate a mention, even on a board obsessed with crime.

But he’s there, gliding from board to board. Hunting.

I write down avenging angel and stare at that for a few seconds. It makes me go quiet inside, because if this person is that, I’ve been him. I know him. I know how it feels to have an inner truth that takes over your whole world . . . even when that all-consuming conviction isn’t true. You’ll compromise your ethics and your morals, cheat, lie, steal, hurt, kill . . . all in the name of justice.

It took coming face-to-face with Gwen Proctor and her kids to break that iron illusion for me, to see that what I was doing was harming me as much as I meant to harm her.

MalusNavis sounds like a man on a mission. I just don’t know what kind of mission. Maybe he, like Dr. Dave, knows where the line is, and stops at harassment. I remember the drenching horror of that phone call asking me about Gwen’s death notice: that could have been our guy. It’s cruel, not illegal, just amoral. Like many of the things that come streaming through the internet aimed at Gwen and the kids. Like the flyers I created.

But it makes me wonder, because Dr. Dave, a sociopath, seemed to think MalusNavis is worse than him. And here in the dark, burning up the horrifying stash of incriminating evidence he meant me to be caught with . . . that’s really something.

I make sure it’s all burned, twisted, distorted, unrecognizable for the filth it was, and douse the fire with dirt. I bury the ashes, and feel horribly like I’m a criminal burying a body.

I text Gwen while I wait for the smoke to clear. All okay. Coming home.

The call comes almost immediately after that. I expect it to be Gwen, but it isn’t. I don’t recognize the number, and I nearly let it go, but then some instinct tells me I’d better not. Not this late.

“Hello?” I make it a one-word challenge. Subtext: this had better be urgent.

“Sam? Mr. Cade? It’s Tyler. From the airfield.” He’s agitated. I can hear his breathing rattling the speaker.

“Not the time, Tyler.”

“Okay,” he says. He sounds subdued, within the limited inflections he seems to possess. “I just wanted you to know it isn’t your fault.”

I pause in the act of opening my truck door. “Excuse me?” A million things race through my head, and all of them are bad. Most of them infuriate me.

“You’re the only person who really tried,” Tyler says. “To understand what was happening to me. And I appreciate that. I just don’t want you to think this is because of you.”

“What are you talking about, Tyler?”

“I’m on the Gay Street Bridge,” he says, as if it explains everything. And after a second, it does. I feel my heartbeat speed up, my mouth go dry.

“Tyler, what are you going to do?” The Gay Street Bridge is just outside downtown, over the Tennessee River. A low, green-painted steel railing. A long drop down to the river.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he says. “I really can’t. It