a bottle of my favorite perfume. The light floral scent filled the air overpoweringly, giving me a headache. Or maybe that was because my pulse was suddenly throbbing in my temples as my fear escalated.
“Is there something you want to tell us, Arella?”
My head snapped around at the almost accusatory tone in Winston Cline’s voice. Winston had overseen my drama, so I’d worked with him more than the other executives. He was a man in his late fifties with a slightly pudgy middle and a comb-over that didn’t fool anyone. Not even his five-thousand-dollar suit could distract from the fact that he looked beyond ridiculous with the way he styled his hair.
Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin and glared at the man down my nose. “It would seem I have a stalker. Big whoop. Everyone gets them.”
“Yes, but you should have informed us so we could have boosted security and kept them alert. Not only was your safety in peril but that of everyone else on the property.”
Remorse filled me, and my shoulders drooped. “You’re right. I apologize. It was selfish of me not to consider the safety of the others.”
“Relax, Winston, you fucking bag of hot air.” I stiffened at the sound of his voice, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
“If she didn’t think it was something to worry about, then she didn’t do anything wrong,” he continued. “No one was harmed, so relax and leave the girl alone.”
That Garon Steel was defending me blew my mind, but it didn’t soften me in the least toward the man who was my uncle in name only. He wasn’t like Uncle Shane or Uncle Jesse. Not even like my honorary uncles, whom I adored. I despised Garon more than any other human being in the world. It was already making my skin crawl that I was in the same room with him, breathing the same air. But his voice was so similar to Pop-Pop’s that it made my heart ache.
As if sensing my distress, Jordan touched my back. Just the feel of him, knowing he was so close and that I didn’t have anything to fear as long as he was with me, helped me relax, and I finally looked at Garon. His brown eyes, so much like my mom’s, were guarded as he met my gaze. But for a moment, he seemed to take in how close Jordan was to me, and I saw a flash of anger cross his face.
It was there one moment and gone the next, making me think I’d imagined the whole thing, but it still left me uneasy, and I stepped closer to Jordan.
“Detective Kirtner, did you find anything?” Jordan asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” the man said, his eyes traveling dispassionately over the executives. “By the time I arrived, there were too many people in the room and the crime scene was completely contaminated. However, based on how destroyed this place is, I would say the stalker is escalating.” He shifted his gaze to me, and I softened. “Miss Stevenson—”
“Call me Arella,” I interrupted. “Please.”
He gave me a grim smile. “Arella, then. At this point, I think it is better to err on the side of caution and employ personal security.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lied. There was no way I was going to tell my sister about any of this. Nevaeh would freak out and blab to our parents, causing them to freak out in turn. And there was no way I could go to Barrick and Braxton and expect Brax not to tell my sister about this. He would never keep something like this from her, and I wouldn’t expect him to.
But I refused to be the cause of stress for either my mom or my dad.
Fifteen
Jordan
From the moment we walked into Arella’s dressing room, I’d been shaking. The place was destroyed. Not a single object was left intact, and I knew in my gut that if my girl had been there when the motherfucker had done this, she would have been a casualty as well.
Imagining Arella broken like the perfume bottle under my feet was a disturbing picture I couldn’t erase from my mind.
I’d been concerned for her safety after she’d told me about the packages and then that she thought the stalker had messed with her phone. But this just shoved it in my face how dangerous the person who was obsessed with her seemed to be.
After nearly an hour of answering