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Page 12 of Intoxicating Pursuit

Getting Closer

THE STALKER

C laudia parked near the edge of the athletic fields as the teenager sprinted to join her soccer team. Her red ponytail flapped in the breeze and her gym bag bounced off her hip with each stride.

Late to practice. Flaky little brat.

Claudia killed the engine. The photographers staking out the hotel had failed to monitor the parking garage, and she was grateful for a moment of solitude.

She unwrapped a makeup remover from her purse and wiped the heavy foundation from her face.

How could the directors expect her to be pancaked all day, then show up zit-free at 5 a.m. for another shellacking? Such assholes.

When her skin could breathe, Claudia took a long sip of her lemon juice cleanse and picked up the stack of mail she'd managed to swipe.

Leafing through it, she found evidence of a tedious existence.

College mail for Meghan McCallum. An AARP postcard and a parade of charitable beggars hounding Kate McCallum.

Sammy McCallum was the lucky recipient of everything else— credit card and utility bills, insurance documents, restaurant supply catalogues— all the crap with financial burdens attached.

Online property records listed Samantha McCallum as the homeowner. Everything tracked.

But what did it mean? Was there no man living in the house at all? And if they all shared the same last name. . . had this Sammy chick never been married? Couldn't even convince the girl's baby daddy to recognize his own kid? Pitiful.

And problematic, too.

After all, if the woman lived a shitty existence, would she treasure anything more highly than a chance for fame?

For public envy? Trading mundane responsibilities for wealth and attention would be the ultimate temptation.

If the woman could truly screw up her plans, Claudia would have to find the leverage to back her the hell off.

But, really, how hard could it be? One old woman, a middle-aged mom, and a skinny teenager made for nice, soft targets. Vulnerable. Weak. Spooking them back to the safety of their lame, suburban existence shouldn't take much.

Claudia was getting ahead of herself, though.

Risking exposure only made sense if the woman was truly a problem. And she still couldn't quite fathom that Gabe would turn her down for some plain-ass, single-mom loser.

A flurry of motion distorted Claudia's line of sight. Two sweaty teenagers toting mud-streaked shoulder pads were waving at her, pointing from the fence line. They jogged toward the gate, heading her way.

Shit.

One viral sex tape and suddenly every pubescent boy with a hard-on thinks she's fair game.

Claudia chucked the mail on the passenger seat, backed up without glancing behind her, and gunned it out of the lot.